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Thy silent and secluded hours Thro' many a lonely day, While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, With spirit far away; Thy weeping midnight prayers for him Who fought on Syrian plains, Thy watchings till the torch grew dim— These fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine!—long years With tasks unguerdon'd fraught, Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, Vigils of anxious thought; Prayer at the cross in fervour pour'd,   Alms to the pilgrim given— Oh! happy, happier than thy lord, In that lone path to heaven!