G. Wallingford Clarke

HER eye is raised to heaven:—no ray is there

Of earthly pride, or passion. O’er her brow

Angelic, as she breathes the solemn vow,

A bright expression spreads. Her rich, soft hair,

In radiant ringlets, down her bosom fair

Falls—like the beams of morning on the prow

Of the light heaving bark. ’T is past, and now

A pale and pensive hue her features wear.

So young—so beautiful, to turn aside

From life’s fresh opening scenes, and sunny hours,

Seems like religion’s triumph—but the heart

Strives from itself in vain the truth to hide:

The sigh will rise, the tender tear will start:

Ah! love yet lingers o’er his faded flowers!