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Oh! many a soft and quiet grace
Hath faded from her soul and face;
And many a thought, the fitting guest
Of woman's meek, religious breast,
Hath perish'd, in her wanderings wide,
Through the deep forests, by thy side.
Yet, mournfully surviving all,
A flower upon a ruin's wall,
A friendless thing, whose lot is cast,
Of lovely ones to be the last;
Sad, but unchanged, through good and ill,
Thine is her lone devotion still.
And, oh! not wholly lost the heart,
Where that undying love hath part;
Not worthless all, though far and long
From home estranged, and guided wrong:
Yet, may its depths by Heaven be stirr'd,
Its prayer for thee be pour'd and heard.
