A ROSEBUD IN LENT.

You saw her last, the ball-room's belle,

A soufflé, lace and roses blent;

Your worldly worship moved her then;

She does not know you now, in Lent.

See her at prayer! Her pleading hands

Bear not one gem of all her store.

Her face is saint-like. Be rebuked

By those pure eyes, and gaze no more

Turn, turn away! But carry hence

The lesson she has dumbly taught —

That bright young creature kneeling there

With every feeling, every thought

Absorbed in high and holy dreams

Of — new Spring dresses truth to say,

To them the time is sanctified

From Shrove-tide until Easter day.