A TOUCHING CEREMONY.

On a golden autumn morning,

Just fifty years ago,

When harvests ripe lay smiling

In the sunshine's yellow glow,

A pious group was standing

Round the lighted altar's flame

In the humble convent chapel

Of the Nuns of Notre Dame.

A girl of fifteen summers,

With gentle, serious air,

In novice garb of purple,

Was humbly kneeling there;

Uttering the vows so binding

Whose magic power sufficed

To make that child-like maiden

The well-loved Bride of Christ.

No troubled, anxious shadow

O'er-clouded that young brow,

As with look and voice unfaltering

She breathed her solemn vow:

No regretful glances cast she

On the pomps that she had spurned,

Nor the dream of love and pleasure

From which she had coldly turned.

Fifty years of joy and sorrow

Since that day have o'er her flown —

Years of words and deeds of mercy,

Living but for God alone —

And again a group is standing,

By this holy scene enticed,

To renew the golden bridal

Of this faithful spouse of Christ.

True, her brow has lost the smoothness

And her cheek the fresh young glow

That adorned them on that autumn

Morning — fifty years ago;

But, oh! think not that her Bridegroom

Loves her anything the less;

He sees but the inward beauty

And the spirit's loveliness.

Cloister honors long have fallen

Ceaseless, constant, to her lot,

But, like cloister honors falling,

Unto one who sought them not;

Daughter meek of the great Foundress

Of thy honored house and name,

Worthy art thou to be Abbess

Of the nuns of Notre Dame!