THE YOUNG NOVICE.

The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around,

But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound;

Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer,

Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure — as seraph heav'nly fair.

The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright cheek

Are humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor meek,

While in the classic lip and brow, each feature of that face,

And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of noble race.

But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil,

The silver cross — oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale:

They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod,

She hath renounced a fleeting world, to give herself to God.

Her sinless heart to no gay son of this earth hath she given,

Her's is a higher, holier lot, to be the Bride of Heaven;

And the calm peace of the cloister's walls, abode of humble worth,

Is the fit home for that spotless dove, too fair, too pure for earth.