An orphan’d babe, from India’s plain
She came, a faithful slave her guide!
Then, after years of patient pain,
That tender wife and mother died.
Where gothic windows dimly throw
O’er the long aisles a dubious day,
Within the time-worn vaults below
Her relics join their kindred clay—
And I, in long departed days,
Those dear though solemn precincts sought,