She never shrank from penance rude,
And was so young and fair,
It was a holy, holy thing,
To see her at her prayer.
Her cheek was very thin and pale;
You would have turned in fear,
If 't were not for the hectic spot
That glowed so soft and clear.
And always, as the evening chime
With measured cadence fell,
Her vespers o'er, she sought alone
A little garden dell.
And when she came to us again,
She moved with lighter air;
We thought the angels ministered
To her while kneeling there.
One eve I followed on her way,
And asked her of her life.
A faint blush mantled cheek and brow,
The sign of inward strife
And when she spoke, the zephyrs caught
The words so soft and clear,
And told them over to the flowers
That bloomed in beauty near.
"I know not," thus she said to me,
"If my young cheek is pale,
But daily do I feel within
This life of mine grow frail.
"There is a flower that hears afar
The coming tempest knell,
And folds its tiny leaves in fear,—
The scarlet Pimpernel:
"And thus my listening spirit heard
The rush of Death's cold wing,
And tremulously folded close,
In childhood's early Spring.
"I never knew a parent's care,
A sister's gentle love:
They early left this world of ours
For better lands above.