DESOLATION.
Think ye the desolate must live apart,
By solemn vows to convent walls confined?
Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloistered heart,
And in a crowd the isolated mind:
Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate
The world sees not how sorrowful they stand,
Gazing so fondly through the iron grate
Upon the promised, yet forbidden land;
Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet,