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Where age and sickness count the hours by groans, 

 Uncall'd, she comes to hear and hush their moans. 

 There, ever humble, watchful, patient, kind, 

 No nauseous task, no servile care declined, 

 O'er the sick couch, all day, all night she hangs, 

 Till health or death relieves the sufferer's pangs. 

 No thanks she takes, no praise from man receives, 

 Her duty done, the rest to God she leaves ; 

 But only when her care redeems a life, 

 Parting she says — " Pray for a demon's wife ! " 

 With blessings still, whene'er that nun they view, 

 The young, the aged her sainted steps pursue, 

 And cry, with bended knee and suppliant air, 

 " Sister of mercy, name us in thy prayer ! " 

 With beads the night, in gracious acts the day, 

 So wore her youth, so wears her age away. 

 Now cease, my lay ! thy mournful task is o'er ; 

 Irza, farewell ! I wake thy lute no more. 



XIV. 



" Was such her fate ? and did her days thus creep 

 So sad, so slow, till came the long last sleep ? 

 And did for this her hands with roses twine 

 The Saviour's altars and the Virgin's shrine ? 

 Pure, beauteous, rich, did all these blessings tend, 

 But from the world in prime of life to send 

 This gifted maid, in prayer to waste her hours, 

 And weep a fancied crime in cloister'd bowers ? " 



Oh, blind to fate ! perhaps that fancied crime 

 Which bade her quit the world in youthful prime, 

 Snatch'd her from paths, where beauty, wealth, and fame 

 Had proved but snares to load her soul with shame, 

 And spared her pangs from wilful guilt which flow, 

 The only serious ills that man can know ! 

 Ah ! what avails it, since they ne'er can last, 

 If gay or sad our span of days be past ? 



