XII. Written at a Convent

 IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led, 
His bosom glowing from majestic views, 
The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues, 
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed -- 
'Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene, 
A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, 
To shed her tears unseen; and quench the flame 
Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene 
As the pale midnight on the moon-light isle -- 
Her voice was soft, which e'en a charm could lend, 
Like that which spoke of a departed friend, 
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! 
Now here remov'd from ev'ry human ill, 
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.

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