Young budding virgin, who in bashful pride,
All dedicate to Christ, didst stand apart
From crowds of pitying faithless, and with heart
Unmoved didst count the iron talons gride
Their purple furrows in thy tender side;
Beautiful is thy story; full of food
For youthful souls that need be gently wooed:
Few have confessed so young, so sweetly died.
Forth with thine ebbing breath was seen to fly
A milk--white dove to heaven, an emblem meet
Of undefiled baptismal purity;
And dead upon the inhospitable street,
With gently floating flakes the piteous sky
Snow--clad thy girlish limbs, as with a funeral sheet.