(Written in her seventeenth year.)

She knelt, and her dark blue eye was rais'd,
A sacred fire in its bright beam blaz'd,
And it spread o'er her cold pale cheek a light
So pure, so sacred, so clear and so bright,
That Pariah marble, tho' glittering fair
'Neath the moon's pale beam, or the sun's broad glare,
Were far less sweet, tho' more dazzlingly bright,
Than that cold cheek array'd in its halo of light.
Oh! I love not the dark rosy hue of the sky
When the bright blush of morn mantles deeply and high,
But my fond soul adores the pure author of light,
The more when she looks on the broad brow of night;
On myriads of stars glitt'ring far thro' the sky,
Like the bright eyes of saints looking down from on high
From their garden of Paradise, blooming in Heaven,
On the scene sleeping sweet 'neath the calm smile of even.

I love not the cheek which speaks slumber unbroken,
That heart hath ne'er sigh'd o'er hope's fast fading token;
That bosom ne'er throbbed with half-fearful delight
When it thought on its home in the regions of light,
Or trembled and wept as with fancy's dear eye
It gaz'd on the beautiful gates of the sky,
And the angels which watch at their portals of light,
All peaceful, all sacred, all pure, and all bright:
But I love that pale cheek as it bends in devotion,
Like a star sinking down on the breast of the ocean.