The Lights Yet Gleamed On The Holy Shrine, The Incense Hung Around, But The Rites Were O'Er, The Silent Church Re-Echoed To No Sound; Yet Kneeling There On The Altar Steps, Absorbed In Ardent Prayer, Is A Girl, As Seraph Meek And Pure - As Seraph Heav'Nly Fair. The Blue Eyes, Veiled By The Lashes Long That Rest On That Bright Cheek Are Humbly Bent, While The Snow-White Hands Are Clasped In Fervor Meek, While In The Classic Lip And Brow, Each Feature Of That Face, And Graceful High-Bred Air, Is Seen She Comes Of Noble Race. But, Say, What Means That Dusky Robe, That Dark And Flowing Veil, The Silver Cross - Oh! Need We Ask? They Tell At Once Their Tale: They Say That, Following In The Path That Fair As She Have Trod, She Hath Renounced A Fleeting World, To Give Herself To God. Her Sinless Heart To No Gay Son Of This Earth Hath She Given, Her'S Is A Higher, Holier Lot, To Be The Bride Of Heaven; And The Calm Peace Of The Cloister'S Walls, Abode Of Humble Worth, Is The Fit Home For That Spotless Dove, Too Fair, Too Pure For Earth.