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.
Written At A Convent
William Lisle Bowles
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Poem topics: friend, heart, light, moon, poor, smile, voice, human, meek, chance, unknown, stranger, flame, charm, soft, gorgeous, majestic, beneath, scene, love, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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