A GIRL AT HER DEVOTIONS.
BY NEWTON.
She was just risen from her bended knee,
But yet peace seem'd not with her piety;
For there was paleness upon her young cheek,
And thoughts upon the lips which never speak,
But wring the heart that at the last they break.
Alas! how much of misery may be read
In that wan forehead, and that bow'd down head:—
Her eye is on a picture, woe that ever
Love should thus struggle with a vain endeavour
