Written to a Young Lady - On entering a Convent

'Tis the rose of the desert,

So lovely, so wild,

In the lap of the desert

Its infancy smiled ;

In the languish of beauty

It droops o'er the thorn,

And its leaves are all wet

With the bright tears of morn.

Yet 'tis better thou fair one,

To dwell allalone,

Than recline on a bosom

Less pure than thine own ;

Thy form is too lovely

To be torn from its stem,

And thy breath is too sweet

For the children of men.

Bloom on thus in secret,

Sweet child of the waste,

Where no lips of profaner,

Thy fragrance shall taste;

Bloom on where no footsteps

Unhallowed hath trod,

And give all thy blushes

And sweets to thy God.