Yet was I ardent in religious cause, Impiety I scorned—denounced—despised; No warrior his holy weapon draws With zeal more fervent than I exercised When faithlessness in others I chastised; My spirit kindled at the martyr’s tale, There were my dreams of glory realized; Oh! where their faith prevailed would mine prevail, Could soul so ardent in the fiery trial fail? I felt not then that in life’s loneliest way A glorious warfare may the Christian wage; Humbly to honour, meekly to obey, In charity’s mild duties to engage, And gently soothe the fretfulness of age,— Such is the sacred post to woman given; Home is her battle-field; the strife must rage Till sin and self are from their empire driven: Will not the victor rest with martyr-saints in heaven? With weariness I viewed my rural life, Hid from a world in which I hoped to shine,— Better the press of care, the toil of strife, Than thus in an insipid calm to pine, Watching my aged guardian’s slow decline; Youth was, I deemed, the season for delight, E’en should its sorrows with its joys be mine, The deepest shadows mark the brightest light, Dim is the hour when both in one dull hue unite! Sin may invite the soul; by discontent The wayward soul herself inviteth sin; I sought a trial—God the trial sent. One formed a colder heart than mine to win, Lighted the soul-consuming torch within: Montoro sought my hand, his lips revealed His love; I felt another life begin,— To fervent love must self his empire yield,— No, for that love itself was selfishness concealed! What though Montoro’s highborn parents frowned Upon his union with a lowly maid; Though upon means already slender found, A second burden thus would now be laid,— Although with darkened sight, and strength decayed, My widowed grandsire claimed a daughter’s care,— What was it to a soul by passion swayed? His lonely dwelling now must strangers share, No daughter’s voice to raise the hymn, or join the prayer. ’Twas on a summer morn I left my home, Buoyant with hope and long-sought happiness, Yet did a feeling of misgiving come When, folded in the old man’s last caress, He in his trembling accents strove to bless The child who left him lonely, aged, and blind E’en then my bosom would the thought oppress, “Deserter from the post by God assigned, Wilt thou again on earth a love so faithful find?” ’Twas but a transitory thought; my soul Exulted in an earthly paradise; Impetuous hope had reached its wished-for goal, And I could bear to see the tear-drops rise Within those dear and venerable eyes, Could joyous from my childhood’s home depart; For him I loved too great no sacrifice, Care had no weight, and poverty no smart; He was the treasure of my soul, the idol of my heart!