 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly
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XLVII.
The crowd pass on. The hurried, trembling look,
That dreaded to have seen some dear one there,
Soon glanced, they silent pass. But in yon nook,
Who kneels, deep shrinking from the oriel's glare,
Her forehead veil'd, her lip in quivering prayer,
Her raised hands with the unfelt rosary wound?
That shrouded,—silent—statue of despair
Is she who through the world's delusive round
Had sought her erring child, and found, and there had found!
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly
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