Part 7 — ST. MARY MAGDALEN.

The winds of autumn whisper back soft sighing To the low breathing of the Magdalen; She on her couch of withered leaves is lying— Dreams she of days that come not back again? No—past and present both within her dying, Her earnest eyes upon the page remain; While the long golden hair, behind her flying, No more is bound with ornament and chain. The storm may gather, but she doth not heed; Nature's wild music enters not her ears; Her soul, that for her Saviour's woes doth bleed, One only voice for ever sounding hears: "Follow his footsteps who thy sins hath borne, And who for thee the thorny crown hath worn."