A soufflé, lace and roses blent;

Your worldly worship moved her then;

She does not know you now, in Lent.

See her at prayer! Her pleading hands

Bear not one gem of all her store.

Her face is saint-like. Be rebuked

By those pure eyes, and gaze no more

Turn, turn away! But carry hence

The lesson she has dumbly taught—

That bright young creature kneeling there

With every feeling, every thought

Absorbed in high and holy dreams

Of—new Spring dresses truth to say,

To them the time is sanctified

From Shrove-tide until Easter day.

A REFORMER.

You call me trifler, fainéant,

And bid me give my life an aim!—

You're most unjust, dear. Hear me out,

And own your hastiness to blame.

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