IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led, <br />His bosom glowing from majestic views, <br />The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues, <br />Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed -- <br />'Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene, <br />A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, <br />To shed her tears unseen; and quench the flame <br />Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene <br />As the pale midnight on the moon-light isle -- <br />Her voice was soft, which e'en a charm could lend, <br />Like that which spoke of a departed friend, <br />And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! <br />Now here remov'd from ev'ry human ill, <br />Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.<br /><br />William Lisle Bowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/xii-written-at-a-convent/
