A ROSEBUD IN LENT.

You saw her last, the ball-room's belle, 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.