THE SHRINE.

My fates had destined me to rove A long, long pilgrimage of love; And many an altar on my way Has lured my pious steps to stay; For if the saint was young and fair, I turned, and sung my vespers there. This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire, Is what your pretty saints require: To pass, nor tell a single bead, With them would be profane indeed! But, trust me, all this young devotion Was but to keep my zeal in motion; And, every humbler altar past, I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!