And, oh! if e’er he felt that gentle flame, Which, born in heav’n, on earth like vapour dies, ’Twas sigh’d in secret (and was he to blame?) For pious Breda,—beautiful as wise, Who left the pomp of gilded canopies In regal lands, for the lone convent’s cell.— And, fair, her house of prayer was seen to rise, Where the Cistertian sisters loved to dwell Beneath the mighty shade of Lothian’s Alpine hill.