On a golden autumn morning, br Just fifty years ago, br When harvests ripe lay smiling br In the sunshine’s yellow glow, br A pious group was standing br Round the lighted altar’s flame br In the humble convent chapel br Of the Nuns of Notre Dame. br br A girl of fifteen summers, br With gentle, serious air, br In novice garb of purple, br Was humbly kneeling there; br Uttering the vows so binding br Whose magic power sufficed br To make that child-like maiden br The well-loved Bride of Christ. br br No troubled, anxious shadow br O’er-clouded that young brow, br As with look and voice unfaltering br She breathed her solemn vow: br No regretful glances cast she br On the pomps that she had spurned, br Nor the dream of love and pleasure br From which she had coldly turned. br br * * * * * br br Fifty years of joy and sorrow br Since that day have o’er her flown— br Years of words and deeds of mercy, br Living but for God alone— br And again a group is standing, br By this holy scene enticed, br To renew the golden bridal br Of this faithful spouse of Christ. br br True, her brow has lost the smoothness br And her cheek the fresh young glow br That adorned them on that autumn br Morning—fifty years ago; br But, oh! think not that her Bridegroom br Loves her anything the less; br He sees but the inward beauty br And the spirit’s loveliness.