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!