 | Poems |  |
Mrs. FOSTER.
Who's that laurel'd Honor is forcing along?
'Tis Foster, meek nymph, who exists but in song;
Like the Medicis statue, to Decency true,
Her wishes seem bent to recede from the view.
'Tis Foster, meek nymph, who exists but in song;
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Her wishes seem bent to recede from the view.
An air of mild elegance marks ev'ry motion,
At Modesty's shrine the coy nymph pays devotion:
And should find the effects of such laudable duty,
A strong counter-balance for personal beauty.
Her tones in sweet melody solace the ear,
Like a murm'ring riv'let not deep, but yet clear;
Tho' her merits won't bear the stern critics inspection,
Her gentleness tacitly pleads for protection.
At Modesty's shrine the coy nymph pays devotion:
And should find the effects of such laudable duty,
A strong counter-balance for personal beauty.
Her tones in sweet melody solace the ear,
Like a murm'ring riv'let not deep, but yet clear;
Tho' her merits won't bear the stern critics inspection,
Her gentleness tacitly pleads for protection.
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