University of Virginia Library

In London's fair imperial town
She laid her earthly burthen down.
In Mellerstain, her northern home,
Was raised for her a graven tomb
Which gives to other days her modest, just renown.

And now, ye polish'd fair of modern times,
If such indeed will listen to my rhymes,
What think ye of her simple, modest worth,
Whom I have faintly tried to shadow forth?
How vain the thought! as if ye stood in need
Of pattern ladies in dull books to read.
Will she such antiquated virtues prize,
Who with superb Signoras proudly vies;
Trilling before the dear admiring crowd,
With out-stretch'd straining throat, bravuras loud,
Her high heaved breast press'd hard, as if to boast
The inward pain such mighty efforts cost?
Or who on white-chalk'd floor, at midnight hour,
Her head with many a flaunting full-blown flower
And bartizan of braided locks enlarged,
Her flimsy gown with twenty flounces charged,
Wheels gaily round the room on pointed toe,
Softly supported by some dandy beau:—
Will she, forsooth! or any belle of spirit,
Regard such old, forgotten, homely merit?

Or she, whose cultured, high-strain'd talents soar
Through all th' ambitious range of letter'd lore
With soul enthusiastic, fondly smitten
With all that e'er in classic page was written,
And whilst her wit in critic task engages,
The echoed praise of all praised things outrages;
Whose finger, white and small, with ink-stain tipt,
Still scorns with vulgar thimble to be clipt;
Who doth with proud pretence her claims advance
To philosophic, honour'd ignorance
Of all, that, in divided occupation,
Gives the base stamp of female degradation;
Protests she knows not colour, stripe, nor shade,
Nor of what stuff her flowing robe is made,
But wears, from petty, frivolous fancies free,
Whatever careful Betty may decree;
As certes, well she may, for Betty's skill
Leaves her in purfle, furbelow, or frill,
No whit behind the very costliest fair
That wooes with daily pains the public stare;
Who seems almost ashamed to be a woman,
And yet the palm of parts will yield to no man,
But holds on battle-ground eternal wrangling,
The plainest case in mazy words entangling:—
Will she, I trow, or any kirtled sage,
Admire the subject of my artless page?
And yet there be of British fair, I know,
Who to this legend will some favour show
From kindred sympathy; whose life proceeds
In one unwearied course of gentle deeds,
Who pass untainted through the earthly throng,
Like souls that to some better world belong.
Nor will I think, as sullen cynics do,
Still libelling present times, their number few.
Yea, leagued for good they act, a virtuous band,
The young, the rich, the loveliest of the land,
Who clothe the naked, and each passing week,
The wretched poor in their sad dwellings seek,
Who, cheer'd and grateful, feebly press and bless
The hands which princes might be proud to kiss—
Such will regard my tale, and give to fame
A generous helpful Maid,—a good and noble Dame.