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VERSES on Mrs. ROWE.
How from the ſummit of the grove ſhe fell,
And left it unharmonious
Young.
SUCH were the notes our chaſter Sappho ſung,
And every Muſe drop'd honey on her tongue.
Bleſt ſhade! how pure a breath of praiſe was thine,
Whoſe ſpotleſs life was faultleſs as thy line:
In whom each worth and every grace conſpire,
The chriſtian's meekneſs and the poet's fire.
Learn'd without pride, a woman without art;
The ſweeteſt manners and the gentleſt heart.
Smooth
