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Yet in no uſeleſs gloom ſhe wore her days;
She lov'd the work, and only ſhun'd the praiſe.
Her pious hand the poor, the mourner bleſt;
Her image liv'd in every kindred breaſt.
Thynn, Carteret, Blackmore, Orrery approv'd,
And Prior prais'd and noble Hertford lov'd;
Seraphic Kenn, and tuneful Watts were thine,
And virtue's nobleſt champions fill'd the line.
Bleſt in thy friendſhips! in thy death too bleſt!
Receiv'd without a pang to endleſs reſt.
Heaven call'd the ſaint matur'd by length of days,
And her pure ſpirit was exhal'd in praiſe.
Bright pattern of thy ſex, be thou my Muſe;
Thy gentle ſweetneſs thro' my ſoul diffuſe:
Let me thy palm, tho' not thy laurel ſhare,
And copy thee in charity and prayer.
Tho' for the bard my lines are far too faint,
Yet in my life let me tranſcribe the ſaint.

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