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And Heaven had doom'd her early years to Toil
That pure from Tyranny's least deed, herself
Unfear'd by Fellow-natures, she might wait
On the poor Lab'ring man with kindly looks,
And minister refreshment to the tir'd
Way-wanderer, when along the rough-hewn Bench
The sweltry man had stretch'd him, and aloft
Vacantly watch'd the rudely pictured board
Which on the Mulberry-bough with welcome creek
Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid
Learnt more than Schools could teach: Man's shifting mind,
His Vices and his Sorrows! And full oft
At Tales of cruel Wrong and strange Distress
Had wept and shiver'd. To the tottering Eld
Still as a Daughter would she run: she plac'd
His cold Limbs at the sunny Door, and lov'd
To hear him story, in his garrulous sort,
Of his eventful years, all come and gone.
So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's Form,
Active and tall, nor Sloth nor Luxury
Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad,
Her flexile eye-brows wildly hair'd and low,
And her full eye, now bright, now unillum'd,
