Maid of unboastful charms! whom white-robed Truth
Right onward guiding through the maze of youth,
Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy soul,
And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating bowl:
Thee meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,
Clasp'd to her bosom with a mother's care;
And, as she lov'd thy kindred form to trace,
The slow smile wander'd o'er her pallid face.


       &nbspFor never yet did mortal voice impart
Tones more congenial to the sadden'd heart:
Whether, to rouse the sympathetic glow,
Thou pourest lone Monimia's tale of woe;
Or haply clothest with funereal vest
The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's breast.
O'er our chill limbs the thrilling Terrors creep,
Th' entrancéd Passions their still vigil keep;
While the deep sighs, responsive to the song,
Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.


       &nbspBut purer raptures lighten'd from thy face,
And spread o'er all thy form an holier grace,
When from the daughter's breasts the father drew
The life he gave, and mix'd the big tear's dew.
Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll
With mimic feelings foreign from the soul:
Bright in thy parent's eye we mark'd the tear;
Methought he said, 'Thou art no Actress here!
A semblance of thyself the Grecian dame,
And Brunton and Euphrasia still the same!'


       &nbspO soon to seek the city's busier scene,
Pause thee awhile, thou chaste-eyed maid serene,
Till Granta's sons from all her sacred bowers
With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flowers
To twine a fragrant chaplet round thy brow,
Enchanting ministress of virtuous woe!