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on, most beautiful. There's none to mock Thy simple labour here. Majestic forms Of high renown, and brows of classic grace, Whose sculptured features speak the breathing soul, Rise in illustrious ranks, but not to scorn Thy lowly toil. Even so it was of old, That woman's hand, amid the elements Of patient industry and household good, Reproachless wrought, twining the slender thread From the light distaff, or in skilful loom Weaving rich tissues, or with glowing tints Of rich embroidery, pleased to decorate The mantle of her lord. And it was well; For in such shelter'd and congenial sphere Content with duty dwelt. Yet few there are, Sweet Filatrice, who in their earnest task Find such retreat as thine, mid lordly halls, And sparkling fountains, and umbrageous trees, And parks far stretching, where the antler'd deer Forget the hound and horn. And we, who roam Mid all this grand enchantment—proud saloons,