Page:Poems (Barbauld).djvu/111



How from the ummit of the grove he fell, And left it unharmonious

UCH were the notes our chater ung, And every Mue drop'd honey on her tongue. Blet hade! how pure a breath of praie was thine, Whoe potles life was faultles as thy line: In whom each worth and every grace conpire, The chritian's meeknes and the poet's fire. Learn'd without pride, a woman without art; The weetet manners and the gentlet heart. Smooth