Might charm the worldly, whom the stories please, And please the serious, whom the sense would charm, 370 And thus, indulging, be secured from harm— A happy thought, when from the foe we take His arms, and use them for religion’s sake. Her Bible she perused by day, by night; It was her task—she said ’twas her delight; Found in her room, her chamber, and her pew, For ever studied, yet for ever new— All must be new that we cannot retain, And new we find it when we read again. The hardest texts she could with ease expound, 380 And meaning for the most mysterious found, Knew which of dubious senses to prefer. The want of Greek was not a want in her;— Instinctive light no aid from Hebrew needs— But full conviction without study breeds; O’er mortal powers by inborn strength prevails, Where Reason trembles, and where Learning fails. To the church strictly from her childhood bred, She now her zeal with party-spirit fed: For brother James she lively hopes express’d, 390 But for the Doctor’s safety felt distress’d; And her light Sister, poor, and deaf, and blind, Fill’d her with fears of most tremendous kind. But David mocked her for the pains she took, And Fanny gave resentment for rebuke; While James approved the zeal, and praised the call, “That brought,” he said, “a blessing on them all: Goodness like this to all the House extends, For were they not a Family of Friends?” Their sister Frances, though her prime was past, 400 Had beauty still—nay, beauty form’d to last; ’Twas not the lily and the rose combined, Nor must we say the beauty of the mind; But feature, form, and that engaging air, That lives when ladies are no longer fair. Lovers she had, as she remember’d yet, For who the glories of their reign forget? Some she rejected in her maiden pride } And some in maiden hesitation tried— } Unwilling to renounce, unable to decide. 410} One lost, another would her grace implore, Till all were lost, and lovers came no more. Nor had she that, in beauty’s failing state, Which will recall a lover, or create; Hers was the slender portion, that supplied Her real wants, but all beyond denied. When Fanny Dyson reach’d her fortieth year, She would no more of love or lovers hear; But one dear Friend she chose, her guide, her stay And to each other all the world were they; 420 For all the world had grown to them unkind, One sex censorious, and the other blind. The Friend of Frances longer time had known The world’s deceits, and from its follies flown. With her dear Friend life’s sober joys to share Was all that now became her wish and care. They walk’d together, they conversed and read, And tender tears for well-feign’d sorrows shed: And were so happy in their quiet lives, They pitied sighing maids, and weeping wives. 430 But Fortune to our state such change imparts,