'Far-sighted FAITH I bring along, And TRUTH, above an army strong, And CHASTITY, of icy mould, Within the burning tropics cold; And LOWLINESS, to whose mild brow The pow'r and pride of nations bow; And MODESTY, with down-cast eye, That lends the morn her virgin dye; And INNOCENCE, array'd in light, And HONOUR, as a tow'r upright; With sweetly winning graces, more Than poets ever dreamt of yore; In unaffected conduct free, All smiling sisters, three times three; And rosy PEACE, the cherub bless'd, That nightly sings us all to rest. 'Hence, from the bud of NATURE'S prime, From the first step of infant time, Woman, the world's appointed light, Has skirted ev'ry shade with white; Has stood for imitation high, To ev'ry heart, and ev'ry eye; From ancient deeds of fair renown, Has brought her bright memorials down; To time affix'd perpetual youth, And form'd each tale of love and truth. 'Upon a new PROMETHEAN plan, She moulds the essence of a man, Tempers his mass, his genius fires, And as a better soul inspires. 'The rude she softens, warms the cold, Exalts the meek, and checks the bold; Calls SLOTH from his supine repose, Within the coward's bosom glows; Of pride unplumes the lofty crest, Bids bashful merit stand confess'd; And like coarse metal from the mines, Collects, irradiates, and refines; The gentle science she imparts, All manners smooths, informs all hearts; From her sweet influence are felt, Passions that please, and thoughts that melt. To stormy rage she bids controul, And sinks serenely on the soul; Softens DUCALION'S flinty race, And tunes the warring world to peace. 'Thus arm'd to all that's light and vain, And freed from thy fantastic chain, She fills the sphere, by heav'n assign'd, And, rul'd by me, o'er-rules mankind.' He spoke.--The nymph impatient stood, And, laughing, thus her speech renew'd: "And pray, sir, may I be so bold, To hope your pretty tale is told; And next demand without a cavil, What new UTOPIA do you travel? Upon my word, these high-flown fancies Shew depth of learning in romances. Why, what unfashion'd stuff you tell us, Of buckram dames, and tiptoe fellows! Go, child, and when you're grown maturer, You'll shoot your next opinion surer. "O, such a pretty knack at painting, And all for soft'ning, and for sainting! Guess now, who can, a single feature, Thro' the whole piece of female nature: Then, mark! my looser hand may fit The lines too coarse for love to hit.