Classic Poem

When native virtue, love of martial fame,
Were the rich trophies of each glorious name;
When noble daring bade perfidious France
Draw the keen blade, or " couch the quiv'ring lance; "
Then, how averse to foreign modes and arts,
Those treach'rous trifles that unman our hearts!
They scorn'd her motley manners with disdain,
And found, in Reason's scale, her fopp'ries vain:
Then each accomplish'd Dame resplendent shone
In charms unrivall'd, charms that were her own;
While the interior beauties of her mind,
By judgment polish'd, real taste refin'd,
Beam'd round the lovely form, the radiant face,
The softest unison of winning grace;
Then, blissful time! the blooming mother's pride
Was, with nice care, each tender pledge to guide;
With heedful eye th' expanding mind to form,
With native truth the faint ideas warm;
To rear the budding flow'r with tender care,
And for its active scene the heart prepare.