Thou couldst affection to her bare idea pay,
The first that e'er caressed her the Platonic way.
To see her in her own attractions dressed,
Did all thy love arrest,
Nor lacked there new efforts to storm thy breast.
Thy generous loyalty
Would ne'er a mercenary be,
But chose to serve her still without a livery.
Yet wast thou not of recompense debarred,
But countedst honesty its own reward;
Thou didst not wish a greater bliss to accrue,
For to be good to thee was to be happy too;
That secret triumph of thy mind,
Which always thou in doing well didst find,
Were heaven enough, were there no other heaven designed.
31
In gross could thee their owner call;
They all did in thy single circle fall.
Thou wast a living system where were wrote
All those high morals which in books are sought.
Thy practice did more virtues share
Than heretofore the learnèd porch e'er knew,
Or in the Stagyrite's scant ethics grew:
Devout thou wast as holy hermits are,
Which share their time 'twixt ecstasy and prayer;
Modest as infant roses in their bloom,
Which in a blush their lives consume;
So chaste, the dead are only more,
Who lie divorced from objects, and from power;
So pure, that if blest saints could be
Taught innocence, they'd gladly learn of thee.
Thy virtue's height in heaven alone could grow,
Nor to aught else would for accession owe:
It only now's more perfect than it was below.
