HAIL, happy virgin! of celestial race, Adorned with wisdom, and replete with grace! By contemplation you ascend above, And fill your breast with true seraphic love. And when you from that sacred mount descend, You give us rules our morals to amend: Those pious maxims you yourself apply, And make the universe your family. No more, oh Spain! thy Saint Theresa boast, Here's one outshines her on the British coast; Directs as well, and regulates her love, But in that sphere with greater force doth move. Whose soul, like hers, viewed its almighty end! And to that centre all its motions tend: Like her, she glorious monuments doth raise, Beyond male envy! or a female praise! Too long! indeed, has been our sex decried, And ridiculed by men's malignant pride; Who, fearing of a just return, forbore, And made it criminal to teach us more. That women had no souls was their pretence, And women's spelling passed for women's sense. When you, most generous heroine! stood forth, And showed your sex's aptitude and worth. Were it no more, yet you, bright maid, alone Might for a world of vanity atone! Redeem the coming age! and set us free From the false brand of incapacity. |