There lived, if antient tales are true

There lived, if antient tales are true, And faith to antient tales are due, There lived a maid, a beautious maid, Whose looks, expressive fair displayed Each feature of the soul within, Unspotted with a single sin. At morn her fervent prayers she said, At night gave thanks and went to bed. Her cot a shelter to the poor, No beggar needy left her door. Desirous nor of wealth nor praise, Unknown she passed her hermit days. Years followed years; the scythe of time Was moving down from clime to clime. The sun, one day, had mounted up To dine, and now had gone to sup; While cows were still a breeding calves, Doctors deliv'ring pills and salves, Pigs in the dirt were still a turning, And mount Vesuvius was burning, Sheep sought the fold at sound of ding dong, And Alfred filled the throne of England; The stars with usual spendor hung, The conscious moon looked smiling on, When this fair maid, who ne'er did ought amiss, Went, modest, out behind the door—