What crowds of little angels round her play.
Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! Oh hear!
A scene like this might animate thy clay.
Simplicity now, soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heaven her Quaker-colour’d wings.
“No more toupees are seen
That mock at Alpine height,
And queues with many a yard of ribbon bound;
All now are vanish’d quite.