And were not she her statutes to maintain,
The cot no more, I ween, were deem’d the cell,
Where comely peace of mind and decent order dwell.
A russet stole was o’er her shoulders thrown;
A russet kirtle fenc’d the nipping air;
’Twas simple russet, but it was her own;
’Twas her own country bred the flock so fair;
’Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;
And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang’d around,
Through pious awe did term it passing rare;