But in her garden found a summer-seat;
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat
How Israel’s sons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foemen did a song entreat,
All for the nonce, untuning every string,
Uphung their useless lyres—small heart had they to sing.
For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,
And pass’d much time in truly virtuous deed;
And in those elfin ears would oft deplore
The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed,