Around whose name are wreathed the rarest flowers
Of generous remembrance—whom, though years
Counted by centuries have come and gone,
Woman delights to love and man to praise.
Oh! who can gaze upon her slender form,
Intent upon its labor, or can catch
The mild expression of her lovely face,
Nor feel his veins thrill deeper! Filial Ruth!
While that blest page endures that chronicles
Thy winning history for after times,