Put on fresh raiment, till that hour unworn,
Fair cloth of home-bred wool which he had shorn,
Her hands had spun, culling her daintiest fleece,
Such reverence paid they to the Prince of Peace.
O blest estate, when Piety sublime
These humble props disdained not! Are thy flowers
Banished for aye, from Britain's hills and vales
Extinct, or lingering in a happier clime,
Where our abused inventions are unknown
And benefits are weighed in Reason's scales?