Epitaph on Mrs. Moody

No more that flowing pen, by Taste inspir'd,
Renews the Sevigne whom France admir'd;
Mute is the song, and cold is now the heart,
Whose tone was envy'd — not enslav'd — by art;
Nor female worth to all its graces just,
Nor Love's regret, shall animate the dust.

Were Pagans to dispose of these remains,
They 'd waft them to their own Elysian plains,
To shades of Genius would her spirit join,
And make the image, like its wreaths, divine.
By us the soul is from her chain remov'd,
Her talents ripen'd, and her gifts improv'd;
So Laura's Bard his early theme abjur'd,
Reform'd the Lover, and the Saint ensur'd.
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