Dear friend excuse me that before I've not returned your "Hannah More;" How could I its departure speed, While there was yet one word to read?
Morals so pure, wit so refin'd, How sweetly, yet how rarely join'd! Such language, or in prose or verse, So strong, so fluent, and so terse; Where can we find such excellence, With learning and experience?
Such a warm feeling, friendly heart, So zealous for the better part? Her various powers with equal ease Can a lord, or a peasant please. She to the simple, gay, and wise, Has taught the science of the skies.
One of our great most learned men, The pious Dwight,* whose fertile pen Enrich'd the world with classic lore, Was ask'd, "what think you of Miss Moore!" He answer'd not, again 'twas said, "Sir, is not hers a noble head?"
Still he was silent, but his smile Convinc'd the querist of some wile; "Pray doctor, are not great her powers, Equal almost, to those of ours?" At length he said, "I must defer My judgment, till I write like her."
