Written after having visited Miss More and her Sisters, at Cowslip-Green, near Bristol

Fair, silent scene, soft rising in the vale,
By mountains guarded from each stormy gale,
Long, ’mid thy sloping lawn, and winding glade,
And mossy cell, for contemplation made,
Be seen, in health and peace, the virgin train,
Led by the boast of Britain’s tuneful plain,
Where Genius oft has fed its kindling fires,
Roll’d the rapt eye, and struck the golden wires,
Bristol; that hears her MORE’S distinguish’d name
Wafted, by echoes, round the shrine of Fame.
On whose mild brow she sees bright laurels twine,
Cull’d from their choicest bowers by all the nine,
Enwreath’d with charity’s assuasive balm,
And faith, and virtue’s never-dying palm.

And ye, sweet satellites, that gently bear
Your lesser radiance round this beamy star,
Aiding her pious efforts to impart
Religion’s lustre to the youthful heart,
That else in lightless ignorance must stray,
Where guilt’s fell snares the indigent betray,
Ye fair examples of an heedless age,
Ye glowing votaries of the sacred page,
O! may your virtues wake the just desire,
“To live like you, and be what we admire!”