I.

My honored friend, I’ll ne’er forget, That day in June, when first we met: Oh! would I had the skill to paint My vision of that “Quaker Saint”: Robed in pale blue and silver gray, No silly fashions did she essay: Her brow so smooth and fair, ’Neath coils of soft brown hair: Her voice was like the lark, so clear, So rich, and pleasant to the ear: The “‘Prentice hand,” on man oft tried, Now made in her the Nation’s pride!