Not frizz'd and frittered, pinned and rolled,
Sublime their artless locks they wear,
And gorgeous dames, and judges old,
Without their tetes and wigs appear.
In the midst a form divine,
Her dress bespeaks the Pennsylvania line;
Her port demure, her grave, religious face,
Attempered sweet to virgin grace.
What sylphs and spirits wanton through the air!
What crowds of little angels round her play!
Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! oh, hear!
A scene like this might animate thy clay.
Simplicity now soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of heaven her Quaker-coloured wings.