In days of old, historians write,
There liv’d a maid of wond’rous charms,
Whose very name would oft invite
And pre-engage the heart that warms.
The gods of yore did try each suit
To win this all-alluring fair;
But neither men nor gods could do’t,
She listen’d callous to their pray’r.
In modern days we too are blest
With Nature’s best, completest art,
Her breast is with the virtues drest,
And dignity exalts her heart.
If gods cou’d once more live again,
And eye the Clara of our day,
Their very souls would burst with pain,
And sigh alas! for death’s decay.
Ye virtuous youth who search for worth,
And look with hate on idle mirth,
Direct your steps where Clara lives,
And you may get what virtue gives.