Statue of the Spinning Girl

Spin on, most beautiful.There's none to mockThy simple labour here. Majestic formsOf high renown, and brows of classic grace,Whose sculptured features speak the breathing soul,Rise in illustrious ranks, but not to scornThy lowly toil.Even so it was of old,That woman's hand, amid the elementsOf patient industry and household good,Reproachless wrought, twining the slender threadFrom the light distaff, or in skilful loomWeaving rich tissues, or with glowing tintsOf rich embroidery, pleased to decorateThe mantle of her lord. And it was well;For in such shelter'd and congenial sphereContent with duty dwelt.Yet few there are,Sweet Filatrice, who in their earnest taskFind such retreat as thine, mid lordly halls,And sparkling fountains, and umbrageous trees,And parks far stretching, where the antler'd deerForget the hound and horn.And we, who roamMid all this grand enchantment—proud saloons,

And galleries radiant with the gems of artAnd genius, ravish'd from the grasp of time—And princely chapel, uttering praise to God—Or lose ourselves amid the wildering mazeOf plants, and flowers, and blossoms, breathing forthTheir eloquence to Him—delighted layThis slight memorial at thy snowy feet.