Witness their goodly labors one by one! Russet makes garments for the needy poor—­ Dove-color preaches love to all—­and dun Calls every day at Charity’s street door—­ Brown studies scripture, and bids woman shun All gaudy furnishing—­olive doth pour Oil into wounds:  and drab and slate supply Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

VII.

Well!  Heaven forbid that I should discommend
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavor! 
When all persuasions in your praises blend—­
The Methodist’s creed and cry are, Fry forever! 
No—­I will be your friend—­and, like a friend,
Point out your very worst defect—­Nay, never
Start at that word!  But I must ask you why
You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs. Fry?

VIII.

Top well I know the price our mother Eve
Paid for her schooling:  but must all her daughters
Commit a petty larceny, and thieve—­
Pay down a crime for "entrance" to your "quarters"? 
Your classes may increase, but I must grieve
Over your pupils at their bread and waters! 
Oh, tho’ it cost you rent—­(and rooms run high)
Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

IX.

O save the vulgar soul before it’s spoil’d! 
Set up your mounted sign without the gate—­
And there inform the mind before ’tis soil’d! 
’Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate! 
Nay, if you would not have your labors foil’d,
Take it inclining tow’rds a virtuous state,
Not prostrate and laid flat—­else, woman meek! 
The upright pencil will but hop and shriek!

X.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain
The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,—­
To bring sobriety to life again,
Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,—­
To wash Black Betty when her black’s ingrain,—­
To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen,
Of Suky Tawdry’s habits to deprive her;
To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!

XI.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach
Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw—­
To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach
She made in manners—­to write heaven’s own law
On hearts of granite.—­Nay, how hard to preach,
In cells, that are not memory’s—­to draw
The moral thread, thro’ the immoral eye
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!

XII.

In vain you teach them baby-work within: 
’Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime;
’Tis but a tedious darning of old sin—­
Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time—­
It is too late for scouring to begin
When virtue’s ravell’d out, when all the prime
Is worn away, and nothing sound remains;
You’ll fret the fabric out before the stains!