Composed In One Of The Valleys Of Westmoreland, On Easter Sunday

With each recurrence of this glorious morn That saw the Saviour in his human frame Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame Put on fresh raiment—till that hour unworn: Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn, And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece, In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace, Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn. A blest estate when piety sublime These humble props disdained not! O green dales! Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime 11 When Art's abused inventions were unknown; Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own; And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales!