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 When Art's abused inventions were unknown; Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own; And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SPINNING SONG by JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL THE ARGONAUTS (ARGONATUICA): THE MEETING by APOLLONIUS RHODIUS FLORENTINE INGRATITUDE by WILLIAM BLAKE POOR CHILD by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES SELLA by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT MOTHER'S WORK by MARY FRANCES MARSHALL BUTTS LONELINESS by VIRGINIA LEWIS CARPENTER A CREOLE TRIPTYCH: 1. THE DANDY by JOSE SANTOS CHOCANO SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD: 7. THE MICROPHONE by CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH |