Through Cumbrian wilds, in many a mountain cove,
The pastoral Muse laments the Wheel—no more
Engaged, near blazing hearth on clean-swept floor,
In tasks which guardian Angels might approve;
Friendly the weight of leisure to remove,
And to beguile the lassitude of ease;
Gracious to all the dear dependences
Of house and field,—to plenty, peace, and love.
There, too, did Fancy prize the murmuring wheel;
For sympathies, inexplicably fine,
Instilled a confidence—how sweet to feel!
That ever in the night calm, when the Sheep
Upon their grassy beds lay couch’d in sleep,
The quickening spindle drew a trustier line.