Sonnet – The Peasant

WIDE o'er the barren plain the bleak wind flies,

Sweeps the high mountain's top, and with its breath

Swells the curl'd river o'er the plain beneath,

Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies.

The hardy PEASANT in his little cot,

Lights his small fire, his homely meal prepares;

No pamper'd luxury, no splendid cares

Invade the comforts of his humble lot.

Born to endure, he labours thro' the day,

And when the midnight storm o'er spreads the skies,

On a clean pallet peacefully he lies,

And sweetly sleeps the lonely hours away;

Till at the peep of dawn he wakes to find,

HEALTH in his veins, and RAPTURE IN HIS MIND.