The peasant, in his humble cot

The peasant, in his humble cot,
The Ethiope on the sandy Nile,
The mole-like Laplander, whose grof
Boasts little genial nature's smile:
These, blest with virtue, are not poor;
Her cheering voice such thrilling comfort brings,
It throws around the thatch obscure
A joy that shames the palaces of kings.

Oh virtue, sorrowing man's relief,
In pity by kind heaven sent,
That tear'st away the thorn of grief,
And plant'st instead the rose content!—
Thy smallest spark such lustre owns,
With it such truth and dignity it brings,
It throws obscurity on thrones,
And beams to dim the diadem of kings!