Through Cumbrian Wilds, in Many a Mountain Cove

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 dependencies
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.