Frederick Tennyson (1807–1898)

DEAR Village Maid, who from thy little store,

Of knowledge, and of riches, canst supply

The flower and fruitage of humanity,

Balm for thyself, and comfort for the poor;

I never pass the woodbines round thy door

But in my heart there swells a wistful sigh,—

O, could I change all gauds of vanity

For peace like thine, increasing evermore!

By day thy sweet face, passing through the gate,

Is welcome as the bounty-bearing light,

Thy frugal lamp is to the desolate

A star of promise, dawning through the night;

O, if all hearts were only like to thine,

Night would not be, though stars should cease to shine!