TO S. H.
EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere Of occupation, not by fashion led, Thou turn’st the Wheel that slept with dust o’erspread; ‘My’ nerves from no such murmur shrink,–tho’ near, Soft as the Dorhawk’s to a distant ear, When twilight shades darken the mountain’s head. Even She who toils to spin our vital thread Might smile on work, O Lady, once so dear To household virtues. Venerable Art, Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven protect 10 Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect, Trusting to crowded factory and mart And proud discoveries of the intellect, Heed not the pillage of man’s ancient heart. 1827.