COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY

          WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn
          That saw the Saviour in his human frame
          Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame
          Put on fresh raiment--till that hour unworn:
          Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
          And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
          In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
          Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
          A blest estate when piety sublime
          These humble props disdained not! O green dales!            10
          Sad may 'I' be who heard your sabbath chime
          When Art's abused inventions were unknown;
          Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own;
          And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales!
                                                              1819.