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 couched in sleep,
The quickening spindle drew a trustier line.
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