Sonnet -- The Peasant

WIDE o'er the barren plain the bleak wind flies, Sweeps the high mountain's top, and with its breath Swells the curl'd river o'er the plain beneath, Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies. The hardy PEASANT in his little cot, Lights his small fire, his homely meal prepares; No pamper'd luxury, no splendid cares Invade the comforts of his humble lot. Born to endure, he labours thro' the day, And when the midnight storm o'er spreads the skies, On a clean pallet peacefully he lies, And sweetly sleeps the lonely hours away; Till at the peep of dawn he wakes to find, HEALTH in his veins, and RAPTURE IN HIS MIND.