The morning purple on the hill,
The village spire, the ivy'd tow'r,
The sparkling wheel of yonder mill,
The grove, green field, and op'ning flow'r,
Are lost to thee!
Dark child of Nature, as thou art!
Yet thy poor bosom heaves no sigh;
E'en now thy dimpling cheeks impart
Their knowledge of some pleasure nigh:—
‘ Tis good for thee!
Thou seem'st to say “I've sunshine too;
‘ Tis beaming in a spotless breast;
No shade of guilt obstructs the view,
And there are many not so blest,
Who day's blush see.
“Dear are those eyes, by mine ne'er seen,
Which I protect from many a tear;
Kind stranger!‘ tis on yonder green
A mother's aged form I rear:
Oh! buy of me!”