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 darkenthe mountain's head.
Even She who toils to spinour 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
Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect,
Trusting to crowded factory and mart
Andproud discoveries of the intellect,
Heed notthe pillage of man's ancient heart.