Sonnet

RATHER, my people, let thy youths parade
Their woolly flocks before the rising sun ;
With curds and oat-cakes, when their work is done,
By frugal handmaids let the board be laid ;
Let them refresh their vigor in the shade,
Or deem their straw as down to lie upon,
Ere the great nation which our sires begun
Be rent asunder by bell’s minion, Trade!
If jarring interests and the greed of gold,
The corn-rick’s envy of the minéd hill.
The steamer’s grudge against the spindle’s skill, —
If things so mean our country’s fate can mould,
O, let me hear again the shepherds trill
Their reedy music to the drowsing fold !