The Rustic

A mighty tumult sweeps along the Plain,
The ground shakes at the Angel’s call;
The little brook sings merrily on her way,
So sweetly— do you hear her?
Like a maid!

Wandereth beneath the dew
Around the trees, all whispering near;
The house, with its pathway ribb’d about,
Where youth do play and prance with mirthful cheer.

Yet full of song and further light!
And purpose, hidden from the Heart —
Where still a thousand cycles meet,
Produce varietal art.

How oft I’ve walked, in solitude,
And heard them sing of that delight!
To thee, in every simple guise,
Of all—so pure and bright.

• William Hazlitt