From the same vivid pencil, now appear
The social comforts;—Love them, as they rise
On the soft confines of a scene sublime!
Look up the right-hand glade; it surely leads
To the embosom’d village. Snowy white
The raiment see, which cleanliness prepares
Against the Sabbath morn. The good old horse,
Mark him, he drags, with weary neck, the cart
Bearing to yonder mill the bags, well fill’d
With life’s best nutriment. The mill-house mark,
Standing on the steep verge of the same brook,
Which late we saw laborious work its way
Over rough stones, and crags, and roots of trees,
Roaming the wood-wild solitude;—but now
Bright it emerges to the haunts of men,
To light, to usefulness.—Observe the mill
Dash the white waters from its clattering wheel!
Hark! thro’ the eye we hear it.—Cheering din,
Thou break’st the mountain-silence merrily!