WIDE o’er the barren plain the bleak wind flies,
Swells the curl’d river o’er the plain beneath,Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies.The hardy PEASANT in his little cot,Lights his small fire, his homely meal prepares;No pamper’d luxury, no splendid caresInvade the comforts of his humble lot.Born to endure, he labours thro’ the day,And when the midnight storm o’er spreads the skies,On a…