Sonnet: Morning Poem by Thomas Gent

Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn
The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings
Her cleanly pail, some favorite lay she sings
As sweetly wild, and cheerful, as the horn.
O happy girl! may never faithless love,
Or fancied splendor, lead thy steps astray;
No cares becloud the sunshine of thy day,
Nor want e'er urge thee from thy cot to rove.
What tho' thy station dooms thee to be poor,
And by the hard-earn'd morsel thou art fed;
Yet sweet content bedecks thy lowly bed,
And health and peace sit smiling at thy door:
Of these possess'd-thou hast a gracious meed,
Which Heaven's high wisdom gives, to make thee rich indeed!