Weeps with his mother o'er her spinning bent;
They weep, their toil unceasing and untold,
Their chamber empty and their hearth-stone cold.
Yet thou can'st falcon-like perch idly there,
And scorn to cultivate that valley fair,
To sow the golden seed in fertile ground,
And train the clust'ring vine thy walls around.
Look, look below thee, where the sunny plain,
Stretches away to yon blue mountain-chain,
And slopes down smiling to the very main: