Else had thy simple annals, Nethercombe,
Who bosom’d in the vale below dost look
This morn so cheerful, been unstain’d with crimes,
Which the pale rustic shudders to relate.
There lived, the blessing of her father’s age,—
I fable not, nor will with fabled names
Varnish a melancholy tale all true,—
A lowly maid; lowly, but like that flower,
Which grows in lowly place, and thence has name,
Lily o’ the vale, within her parent leaves