Classic Poem

Keen is the frost! severe the winter's storms!
And yet my nerves nor cold, nor tempest dread;
For Lucy's love my constant bosom warms,
And Heaven protects the peasant's humble shed!

Thus though the lightning rives the lofty oak,
And scatters wide its branches o'er the plain;
The lowly hawthorns, guarded from the stroke!
Secure amidst the gen'ral wreck remain.

Grateful to God, for what his bounty grants,
I envy not the rich man's ampler store;
If heaven supplies my dearest Lucy's wants,
I ask but bread and health, and ask no more!