Excuse Is Needless When With Love Sincere Of Occupation, Not By Fashion Led, Thou Turn'St The Wheel That Slept With Dust O'Erspread; 'My' Nerves From No Such Murmur Shrink, Tho' Near, Soft As The Dorhawk'S To A Distant Ear, When Twilight Shades Darken The Mountain'S Head. Even She Who Toils To Spin Our Vital Thread Might Smile On Work, O Lady, Once So Dear To Household Virtues. Venerable Art, Torn From The Poor! Yet Shall Kind Heaven Protect Its Own; Though Rulers, With Undue Respect, Trusting To Crowded Factory And Mart And Proud Discoveries Of The Intellect, Heed Not The Pillage Of Man'S Ancient Heart.