layed at toil,
And dreamed himself a tiller of the soil.
Scorning the slow reward of patient grain,
He sowed his soul with hopes of swifter gain,
Then sat him down and waited for the rain.
He sailed in borrowed ships of usury--
foolish Jason on a treacherous sea,
Seeking the Fleece and finding misery.
Lulled by smooth-rippling loans, in idle trance
He lay, content that unthrift Circumstance
Should plough for him the stony field of Chance.
Yea, gathering crops whose worth no man might tell,
He staked his life on a game of Buy-and-Sell,
And turned each field into a gambler's hell.
Aye, as each year began,
My farmer to the neighboring city ran,
Passed with a mournful anxious face
Into the banker's inner place;
Parleyed, excused, pleaded for longer grace,
Railed at the drought, the worm, the rust, the grass,
Protested ne'er again 'twould come to pass
Such troops of ills his labors should harass;
Politely swallowed searching questions rude,
And kissed the dust to melt his Dives's mood.
At last, small loans by pledges great renewed,
He issues smiling from the fatal door,
And buys with lavish hand his yearly store
Till his small borrowings will yield no more.
Aye, as each year declined,
With bitter heart and ever-brooding mind
He mourned his fate unkind.
In dust, in rain, with might and main,
He nursed his cotton, cursed his grain,
Fretted for news that made him fret again,
Snatched at each telegram of Future Sale,
And thrilled with Bulls' or Bears' alternate wail--
In hope or fear alike for ever pale.
And thus from year to year, through hope and fear,
With many a curse and many a secret tear,
Striving in vain his cloud of debt to clear,
At last
He woke to find his foolish dreaming past,
Beheld his best-of-life the easy prey
Of quacks and scamps, and all the vile array
That line the way,
From thieving statesman down to petty knave;
Yea, saw himself, for all his bragging brave,
A gamester's catspaw and a banker's slave.
Then, worn and gray, and sick with deep unrest,
He fled away into the oblivious West,
Unmourned, unblest.

Old hill! old hill! thou gashed and hairy Lear
Whom the divine Cordelia of the year,
E'en pitying Spring, will vainly strive to cheer--
King, but too poor for any man to own,
Discrowned, undaughter