I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towers
An old Cilician spend his peaceful hours.
Some few bad acres in a waste, wild field,
Which neither grass, nor corn, nor vines would yield,
He did possess. There—amongst thorns and weeds—
Cheap herbs and coleworts, with the common seeds
Of chesboule or tame poppies, he did sow,
And vervain with white lilies caused to grow.
Content he was, as are successful kings,
And late at night come home—for long work brings
The night still home—with unbought messes laid
On his low table he his hunger stay'd.
Roses he gather'd in the youthful Spring,
And apples in the Autumn home did bring:
And when the sad, cold Winter burst with frost
The stones, and the still streams in ice were lost,
He would soft leaves of bear's-foot crop, and chide
The slow west winds and ling'ring Summer-tide!