“You’ll have no need to rove.
Beneath my field you’ll find a yield
Far more than treasure-trove.”
The youths, who on the spade and plow
Had looked in high disdain,
With arms that heaved, when fresh-bereaved,
No, not a copper did they find,
But on the turned-up soil
The weeds were few; the crops they grew
Were rich as pirates’ spoil.
“Brothers,” said one, “we’ve earned the prize
Of which our father told.
For look! the earth has greater worth
Than any chest of gold!”