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The rocky open shore, better drying-field were none—
None freer to the breezes, nor fairer to the sun.
But the road runs close beside—wall or hedge he must not make,
Idle carmen, idle fisher boys! 'tis the farmer's purse at stake.
His purse and honour also—for our farmer doth maintain
To grow the best Tobacco on the rich Palermo plain.
Protection must be had, so with toil the boughs he cut,
With toil the stakes he planted, and wattled him a hut.
Three-sided was the lodge, but open to survey,
The green leaves and the brown that in seemly order lay,
—What carpeting of Astracan to him had seemed so sweet?
What rich floor-picture shuffled o'er by lordly Roman feet?
Then it was I stood and marked him, housed in his leafy cell;
Proud security was in his face, for he watched his treasure well.
If the roguish wind would make a clutch at a dry leaf in his play,
Out he darted!—weighted with a stone, the russet rambler lay.
Even in his noontide napping one ear was yet awake,
For the light-foot lizard's scamper, or the rustle of the snake.
