H ipoet of tbe ipoor 



man's bed of grass or moss, have tumbled 

 on a better couch, between the lonesome 

 hours, thinking of what might be done to 

 meet the merciless demands of need. 



Two old fishermen once lay and slept 

 Upon a bed of seaweed in their hut, 

 Whose walls were wattled grass; and all about 

 Were scattered there the tackle of their craft, — 

 A toilsome one,— rods, creels and weels and Hnes, 

 Hooks, woven fish-pots, weed-entangled nets, 

 And ropes and oars, and one decrepit boat. 

 Under their heads, for pillow, a worn mat 

 Was helped out by their clothing and their caps. 

 Poverty stood sentinel at their shutterless door, 

 Nor was a watch-dog needed for such wealth 

 As their rough toil had furnished them withal. 

 Lonely were they, they knew no luxuries, 

 And ceaselessly against their scanty hut . 

 With gentle motion rose the tireless surf. 



My translation is scant, arid, almost 

 literal ; and yet I dare say that the reader 

 unacquainted with the old tongue will feel 

 the spell of a picture so true, so human, so 

 touching. The moon is not yet half-way 

 across heaven when the tired sleepers stir 

 and begin to think of the coming day. 

 One of them, Asphalion, grumbles: 

 io8 



