H poet of tbe poor 



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 lines, 

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

 And ropes and oars, and one decrepit boat. 

 Under their heads, for pUlow, 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 : 

 1 08 



