And eas’d at length his anxious pain.
Dreams—one,—two,—three,—th’ important number,
Omen’d him hence to quit his slumber,
With spade and mattock arm’d, to delve
Six feet—nay, I believe ’twas twelve,
Close by the long-forsaken mill—
He flies, the mission to fulfil!
The mattock rings, the spade descends,
The sturdy arm its vigour lends;
At such light labour who could sleep?