While the free light fell warm on wood and hill—
Wrought with the service of an eye askance,
Beneath a master’s rogue-detecting glance:
Possessed with fear, lest trick or task might draw
The rod that fell without the forms of law;
Possessed with wrath to see our wealth expire—
Tops, apples, penknives in the penal fire.
How oft the slate, whose sable field should show
Platoons of figures ranked in studied row—
Squadrons of sums arrayed in careful lines—