Upon that generous swelling side,
Now scarified
By keen neglect, and all unfurrowed save
By gullies red as lash-marks on a slave,
Dwelt one I knew of old, who played at toil,
And dreamed himself a tiller of the soil.
Scorning the slow reward of patient grain,
He sowed his soul with hopes of swifter gain,
Then sat him down and waited for the rain.
He sailed in borrowed ships of usury—