"In Earth's brown bosom pent, the hardy wight Long in deep caverns dwells; and hard doth smite The rocky caves. Nor sees the golden spoil Through weary days of wasted, lonely toil. From his wild eyes, far-flying hides the prize, Till desperate, angered, worn, aloud he cries: 'Vain, vain! The caves my labor answer not, Nor yellow threads, that gleam in any grot. Hard, cruel, silent hills, my strength ye mock, And seal your treasures close in flinty rock; So, after toilsome years, sweet wife, I bring To thee no sparkling love-gift. Nay, nor anything To cheer our failing time.'
"Then round him hears He sturdy blows, and listening, almost fears He dreams. But swift the echoes rise, and still More loudly roll, and quick replies the hill. Reverberant, through all the caverns round, The uproar swells, and fills the world with sound. Then lists he once again. 'With lusty shocks Your hammers ring against the hard-ribbed rocks-- Goblins!' he boldly shouts, 'smite! smite! ye bring My treasure forth, dark-beating goblin wing Among the gleaming caves, whose dusk veins hold The gold. At last! At last, the ruddy gold!'
"And lone, in stricken fields, the husbandman Sits pale, with anxious eyes that hopeless scan The burning sky. Hot lie the glimmering plain And uplands parched. 'Behold, the bending grain, Fair in the springtide, now is dead; and dry The brooks. If yet the rainfall fail, we die Of famine sore. No bleating lambs I hear in fold Safe shut, nor lowing kine; nor on the wold The whir of mounting bird: Nor thrives about me Any living thing. So seemeth, end must be Of striving. Since all the land is cursed, What matter if by famine scorched, or thirst, We die?' he saith. "And thick the warlock swarm Above his head, wide-spreading dark wings warm, Fast flitted by. The waiting fields he stands Among. And laughing, claps exultant hands. 'Good speed ye, Sprites! that bring the welcome cloud And pile the vapors thick,' he shouts aloud. Oh! sweet shall bloom again the bending grain, And clothe afresh the wide, the wasted plain. The clouds sweep black. Ha, ha! Against my cheek The big drops fall. Merry the goblins shriek. Behold, they mount, they sink, they rise again. Ho, friendly elves, that bring the longed-for rain!'"