And from dried poplar-trunk (O traveller!) hewn,This fieldlet, leftwards as thy glances fall,And my lord's cottage with his pauper garthProtect, repelling thieves' rapacious hands.In spring with vari-coloured wreaths I'm crown'd,In fervid summer with the glowing grain,Then with green vine-shoot and the luscious bunch,And glaucous olive-tree in bitter cold.The dainty she-goat from my pasture bearsHer milk-distended udders to the town:Out of my sheep-cotes ta'en the fatted lambSends home with silver right-hand heavily charged;And, while its mother lows, the tender calfBefore the temples of the Gods must bleed.Hence of such Godhead (traveller!), stand in awe;Best it befits thee off to keep thy hands.Thy cross is ready, shaped as artless yard;'I'm willing 'faith' (thou say'st) but 'faith here comesThe boor and plucking forth with bended armMakes of this tool a club for doughty hand.