Good fortune seldom comes too late; For lo! at last indulgent Fate Smil’d on the importunate swain, 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? Whang is already three feet deep! Upon the spade observe him smile: What sees he?—what?—a broken tile; The very tile his dream foretold, A landmark to his pan of gold! Upturns one token more—a bone! And now, behold the broad flat stone! A moment on its ample size He gaz’d with wide distended eyes— “Beneath _that_ is the pan!” he cries. “’Twas under such a stone as this That neighbour Drowsypate found his. So then, at last, my hopes are crown’d! Come, then, let’s raise thee from the ground.” But, ere to lift the stone he tries, He shook his head, not over wise, And, with a self-approving glance, One foot a little in advance, With nose and lip contemptuous curl’d, That said, “A fig for all the world!” He cried, “My wife, she, silly trot! Shall never know the wealth I’ve got: To punish her I made a _vow_; The time is come, I’ll keep it now. She could not dream, poor fool! not she; Some trite old tale of ‘busy bee,’ Of saving pins, and pence, and groats, For ever occupied _her_ thoughts. Besides, the hussey laugh’d outright Whene’er I pass’d a dreamless night. Yes, yes, I will requite her scorn; She’ll rue it, sure as she is born!”—— Ah, bootless boast! the stone so great Exceeds by far his strength in weight. In vain he digs and delves the ground, And clears away the rubbish round, And gathering strength with his vexation, Widens the fearful excavation. He cannot move the stone for life; So forc’d at last, he calls his wife, Imparts the fact so long repress’d, And glads, reluctantly, her breast. The news he stated wak’d her fear; What gave delight at first to hear, One apprehension turn’d to pain— She trembled for her husband’s brain. “Can it be true?” cried she, misdeeming; “Dear Whang, too surely thou _art dreaming_: Try, recollect thyself, good man—” “Tut, hussey! why, I’ll shew the pan: Only a minute’s help I ask, And thou shalt see’t—a trifling task Just to remove, I know not what, A stone, it may be, from the spot. Come, come, thy hand.” They gain the door, When, turning, Kate asks, “_Are you sure?_” “_Sure? yes_,” vociferates her spouse. This said, they issue from the house— “I’m _certain_, as to all I’ve told, As if e’en _now_ I _touch’d_ the _gold_: