A wealthy Ploughman drawing near his end   Call'd in his Sons apart from every friend,
  And said, "When of your sire bereft,
  The heritage our fathers left
  Guard well, nor sell a single field.
  A treasure in it is conceal'd:
  The place, precisely, I don't know,
  But industry will serve to show.
  The harvest past. Time's forelock take,
  And search with plough, and spade, and rake;
  Turn over every inch of sod,
&nbs............