Classic Poem

High up on yonder hillock
A little cottage stands;
A pleasant view its threshold
O'er happy fields commands.
There sits a free-born peasant,
At eve, upon the sod;
His ringing scythe he sharpens,
And praises sings to God.

Far down within the valley,
Where darkly yawns the ditch,
There lies, sunk deep within it,
A crown, superb and rich.
There carbuncle and sapphire
In secret twilight gleam;
There hath it lain for ages,
And troubles no man's dream.