Metric Riddle #4 Match Your Wits to This

For countless years I worked the land
The unrequited farming-hand
They scarce gave thanks for all my toil
Replacing sea-side sand with soil
So I destroyed them, every thief
A king became, though of reign, brief
My wrath interred their wicked ways
That men upon their lives might gaze

What am I?

This is the fourth in a series of metric poetry riddles. See whether you can work out the answer.