"Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny Thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Briar suffered long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be past: But seeing no relief, at last He ventured to reply. "Ah!" said the Briar, " blame me not; Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this, our natal spot, Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bed What pleasure through my veins you spread! The Summer long from day to day My leaves you freshened and bedewed; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay. "When Spring came on with bud and bell, Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreaths, to tell That gentle days were nigh! And in the sultry summer hours I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; Chaunted his pretty songs, when You "But now proud thoughts are in your breast What grief is mine you see. Ah! would you think, even yet how blest Together we might be! Though of both leaf and flower bereft, Some ornaments to me are left Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, With which I in my humble way What more he said I cannot tell. The Torrent thundered down the dell With unabating haste; I listened, nor aught else could hear; The Briar quaked—and much I fear Those accents were his last. VIII. THE OAK AND THE BROOM. A PASTORAL. His simple truths did Andrew glean Beside the babbling rills; A careful student he had been Among the woods and hills. One winter's night, when through the Trees The wind was thundering, on his knees And while the rest, a ruddy quire, I saw a crag, a lofty stone As ever tempest beat! Out of its head an Oak had grown, A Broom out of its feet. The time was March, a cheerful noon The thaw-wind with the breath of June Breathed gently from the warm South-west: When, in a voice sedate with age, This Oak, a giant and a sage, His neighbour thus addressed: Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge, The Frost hath wrought both night and day, Wedge driving after wedge. Look up! and think, above your head What trouble surely will be bred; |