And in my leaves now shed and gone, The Linnet lodged, and for us two Chanted his pretty songs, when You Had little voice or none. "But now proud thoughts are in your breast What grief is mine you see. Ah! would you think, even yet how blest Though of both leaf and flower bereft, Some ornaments to me are left Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, What more he said I cannot tell, I listened, nor aught else could hear; IX. THE OAK AND THE BROOM. A PASTORAL. His simple truths did Andrew glean A careful student he had been One winter's night, when through the trees "I saw a crag, a lofty stone As ever tempest beat! Out of its head an Oak had grown, The time was March, a cheerful noon 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; Last night I heard a crash -'tis true, The splinters took another road — You are preparing, as before, no more Down from yon cliff a fragment broke; This ponderous Block was caught by me, The Thing had better been asleep, Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep, For you and your green twigs decoy Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! From me this friendly warning take’· The Broom began to doze, And thus, to keep herself awake, Did gently interpose: 'My thanks for your discourse are due; Disasters, do the best we can, For me, why should I wish to roam? It is my pleasant heritage; My Father many a happy year, Here spread his careless blossoms, here Even such as his may be my lot. My heart with terrors? In truth a favoured plant! Am I not On me such bounty Summer pours, The Butterfly, all green and gold, Here in my Blossoms to behold When grass is chill with rain or dew, Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renewed; But in the branches of the Oak One night, my Children! from the North At break of day I ventured forth, The storm had fallen upon the Oak, The little careless Broom was left X. SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL. FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND. SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel! When the weary fingers feel Help, as if from faery power; Dewy night o'ershades the ground; Turn the swift wheel round and round! |