This Oak, a giant and a sage, His neighbour thus addressed III. : 'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge, The Frost hath wrought both night and day, Look up! and think, above your head IV. You are preparing as before, And yet, just three years back-no more- Down from yon cliff a fragment broke; This ponderous block was caught by me, V. If breeze or bird to this rough steep For you and your green twigs decoy And, trust me, on some sultry noon, Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! Will perish in one hour. VI. 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; That more than what you say is true, I know, and I have known it long; Frail is the bond by which we hold Our being, whether young or old, Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. VII. Disasters, do the best we can, Who is not wise at all. For me, why should I wish to roam ? This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant heritage; My father many a happy year, Spread here his careless blossoms, here VIII. Even such as his may be my lot. On me such bounty Summer pours, IX. 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 Two ravens now began to croak Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; XI. One night, my Children! from the north At break of day I ventured forth, The storm had fallen upon the Oak, And struck him with a mighty stroke, The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day." VI. TO A SEXTON. [WRITTEN in Germany.] LET thy wheel-barrow alone Wherefore, Sexton, piling still In thy bone-house bone on bone? 'Tis already like a hill In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid; These died in peace each with the other,— 1800. Mark the spot to which I point! Simon's sickly daughter lies, From weakness now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride- By the heart of Man, his tears, Thus then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there, and Susan here, Neighbours in mortality. And, should I live through sun and rain |