"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 wreath, to tell

That gentle days were nigh!

And in the sultry summer hours

I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
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

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
Would deck you many a winter's day,
A happy Eglantine!**

What more he said I cannot tell.

The stream came thundering down the dell,
And galloped loud and fast;

I listened, nor aught else could hear,
The Briar quaked-and much I fear,

Those accents were his last.

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

His youngest born did Andrew hold:

And while the rest, a ruddy quire,
Were seated round their blazing fire,

This Tale the Shepherd told.

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 frem the warm South-west;
When, in a voice sedate with age,
This Oak, half giant and half 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;

Last night I heard a crash-'tis true,
The splinters took another road-
I see them yonder-what a load
For such a Thing as you!