This Oak, a giant and a sage,

His neighbor 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

- 't is true,

You are preparing as before

To deck your slender shape;

And yet, just three years back -no more
You had a strange escape:

Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ;
It thundered down with fire and smoke,
And hitherward pursued its way;

This ponderous block was caught by me,
And o'er your head, as you may see,
'Tis hanging to this day!

If breeze or bird to this rough steep
Your kind's first seed did bear,
The breeze had better been asleep,
The bird caught in a snare;

For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless shepherd-boy

To come and slumber in your bower ;
And, trust me, on some sultry noon

Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
Will perish in one hour.

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.

Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small;
And he is oft the wisest man

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

Attained a good old age.

Even such as his may be my lot.

What cause have I to haunt

My heart with terrors? Am I not

In truth a favored plant!

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On me such bounty Summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
This Plant can never die.

The butterfly, all green and gold,
To me hath often flown,

Here in my blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Beneath my shade the mother-ewe
Lies with her infant lamb; I see
The love they to each other make,

And the sweet joy which they partake;
It is a joy to me.'

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;
And to her own green bower the breeze
That instant brought two stripling bees
To rest, or murmur there.

One night, my Children! from the north
There came a furious blast;

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At break of day I ventured forth,
And near the cliff I passed.

The storm had fallen upon the Oak,
And struck him with a mighty stroke,
And whirled, and whirled him far away
And, in one hospitable cleft,

The little careless Broom was left
To live for many a day."

THE SPARROW'S NEST.

1801. - 1807.

BEHOLD, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.

I started — seeming to espy

The home and sheltered bed,

The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My Father's house, in wet or dry

My sister Emmeline and I

Together visited.

She looked at it and seemed to fear it;
Dreading, though wishing, to be near it :
Such heart was in her, being then

A little Prattler among men.

The Blessing of my later years

Was with me when a boy :

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears:
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.

THE post-boy drove with fierce career,

For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
When, as we hurried on, my ear

Was smitten with a startling sound.

As if the wind blew many ways,

I heard the sound- and more and more;

It seemed to follow with the chaise,

And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy called out;
He stopped his horses at the word,
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
The horses scampered through the rain;
But hearing soon upon the blast
The cry, I bade him halt again.

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