Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, THE OAK AND THE BROOM. A PASTORAL. I. His simple truths did Andrew glean A careful student he had been One winter's night, when through the trees II. "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— '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 The thing had better been asleep, Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or sheep, That first did plant you there.-Edit. 1815. The breeze had better been asleep, For you and your green twigs decoy Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! 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; 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. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors? Am I not 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, X. Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renewed; * Sara Coleridge says of this stanza and the following one, that they contain a lovely natural description. To me, the whole poem seems, of its kind, one of the most charming that ever was written.-ED. D But in the branches of the oak 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, And whirled, and whirled him far away ; The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day.” 1800. THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY. ART thou the bird whom Man loves best, The bird that comes about our doors And Russia far inland? The bird, that by some name or other |