« НазадПродовжити »
I see them yonder, — what a load
For such a Thing as you !
“ . 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,
'T is hanging to this day !
66. 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.
6. 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.
66 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.
6. Even such as his
What cause have I to haunt
My heart with terrors ? Am I not
In truth a favored plant !
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.
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;
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.”
Let thy wheelbarrow alone !
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bone-house bone on bone ?
’T is already like a hill
In a field of battle made,
Where three thousand skulls are laid ;
These died in peace each with the other,-
Father, sister, friend, and brother.
Mark the spot to which I point !
From this platform, eight feet square,
Take not even a finger-joint:
Andrew's whole fireside is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon's sickly daughter lies,
From weakness now and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.
Look but at the gardener's pride,
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families !
By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou, too heedless, art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.
Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbors in mortality.
And should I live through sun and rain,
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!