The Snow-Drop | Page 2

an oak tree's ample shade,
Whose lofty top towered up so
high,
It seemed aspiring for the sky.
Just at the basement of the hill,

A modest little purling rill
Shone like a mirror in the sun,--


Flashing and sparkling as it run.
The lofty oak scarce deigned to look

Upon the little murm'ring brook,
But tossed his head in proud
disdain,
And thus began his boasting strain:--
"I've lived almost
since time began,
The friend and favorite of man;
Since I became a
stately tree,
Cradled within my branches, lay
The young pappoose,
who gayly smiled,
And listened to the music wild
That floated
round his tiny head,
While through my top the breezes played.
In
after years to me he came,
When wearied in pursuit of game;
He
from my branches plucked his bow,
To slay the deer and buffalo;

Here, with his friends, he'd often meet
To sing the war-song, dance,
and eat.
'Twas here he woo'd the dark-eyed maid,
And built his
wigwam in my shade;
To me he brought his youthful bride,
And
dwelt here till with age he died.
His children thought no place more
meet
To make his grave than at my feet;
They said 'twould greatly
soothe their woes
If I would let him here repose;
Then begged that I
would deign to wave
My verdant branches o'er his grave.
And since
the polished white man came,
He's loved and honored me the same;

Though all the neighboring trees around
Were slain, as cumberers
of the ground,
Yet here I tower in grandeur still,--
The pride and
glory of the hill.
My dauntless spirits never quail
At earthquakes,
hurricanes, or hail;
The rolling thunder's fiery car
Has never dared
my form to mar;
I've heard its rumbling undismayed,
While forked
lightnings round me played;

But O, thou little murm'ring brook,

How mean and meager is thy look;--
Babbling, babbling, all day
long,--
How I detest thy simple song.
I would not have thee in my
sight,
Did not all nobles claim a right
To keep some menial servant
near,
And therefore 'tis that thou art here.
As I am always very neat.

I'll deign to let thee wash my feet;--
Such work becomes one in thy
place,--
To drudge for me is no disgrace."
The spirit of the brook
was stirred,
But still her voice had not been heard,
Had not a zephyr,
ling'ring round,
In friendly mood, caught up the sound,
And flying
round the monarch's head,
Breathed in his ear the words she said.

The streamlet, with a deep drawn sigh,
In silv'ry tones, made this

reply:
"Illustrious oak, pray deign to hear,
'Twill not disgrace
thee--none are near,
And I this once a word would say,
As I am
wending on my way;--
Behold that path wind through the grass,

Where many by thee daily pass;
See, where it ends, just on my brink,

Then frankly tell what thou dost think.
Both man and beast, when
they are dry,
Come here and find a rich supply;
And many come for
pleasure too,
When they have nothing else to do.
Bright pebbles in
my waters lie,
Which have a charm in childhood's eye;
And little
children stray from home,
Upon my sunny shores to roam;--
With
me they play their artless pranks,
And gather flowers along my
banks;--
Sweet flowers that shun thy gloomy shade,
And hither
come to ask my aid.
The poet loves my 'simple song'--
With me he
often tarries long;
He tells me that he wanders here,
To catch some
new and bright idea,
Which makes his tuneful numbers roll,
In
music that enchants the soul.
And people too of every class,
Come
here their leisure hours to pass;
I often feel the warm embrace
Of
ruby lips upon my face,
For those who never bend the knee
To
haughty monarchs, just like thee,
Will fall down prostrate at my side.

And kiss the face thou dost deride.
Thou sayest, thou art very neat,

And I, the slave to wash thy feet!
Should all the streamlets cease to
flow,
Not one on earth could e'er be so.
Our strength propels the
busy mills,
And all the land with plenty fills,--
They bring, some
silver--others gold--

And shield the poor from winter's cold.
The
vapors, which from us ascend,
To vegetation are a friend;--
In dew
they soon descend again,
Or fall in fruitful showers of rain.
Were
there no brooks, there'd be no bread--
Then tell me, how could man
be fed?
No man, nor beast, or plant, or flower,
Without us could
survive an hour;--
The feathered songsters of the grove.
Would
cease to chant their notes of love.
Earth would become a scene of
gloom--
One vast extended direful tomb.--
And I must tell thee, ere
I go,
That thy proud head would soon lie low,--
Thou 'dst fade and
wither, droop and die,
And in the dust neglected lie.
Yet still no
praise belongs to me--
I do not sympathize with thee;
I never can be

proud and vain,
And imitate thy boasting strain;
But humbly on my
way I'll plod,
For I receive my strength from God."
MORAL.
These farmers and mechanics, here,
Much like the little brook appear;

Reared 'midst fair Franklin's hills and dells,
Where proud ambition
seldom dwells;
They view their hands for labor made,
And think
that God should be obeyed;
Then grasp the plough and till the soil--

It yields rich fruit, and corn, and oil,
By which the multitude are
fed.
And blessings o'er the land are spread.
Mechanics next should
take a stand
Beside the yeoman of our