The Snow-Drop | Page 2

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 land;?Where'er enlightened men are found,?They're showering blessings all around.?Yet time would fail should I rehearse?Their brave exploits, in simple verse;?But there's a class, (I hope not here,)?Who, like the boasting oak, appear;?They think their hands were never made?To wield the distaff, plough, or spade;--?Their taper fingers,