« 上一頁繼續 »
What more he said, I cannot tell.
The stream came thundering down the dell
And gallop'd loud and fast;
I listen'd, nor aught else could hear,
The Briar quak'd and much I fear,
Those accents were his last.
The OAK and the BROOM,
His simple truths did Andrew glean
Beside the babbling rills;
A careful student he had been
Among the woods and hills.
One winter's night when through the Trees
His youngest born did Andrew hold:
This Tale the Shepherd told.
I saw a crag, a lofty stone
Out of its head an Oak had grown,
A Broom out of its feet.
The time was March, a chearful noon
The thaw-wind with the breath of June Breath'd gently from the warm South-west ; When in a voice sedate with age
This Oak, half giant and half sage,
His neighbour thus address'd.
Eight weary weeks, thro' 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
Last night I heard a crash'tis true,
You are preparing as before
To deck your slender shape;
And yet, just three years back-no more—
Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke,
This pond'rous block was caught by me,
'Tis hanging to this day.
The Thing had better been asleep,
Whatever thing it were,
Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,
That first did plant you there.
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 it is true, and more than true,
Disasters, do the best we can,
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
Here spread his careless blossoms, here
Attain'd a good old age.