"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 What trouble surely will be bred; Last night I heard a crash--'tis true, The splinters took another road-- 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 came, you know, with fire and smoke And hither did it bend its way. This pond'rous block was caught by me, And o'er your head, as you may see, '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, I know and I have known it long; Frail is the bond, by which we hold Our being, be we young or old, Wise, foolish, weak or strong." 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 Here spread his careless blossoms, here Attain'd a good old age. Even such as his may be may lot. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors? Am I not In truth a favor'd plant! The Spring for me a garland weaves Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves, And, when the Frost is in the sky, My branches are so fresh and gay That You might look on 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. When grass 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 renew'd. 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 feed and murmur there.