The Waterfall and the Eglantine

"Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,"Exclaimed a thundering Voice,"Nor dare to thrust thy foolish selfBetween me and my choice!"A falling Water swoln with snowsThus spake to a poor Briar-rose,That, all bespattered with his foam,And dancing high, and dancing low,Was living, as a child might know,In an unhappy home.

"Dost thou presume my course to block?Off, off! or, puny Thing!I'll hurl thee headlong with the rockTo which thy fibres cling."The Flood was tyrannous and strong;The patient Briar suffered long,Nor did he utter groan or sigh,Hoping the danger would be past:But seeing no relief, at lastHe ventured to reply.

"Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not;Why should we dwell in strife?We who in this, our natal spot,Once lived a happy life!You stirred me on my rocky bed—What pleasure through my veins you spread!The Summer long from day to dayMy leaves you freshened and bedewed;Nor was it common gratitudeThat did your cares repay.

"When Spring came on with bud and bell,Among these rocks did IBefore you hang my wreaths, to tellThat gentle days were nigh!And in the sultry summer hoursI sheltered you with leaves and flowers;And in my leaves—now shed and gone,The Linnet lodged, and for us twoChaunted his pretty songs, when YouHad little voice or none.

"But now proud thoughts are in your breast—What grief is mine you see.Ah! would you think, even yet how blestTogether we might be!Though of both leaf and flower bereft,Some ornaments to me are left—Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,With which I in my humble wayWould deck you many a winter's day,A happy Eglantine!"

What more he said I cannot tell.The Torrent thundered down the dellWith unabating haste;I listened, nor aught else could hear;The Briar quaked—and much I fearThose accents were his last.