Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

There was a garden—no matter where—
The world is full of such gardens. There
Flowers of all colour and odour grew;
And, whatever their odour, whatever their hue,
The gardener gave to them each alike
What for each was good. In congenial ground
He set each seedling to shoot and strike;
Each sprout he cherish'd and water'd round
With the self-same vigilance everywhere,
Tended each bud with the self-same care;
And, nevertheless, in colour and scent,
They came up, all of them, different.
Each had something that best became it:
Each had some quality fair and fit:
Each had a beauty whereby to name it:
Each had a merit to praise in it.
One by its leaf, and one by its stem,
This by its colour, and that by its smell,
These by their blossomy diadem,
And those by their fruit, did the rest excel.

150

But when that garden was open'd, those
Who walk'd there, turn'd, as they wander'd by,
With one accord to admire the Rose;
And the rest of the flowers could guess not why.
For “Each flower's a flower,” they all averr'd,
“And the Rose is only a flower we know.”

Now the praise bestow'd on the Rose most stirr'd
The surprise of a Bramble that happen'd to grow
Quite close to the Rose. And he said, “We have grown,
Since we were seeds in the same soil sown,
Ever together, the Rose and I;
And I never could find out yet, I own,
What there is in her to catch men's eye.
However next Spring, it shall be my duty
To find the Rose's secret out.”

The Bramble felt not the Rose's beauty,
And he thought, “'Tis her manner of growing, no doubt.
One has but to notice and do the same.”

So the Bramble, as soon as the next Spring came,
Noticed; and saw that the Rose's stem
Was all cover'd with thorns; and “Oh ho!” quoth he,
“'Tis the thorns that do it! But we'll beat them,
And the world shall see what the world shall see.”

151

Then, by checking the natural circulation
Of his proper sap in a few May morns
The Bramble, ambitious of admiration,
To imitate Roses put forth thorns.
Yet still, as before, to admire the Rose
The folk pass'd by him. “Good folks,” cried he,
“These thorns of mine are more sharp than those
That roughen the rosebush. Turn, and see!”
But nobody heard what the Bramble cried,
Or a passing glance of approval cast him.
Then, to catch the notice, the Bramble tried,
By catching the skirts, of all who pass'd him.

Which attempt succeeded too well, indeed.
For the folk then noticed the Bramble, crying,
“Gardener, away with this troublesome weed,
Which tears our clothes!” And the gardener, spying
The cause of complaint, “Not in all my life
Was I ever disgraced before,” he said,
“By such a sad eyesore!” whipping his knife
Out of his pocket; and soon, half dead,
With his feelers all by the roots uptorn,
On the other side of the garden wall
Was the luckless Bramble flung forlorn,
To fare as he might there, thorns and all.

The Bramble ruefully shook his head,
And “What in the world does it mean?” he said.
“May I be blighted if I can see
What the difference is 'twixt the Rose and me!

152

One thing alone have I understood:
That what in a Bramble is taken ill
In a Rose is reckon'd all fair and good.
But the reason why is a mystery,
And of vying with Roses I've had my fill.”

Then the Bramble crawl'd away to the wood:
And there in the wood you may find him still.