Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

The green grass-blades aquiver
With joy at the dawn of day
(For the most inquisitive ever
Of the flowers of the field are they)
Lisp'd it low to their lazy
Neighbours that flat on the ground,
Dandelion and daisy,
Lay still in a slumber sound:
But soon, as a ripple of shadow
Runs over the whisperous wheat,
The rumour ran over the meadow
With its numberless fluttering feet:

It was told by the water-cresses
To the brooklet that, in and out
Of his garrulous green recesses,
For gossip was gadding about:
And the brooklet, full of the matter,
Spread it abroad with pride;
But he stopp'd to gossip and chatter,
And turn'd so often aside,
That his news got there before him
Ere his journey down was done;
And young leaves in the vale laugh'd o'er him
“We know it! The snow is gone!”
The snow is gone! but ye only
Know how good doth that good news sound,
Whose hearts, long buried and lonely,
Have been waiting, winter-bound,
For the voice of the wakening angel
To utter the welcome evangel,
“The snow is gone: reärise,
And blossom as heretofore,
Hopes, imaginings, memories,
And joys of the days of yore!”

What are the tree-tops saying, swaying
This way all together?
“The winter is past! the south wind at last
Is come, and the sunny weather!”
The trees! there is no mistaking them,
For the trees, they never mistake:

And you may tell, by the way of the stem,
What the way is, the wind doth take.
So, if the tree-tops nod this way,
It is the south wind that is come;
And, if to the other side nod they,
Go, clothe ye warm, or bide at home!
The flowers all know what the tree-tops say;
They are no more deaf than the trees are dumb.
And they do not wait to hear it twice said
If the news be good; but, discreet and gay,
The awaked buds dance from their downy bed,
With pursed-up mouth, and with peeping head,
By many a dim green winding way.

'Tis the white anemone, fashion'd so
Like to the stars of the winter snow,
First thinks, “If I come too soon, no doubt
I shall seem but the snow that hath staid too long,
So 'tis I that will be Spring's unguess'd scout.”
And wide she wanders the woods among.
Then, from out of the mossiest hiding-places,
Smile meek moonlight-colour'd faces
Of pale primroses puritan,
In maiden sisterhoods demure;
Each virgin flowret faint and wan
With the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure.
And the borage, blue-eyed, with a thrill of pride,
(For warm is her welcome on every side)
From Elfland coming to claim her place,
Gay garments of verdant velvet takes

All creased from the delicate travelling case
Which a warm breeze breaks. The daisy awakes
And opens her wondering eyes, yet red
About the rims with a too long sleep;
Whilst, bold from his ambush, with helm on head
And lance in rest, doth the bulrush leap.

The violets meet, and disport themselves,
Under the trees, by tens and twelves.
The timorous cowslips, one by one,
Trembling, chilly, atiptoe stand
On little hillocks and knolls alone;
Watchful pickets, that wave a hand
For signal sure that the snow is gone,
Then around them call their comrades all
In a multitudinous, mirthful band;
Till the field is so fill'd with grass and flowers
That wherever, with flashing footsteps, fall
The sweet, fleet, silvery April showers,
They never can touch the earth, which is
Cover'd all over with crocuses,
And the clustering gleam of the buttercup,
And the blithe grass blades that stand straight up
And make themselves small, to leave room for all
The nameless blossoms that nestle between
Their sheltering stems in the herbage green;
Sharp little soldiers, trusty and true,
Side by side in good order due;
Arms straight down, and heads forward set,
And saucily-pointed bayonet.

Up the hillocks, and down again,
The green grass marches into the plain,
If only a light wind over the land
Whisper the welcome word of command.

I. PART I.

'Twas long after the grass and the flowers, one day,
That there came straggling along the way
A little traveller, somewhat late.
Tired he was; and down he sat
In the ditch by the road, where he tried to nestle
Out of the dust and the noontide heat.
Poor little vagabond wayside Thistle!
In the ditch was his only safe retreat.
Flung out of the field as soon as found there,
And banisht the garden, where should he stay?
Wherever he roam'd, still Fortune frown'd there,
And, wherever he settled, spurn'd him away.

From place to place, had he wander'd long
The weary high road, parcht with thirst.
Now here, in the ditch, for awhile among
The brambles hidden, he crouch'd; and first
Wistfully eyed, on the other side,
A fresh green meadow with flowrets pied;
And then, with a pang, as he peep'd and pried,
“Oh, to rest there!” he thought, and sigh'd.

“Oh, to rest there, it is all so fair!
Yonder wanders a brooklet, sure?
No! it is only the mill-sluice small.
But he looks like a brook, so bright and pure,
And his banks are broider'd with violets all.
What a hurry he seems to be in! Ah, why
Doth he hasten so fast? If I were he,
There would I linger, and rest, and try
To be left in peace. Take heed! (ah me,
He doth not hear me—how weary I am!)
Take heed, for the sake of thine old mill-dam,
Thou little impetuous fool! I pass'd
Over the bridge, as I came by the road;
And under the bridge I saw rolling fast
A full-grown river, so deep and broad!
If you go on running like that—nor look
Where you are running—you foolish brook,
I predict you will fall into trouble at last,
And the great big river will eat you up.
That is all you will get by your heedless haste.
Oh, if I were you, it is there I'd stop,
There where you are, with the flowers and grass.
For I know what it is to wander, alas!
It is only to fall from bad to worse,
And find no rest in the universe.

“Soft!—I have half a mind to try—
Could one slip in yonder quietly,
Where the rippled damp of the deep grass spares
Cool rest to each roving butterfly,

How pleasant 'twould be! There is nobody by,
And perhaps there is nobody owns or cares
To look after yon meadow. It seems so still,
Silent, and safe—shall I venture?—I will!
From the ditch it is but a step or two.
And, maybe, the owner is dead, and the heirs
Away in the town, and will never know.”

II. PART II.

Then the little Thistle atiptoe stood,
All in a tremble, sharp yet shy.
The vagabond's conscience was not good.
He had been so often a trespasser sly,
He had been so often caught by the law,
He had been so often beaten before:
He was still so small: if a spade he saw,
He mutter'd a Paternoster o'er,
And cower'd. So, cautiously thrusting out
Here a timorous leaf, there a tiny sprout,
And then dropping a seed, and so waiting anon
For a chance lift got from the wind—still on,
With a hope that the sun and the breeze migh please
To be helpful and kind—by degrees he frees
And feels his way with a fluttering heart.
In the ditch there were heaps of stones to pass.
They scratch'd him, and tore him, and made him smart,

And ruin'd his leaves. But those leaves, alas,
Already so tatter'd and shatter'd were,
That to keep them longer was worth no care;
And at last he was safe in the meadow; and there
“Ah, ha!” sigh'd the Thistle; “so far, so well!
If I can but stay where I am, I shall fare
Blithe as the bee in the blossom's bell.
How green it is here, and how fresh, and fair!
And, oh, what a pleasure henceforth to dwell
In this blest abode! to have done with the road,
And got rid of the ditch! Ah, who can tell
The rapture of rest to the wanderer's breast?”

Down out of heaven a dewdrop fell
On the head of the Thistle: and he fell asleep
In the lap of the twilight soft and deep.

III. PART III.

At sunrise he woke: and he still was there,
In the bright grass, breathing the balmy air.
He stretch'd his limbs, and he shook off the dust,
And he wash'd himself in the morning dew;
And, opening his pedlar's pack, out-thrust
A spruce little pair of leaflets new;
And made for himself a fine white ruff,
About his neck to wear;
And pruned and polish'd his prickles tough;
And put on a holiday air.

And “If only nobody finds me out!”
He laugh'd, as he loll'd among
The grass, delighted, and look'd about,
And humm'd a homely song;
Which he loved because, like himself, 'twas known
As a wanderer here and there,

“A crown! a crown!
A crown of mine own,
To wind in a maiden's hair!”

But . . . a sweep of the scythe, and a stamp of the foot,
And “Vile weed! is there no getting rid of thee ever?”
And what little was spared by the scythe, the boot,
With its hobnails, hasten'd to crush and shiver.

PART IV.

'Twas the Farmer, who just then happen'd to pass.
He had gone to the field to cut some grass
For his beast that morn; and no sooner saw
The trespasser there in flagrante delicto,
Than, scythe in hand, he enforced the law
On the luckless offender, vi et ictu.

All mangled and bruised, the poor little Thistle
With his desperate roots to the soil clung fast.
The Farmer away, with a careless whistle,
Homeward over the meadow pass'd.

The Thistle breathed freër, and shook his gasht head.
“All's well, if it be no worse!” he said.
“My crown is gone, but 'twill grow again.
There is many another (I feel it) in me.
And one must not make too much of the pain.
Only, you good saints, let me not be
Forced, for my sins, to return to the road!
Only not that! If I can but contrive
To rest here, somehow or other! I see
One may lose his head in this brave abode.
But I'm on my guard, and I'll struggle and strive,
As long as I live, to keep alive.”
Then his roots he burrow'd more deep and broad.

But every day 'twas the self-same thing!
Tho' he made himself little, and hid his head,
Trying, with all his might, to cling
Close to the soil, and appear to be dead.
For his spacious leaves, that were carved and curl'd
For Corinthian columns in temples fair,
He could not check them when these unfurld
Their flourishing architecture there,
And, all about him their beauty spreading,
Layer on layer uprose from below;
And the hardy young head, in despite of beheading,
Sprang up again—for the scythe to mow!
Round and about him, each blossom was blowing.
No chance of blowing had he found ever:
Who no sooner was seen than the sharp steel mowing,
Or the harsh foot crushing him, stopp'd the endeavour.

And “Oh, blessèd,” he sigh'd, “is the blossom that blows!
Colours I know of, no eyes yet see.
But I dare not show them; and nobody knows,
Nobody guesses, what's hidden in me!
In all the world but one creature, alas,
For love's sake seeks me; and he is an ass.”

V. PART V.

So went the Spring: and so came and went
The Summer. The aftermath was mown:
And there where, erewhile, in one element
Of colour and odour together blent,
By the balmy breath of the light wind blown,
The flowing grass and the bending blooms
(A rapturous river of gleams and glooms!)
Had rippled and roll'd, lay clods of mould
Black and bald; and between them grew
Coarse aftergrowths, grey, bristly, and cold;
And the beast of the field had the residue.
The primrose, cowslip, and violet,
With their glow-worm glitter were gone; and the white
Anemone's constellations, set,
Had left the earth dark as a starless night,
Where the grass fell off from the woodland wet.
The blue-eyed borage was blinded quite.
But, outliving his betters one by one,
In the flowerless field, with no thought of flight,

The brave little Thistle remain'd—alone!
And, since skies were cold, and suns were dim,
No one noticed, and no one praised,
But also no one maltreated, him.
And the pensive beasts of the field, that grazed
The twice-cropt grass, where their wandering whim
Led them, lazy, from spot to spot,
Shunn'd the Thistle and harm'd him not.

VI. PART VI.

Then the Thistle, at last, could enlarge his store
Of the few joys fate had vouchsafed him sparely.
Baffled a hundred times, and more,
Bruised, and torn, and surviving barely,
Still he survived: and for him, him only,
Green leaves gladden'd the leafless cold
Where, Summer's orphan, he linger'd lonely
Over her grave in the frozen mould.
For, as days, long dead, by a bard born after
Are invoked, and revive in a form more fair,
All the bliss that was beauty, the life that was laughter,
Ere the frolic fields were bereft and bare,
The lone Thistle renew'd and transform'd to his own;
As flower by flower—from the fervid rose,
Whose beauty so well to herself is known,
That she blushes proud of the truth she knows,
To the violet, Modesty's vanquisht child,
Hiding her head in the sylvan places

Where her wandering wooer, the March gust wild,
Hath left her faint from his harsh embraces,
All of them—all, in a dream divine
To the heart of the Thistle sweet secrets told
Of blushes that burn, and of brows that shine,
With passion of purple and glory of gold.
So all flowers of the field were alive in one:
And the glow of his sheen, and the gloss of his down,
Were as jewels dead queens have confided alone
To the craftsman who fashions them all to a crown.

For each hope in the heart of the poor plant hidden
Each vision of bliss and of beauty, nurst,
With a passion by Prejudice check'd and chidden,
For a life by the fiat of Fortune curst,
Rushing forthwith into rich reality,
Fill'd the cup of a quenchless thirst
Till it flow'd with exuberant prodigality,
And his long-pent life into blossom burst.
A single blossom: but statelier far,
And fairer, than many a million are.
A splendid disc, full and flashing with wonder!
As the sea-rose swims on the water, so
That effulgent star on the bleak earth under
Lay spread out in a luminous glow.
And “At last I can blossom! blossom! blossom!”
The Thistle laugh'd, greeting the earth and heaven,
And he blossom'd his whole heart out of his bosom.

And all was forgotten, save all that was given.