Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

That tree's brown roots, like bronzen snakes that bind
Some Fury's formidable brows, had wrought,
And rampired deep from reach of sun or wind,
A dismal pit, where those poor drops were caught.

The cloud was emptied, and the storm was gone;
The heavens all stainless, and the forest still.
The water, wondering, to itself, alone,
Whisper'd, and sigh'd with a regretful thrill,

“Was birth a snare, then? and is life a lie?
And is this all that we were born to be?
Where are the waves, and where the winds? Ah, why,
Why have we loved and lost them? What are we?

“What is the meaning of this passion, fill'd
With pining memories of the infinite tide,
If here forever, straighten'd, stain'd, and still'd
Thus to a stagnant pool, we must abide?”

There was no answer—save the want of one.
Silence, obscurity, and solitude!

109

Scarcely a gleam from the leaf-hinder'd sun,
Thro' the dense umbrage of that gloomy wood:

Scarcely a sound, save of the fleeting roe,
Or the faint flutter of some vagrant bird:
No change: no choice: no happy come-and-go:
Naught to be seen, and little to be heard.

But, in their season, swarms of stinging flies,
That claim'd that lonesome lakelet for their own,
There laid white egglets; whence anon did rise
Little red worms that wriggled up and down.

And, once, a headlong acorn, misbegotten,
Splash to the bottom of the pool did drop,
Like a dead body, blacken'd, swell'd, wax'd rotten,
Burst, and again upfloated to the top.

Also, an old toad hobbled to the brink,
And squatted there; so still, she might be dead,
Save that her small black eyes at times did wink,
And, winking, sparkle in her spotty head.