Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

'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.”