Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Harebell and the Foxglove
The Harebell and the Foxglove.
In a valley obscure, on a bank of green shade,
A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had made:
Her roof was a woodbine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o'erarching her head;
Her head was of moss, that each morning made new;
She dined on a sunbeam, and supped on the dew;
Her neighbour, the nightingale, sung her to rest;
And care had ne'er planted a thorn in her breast.
A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had made:
Her roof was a woodbine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o'erarching her head;
Her head was of moss, that each morning made new;
She dined on a sunbeam, and supped on the dew;
Her neighbour, the nightingale, sung her to rest;
And care had ne'er planted a thorn in her breast.
One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
A Foxglove displaying his colours of pride;
She gazed on his form that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height and his brilliant hue:
She marked how the flowerets all gave way before him,
While they pressed round her dwelling with far less decorum;
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,
And the sight of the Foxglove destroys her repose.
A Foxglove displaying his colours of pride;
She gazed on his form that in stateliness grew,
And envied his height and his brilliant hue:
She marked how the flowerets all gave way before him,
While they pressed round her dwelling with far less decorum;
Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,
And the sight of the Foxglove destroys her repose.
She tires of her vesture, and swelling with spleen,
Cries, "Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was seen!"
Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain,
But thus to a Primrose begins to complain:
"I envy your mood, that can patient abide
The respect paid that Foxglove, his airs and his pride;
There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek,
But you have no spirit,—would I were as meek."
Cries, "Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was seen!"
Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain,
But thus to a Primrose begins to complain:
"I envy your mood, that can patient abide
The respect paid that Foxglove, his airs and his pride;
There you sit, still the same, with your colourless cheek,
But you have no spirit,—would I were as meek."
The Primrose, good-humoured, replied, "If you knew
More about him—(remember I'm older than you,
And better instructed, can tell you his tale)—
You'd envy him least of all flowers in the vale;
With all his fine airs, and his dazzling show,
No blossom more baneful and odious can blow;
And the reason that flowerets before him give way,
Is because they all hate him and shrink from his ray.
More about him—(remember I'm older than you,
And better instructed, can tell you his tale)—
You'd envy him least of all flowers in the vale;
With all his fine airs, and his dazzling show,
No blossom more baneful and odious can blow;
And the reason that flowerets before him give way,
Is because they all hate him and shrink from his ray.
"To stay near him long would be fading or death,
For he scatters a pest with his venomous breath;
While the flowers that you fancy are crowding you there,
Spring round you, delighted your converse to share;
His flame-coloured robe is imposing, 'tis true;
Yet, who likes it so well as your mantle of blue?
For we know that of innocence one is the vest,
The other, the cloak of a treacherous breast.
For he scatters a pest with his venomous breath;
While the flowers that you fancy are crowding you there,
Spring round you, delighted your converse to share;
His flame-coloured robe is imposing, 'tis true;
Yet, who likes it so well as your mantle of blue?
For we know that of innocence one is the vest,
The other, the cloak of a treacherous breast.
"I see your surprise—but I know him full well,
I've remembered his victims as fading they fell;
He blighted twin-violets, that under him lay,
And poisoned a sister of mine the same day."
The Primrose was silent—the Harebell, 'tis said,
Inclined for a moment her beautiful head:
But quickly recovered her spirits, and then
Declared that she ne'er should feel envy again.
I've remembered his victims as fading they fell;
He blighted twin-violets, that under him lay,
And poisoned a sister of mine the same day."
The Primrose was silent—the Harebell, 'tis said,
Inclined for a moment her beautiful head:
But quickly recovered her spirits, and then
Declared that she ne'er should feel envy again.