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Title: The Oak And The Rill
Author: Sarah S. Mower [
More Titles by Mower]
THE OAK AND THE RILL:
OR, INDOLENT WEALTH AND HONEST LABOR.
COMPOSED FOR THE FRANKLIN AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY.
To find employment for my pen,
I wandered from the haunts of men,
And sought a little rising ground,
With lofty oaks and elm trees crowned,
Where I might court the friendly muse,
Who ever thinks herself abused
When woo'd 'midst tumult, noise and strife,
And all the busy cares of life.
With senses quite absorbed in thought,
While all beside seemed half forgot,
I wandered on till I had strayed
Beneath an oak tree's ample shade,
Whose lofty top towered up so high,
It seemed aspiring for the sky.
Just at the basement of the hill,
A modest little purling rill
Shone like a mirror in the sun,--
Flashing and sparkling as it run.
The lofty oak scarce deigned to look
Upon the little murm'ring brook,
But tossed his head in proud disdain,
And thus began his boasting strain:--
"I've lived almost since time began,
The friend and favorite of man;
Since I became a stately tree,
Cradled within my branches, lay
The young pappoose, who gayly smiled,
And listened to the music wild
That floated round his tiny head,
While through my top the breezes played.
In after years to me he came,
When wearied in pursuit of game;
He from my branches plucked his bow,
To slay the deer and buffalo;
Here, with his friends, he'd often meet
To sing the war-song, dance, and eat.
'Twas here he woo'd the dark-eyed maid,
And built his wigwam in my shade;
To me he brought his youthful bride,
And dwelt here till with age he died.
His children thought no place more meet
To make his grave than at my feet;
They said 'twould greatly soothe their woes
If I would let him here repose;
Then begged that I would deign to wave
My verdant branches o'er his grave.
And since the polished white man came,
He's loved and honored me the same;
Though all the neighboring trees around
Were slain, as cumberers of the ground,
Yet here I tower in grandeur still,--
The pride and glory of the hill.
My dauntless spirits never quail
At earthquakes, hurricanes, or hail;
The rolling thunder's fiery car
Has never dared my form to mar;
I've heard its rumbling undismayed,
While forked lightnings round me played;
But O, thou little murm'ring brook,
How mean and meager is thy look;--
Babbling, babbling, all day long,--
How I detest thy simple song.
I would not have thee in my sight,
Did not all nobles claim a right
To keep some menial servant near,
And therefore 'tis that thou art here.
As I am always very neat.
I'll deign to let thee wash my feet;--
Such work becomes one in thy place,--
To drudge for me is no disgrace."
The spirit of the brook was stirred,
But still her voice had not been heard,
Had not a zephyr, ling'ring round,
In friendly mood, caught up the sound,
And flying round the monarch's head,
Breathed in his ear the words she said.
The streamlet, with a deep drawn sigh,
In silv'ry tones, made this reply:
"Illustrious oak, pray deign to hear,
'Twill not disgrace thee--none are near,
And I this once a word would say,
As I am wending on my way;--
Behold that path wind through the grass,
Where many by thee daily pass;
See, where it ends, just on my brink,
Then frankly tell what thou dost think.
Both man and beast, when they are dry,
Come here and find a rich supply;
And many come for pleasure too,
When they have nothing else to do.
Bright pebbles in my waters lie,
Which have a charm in childhood's eye;
And little children stray from home,
Upon my sunny shores to roam;--
With me they play their artless pranks,
And gather flowers along my banks;--
Sweet flowers that shun thy gloomy shade,
And hither come to ask my aid.
The poet loves my 'simple song'--
With me he often tarries long;
He tells me that he wanders here,
To catch some new and bright idea,
Which makes his tuneful numbers roll,
In music that enchants the soul.
And people too of every class,
Come here their leisure hours to pass;
I often feel the warm embrace
Of ruby lips upon my face,
For those who never bend the knee
To haughty monarchs, just like thee,
Will fall down prostrate at my side.
And kiss the face thou dost deride.
Thou sayest, thou art very neat,
And I, the slave to wash thy feet!
Should all the streamlets cease to flow,
Not one on earth could e'er be so.
Our strength propels the busy mills,
And all the land with plenty fills,--
They bring, some silver--others gold--
And shield the poor from winter's cold.
The vapors, which from us ascend,
To vegetation are a friend;--
In dew they soon descend again,
Or fall in fruitful showers of rain.
Were there no brooks, there'd be no bread--
Then tell me, how could man be fed?
No man, nor beast, or plant, or flower,
Without us could survive an hour;--
The feathered songsters of the grove.
Would cease to chant their notes of love.
Earth would become a scene of gloom--
One vast extended direful tomb.--
And I must tell thee, ere I go,
That thy proud head would soon lie low,--
Thou 'dst fade and wither, droop and die,
And in the dust neglected lie.
Yet still no praise belongs to me--
I do not sympathize with thee;
I never can be proud and vain,
And imitate thy boasting strain;
But humbly on my way I'll plod,
For I receive my strength from God."
MORAL.
These farmers and mechanics, here,
Much like the little brook appear;
Reared 'midst fair Franklin's hills and dells,
Where proud ambition seldom dwells;
They view their hands for labor made,
And think that God should be obeyed;
Then grasp the plough and till the soil--
It yields rich fruit, and corn, and oil,
By which the multitude are fed.
And blessings o'er the land are spread.
Mechanics next should take a stand
Beside the yeoman of our land;
Where'er enlightened men are found,
They're showering blessings all around.
Yet time would fail should I rehearse
Their brave exploits, in simple verse;
But there's a class, (I hope not here,)
Who, like the boasting oak, appear;
They think their hands were never made
To wield the distaff, plough, or spade;--
Their taper fingers, soft and fair,
Are made to twine their silken hair,
Or place upon a brow of snow,
Their gold and diamond rings, to show.
Their dainty lips can sip ice-cream,
Or open with convulsive scream,
Whene'er they meet the farmer's cow,
The ox, or steer, which draws the plough.
Should the mechanic's labor cease,
'Twould wound their pride--destroy their peace;
Their flaunting garments, light and frail,
Would quickly fade, wear out and fail.
Soon, soon, they'd come with humbled pride,
To him whom they could once deride,
To ask a shelter from the storm,
And clothes to keep their bodies warm.
Should farmers their rich stores withhold,
Their lily hands would soon grow cold;--
No more their lips would curl with scorn,
At him who grows and brings them corn;---
You'd see them kneeling at his feet,
To beg for something more to eat;
And plead with him their lives to save,
And snatch them from an opening grave.
Now let us, like the little brook
We've heard of in the fable,
Employ our hearts, our heads and hands,
In doing what we're able;
Till all Columbia praise our deeds,
And nations, o'er the waters,
Will tune their harps and chant their song,
For Franklin's sons and daughters.
[The end]
Sarah S. Mower's poem: Oak And The Rill
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