An Apologue

Woo'd by the summer gale, an Olive stood Beside the margin of the silver flood, Beneath its playful gently-way'ring shade A Syrian Rose her Eastern bloom display'd! The flow'r complain'd, that stretching o'er her head The dark'ning Olive a broad umbrage spread, Or if admitted to a partial view, Her blushing leaves imbib'd a yellow hue.

Not unattentive to the mournful strain, The Master heard his Syrian Rose complain: The ready axe soon urg'd the fatal wound, And bow'd the stately Olive to the ground! The Rose exulting now with full display Gave all her beauty to the garish day; But soon her triumph ceas'd—the mid-day beam Pour'd on her tender frame a scorching stream: The Rose now sick'ning, drooping, languid, pale, Call'd the soft show'r, and call'd the cooling gale; Nor soft'ning show'r, nor gale with cooling breath, Approach'd, to save her from untimely death.

The humbled Olive saw the Rose distress'd, And thus with dying voice the flow'r address'd: Ah! were it not that low-born envy stole With all its rancour on thy yielding soul, I might, attir'd in youth's unfading green, Have still embellish'd the surrounding scene; And thou, detaining still th' admiring eye, Have breath'd thy little incense to the sky!