I “Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,”
          Exclaimed an angry Voice, [1]
          “Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
          Between me and my choice!”
          A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 5
          Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, [2]
          That, all bespattered with his foam,
          And dancing high and dancing low,
          Was living, as a child might know,
          In an unhappy home. 10

  II “Dost thou presume my course to block? 
          Off, off! or, puny Thing! 
          I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock
          To which thy fibres cling.” 
          The Flood was tyrannous and strong; [A] 15
          The patient Briar suffered long,
          Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
          Hoping the danger would be past;
          But, seeing no relief, at last,
          He ventured to reply. 20

  III “Ah!” said the Briar, “blame me not;
          Why should we dwell in strife? 
          We who in this sequestered spot [3]
          Once lived a happy life! 
          You stirred me on my rocky bed—­25
          What pleasure through my veins you spread
          The summer long, from day to day,
          My leaves you freshened and bedewed;
          Nor was it common gratitude
          That did your cares repay. 30

  IV “When spring came on with bud and bell, [B]
          Among these rocks did I
          Before you hang my wreaths [4] to tell
          That gentle days were nigh! 
          And in the sultry summer hours, 35
          I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
          And in my leaves—­now shed and gone,
          The linnet lodged, and for us two
          Chanted his pretty songs, when you
          Had little voice or none. 40

  V “But now proud thoughts are in your breast—­
          What grief is mine you see,
          Ah! would you think, even yet how blest
          Together we might be! 
          Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 45
          Some ornaments to me are left—­
          Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
          With which I, in my humble way,
          Would deck you many a winter day, [5]
          A happy Eglantine!” 50

  VI What more he said I cannot tell,
          The Torrent down the rocky dell
          Came thundering loud and fast; [6]
          I listened, nor aught else could hear;
          The Briar quaked—­and much I fear 55
          Those accents were his last.

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