III “’Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay,
          Along this mountain’s edge,
          The Frost hath wrought both night and day,
          Wedge driving after wedge. 
          Look up! and think, above your head 25
          What trouble, surely, will be bred;
          Last night I heard a crash—­’tis true,
          The splinters took another road—­
          I see them yonder—­what a load
          For such a Thing as you! 30

  IV “’You are preparing as before
          To deck your slender shape;
          And yet, just three years back—­no more—­
          You had a strange escape: 
          Down from yon cliff a fragment broke; 35
          It thundered down, with fire and smoke,
          And hitherward pursued its way; [3]
          This ponderous block was caught by me,
          And o’er your head, as you may see,
          ’Tis hanging to this day! 40

  V “’If breeze or bird to this rough steep
          Your kind’s first seed did bear;
          The breeze had better been asleep,
          The bird caught in a snare:  [4]
          For you and your green twigs decoy 45
          The little witless shepherd-boy
          To come and slumber in your bower;
          And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
          Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! 
          Will perish in one hour. 50

  VI “’From me this friendly warning take’—­
          The Broom began to doze,
          And thus, to keep herself awake,
          Did gently interpose: 
          ’My thanks for your discourse are due; 55
          That more than what you say is true, [5]
          I know, and I have known it long;
          Frail is the bond by which we hold
          Our being, whether young or old, [6]
          Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 60

  VII “’Disasters, do the best we can,
          Will reach both great and small;
          And he is oft the wisest man,
          Who is not wise at all. 
          For me, why should I wish to roam? 65
          This spot is my paternal home,
          It is my pleasant heritage;
          My father many a happy year,
          Spread here [7] his careless blossoms, here
          Attained a good old age. 70

  VIII “’Even such as his may be my lot. 
          What cause have I to haunt
          My heart with terrors?  Am I not
          In truth a favoured plant! 
          On me such bounty Summer pours, 75
          That I am covered o’er with flowers; [8]