THE OAK AND THE BROOM 135 



One winter's night, when through the trees 

 The wind was roaring, on his knees 



His youngest born did Andrew hold; 

 And, while the rest, a ruddy quire, 

 Were seated round their blazing fire, 

 10 This tale the shepherd told : 



I saw a crag, a lofty stone 



As ever tempest beat ! 

 Out of its head an Oak had grown, 



A Broom out of its feet. 

 The time was March, a cheerful noon 

 The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 



Breathed gently from the warm south-west; 

 When, in a voice sedate with age, 

 This Oak, a giant and a sage, 

 20 His neighbour thus addressed: 



' 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, 

 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 

 so For such a thing as you! 



You are preparing as before 



To deck your slender shape; 

 And yet, just three years back, no more, 



You had a strange escape : 



