FERNS. 59 



And the glad breeze blew gaily, from heaven it came, 

 And the fragrance it shed over each was the same ; 

 And the warm sun shone brightly, and gilded the fern, 

 And smiled on the lowly-born moss in its turn ; 

 And the cool dews of night on the mountain-fern fell, 

 And they glistened upon the green mosses as well. 

 And the fern loved the mountain, the moss loved the moor : 

 For the ferns were the rich, and the mosses the poor. 



But the keen blast blew bleakly, the sun waxed high : 

 Oh, the ferns they were broken, and withered, and dry, 

 And the moss on the moorland grew faded and pale, 

 And the fern and the moss shrank alike from the gale ; 

 So the fern on the mountain, the moss on the moor, 

 Were withered and black, where they flourished before. 



Then the fern and the moss they grew wiser in grief, 

 And each turned to the other for rest and relief ; 

 And they planned, that wherever the fern-roots shall grow, 

 There surely the moss must lie sparkling below. 



And the keen blast blew bleakly, the sun waxed fierce, 

 But no wind, and no sun, to their cool roots could pierce ; 

 For the fern threw her shadow the green moss upon, 

 Where the dew ever sparkled undried by the sun ; 

 When the graceful fern trembled before the keen blast, 

 The moss guarded her roots till the storm- wind had past ; 



