Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Pebble and the Acorn
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.
'I am a Pebble! and yield to none!'Were swelling words of a tiny stone.'Nor time, nor season can alter me;I am abiding, while ages flee.The pelting hail and the drizzling rainHave tried to soften me, long, in vain;And the tender dew has sought to melt,Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.There 's none that can tell about my birth,For I'm as old as the big, round earth.The children of men arise, and passOut of the world, like the blades of grass;And many a foot on me has trod,That 's gone from sight, and under the sod!I am a Pebble! but who art thou,Rattling along from the restless bough?'
The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,And lay for a moment abashed and mute.She never before had been so nearThis gravelly ball, the mundane sphere.And she felt for a time at loss to knowHow to answer a thing so coarse and low.But, to give reproof of a nobler sortThan the angry look, or the keen retort,At length she said, in a gentle tone,'Since it has happened that I am thrownFrom the lighter element, where I grew,Down to another, so hard and new,' 'And beside a personage so august,Abased, I will cover my head with dust,And' quickly retire from the sight of oneWhom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heelHas ever subdued, or made to feel!'And soon, in the earth, she sunk awayFrom the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was brokeBy the peering head of an infant oak!And, as it arose and its branches spread,The Pebble looked up, and wondering said,'A modest Acorn! never to tellWhat was enclosed in its simple shell;That the pride of the forest was folded upIn the narrow space of its little cup!And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,Which proves that nothing could hide her worth:And oh! how many will tread on me,To come and admire the beautiful tree,Whose head is towering towards the sky,Above such a worthless thing as I!Useless and vain, a cumberer here,I have been idling from year to year.But never, from this, shall a vaunting wordFrom the humbled Pebble again be heard,Till something without me, or within,Shall show the purpose for which I 've been!'The Pebble its vow could not forget,And it lies there wrapped in silence, yet.