The Rose and the Rose-bud

THO ' evening blights, with morning dews,
Their baneful influence did infuse,
A full blown Rose its charms retain'd,
And all its odour still remain'd;
It stood like fabrics past repair,
Which shake at ev'ry breath of air.
        An opening Bud made strong advances,
Pressing thro' the tangled branches,
Crying--"I claim your place; make way;
"Your time is past, you've had your day:
"I lack each ray and beam of sun,
"For my career, now your's is run."
        The Rose return'd--"There's none can say
"Whose race is run, who's had their day:

"Therefore be humble, change your strain;
"None know which longest may remain."
        "Is it not Nature's own decree,"
Retorts the Bud, "that all should be
"Progressive making room for more,
"As others did for them before?
"Look first at me, then view your form,
"And judge which best can bear the storm."
        "Nature," resum'd the full blown Rose,
"Has laws; but she departs from those,
"At least permits, in certain case,
"Her own wise laws should not take place.
"Thus whether humble, proud, or bold,
"We see young die, and we see old.
"Then of presumption be aware,--
"A parent may outlive an heir."
        Sol's ardour now shot sudden heat;
The Bud, with arrogance replete,
Cry'd out--"I open to your view:
"Methinks you're faded in your hue."

        The Rose with spirit said--"Again
"Take my advice, be not too vain."
        Camilla pass'd; she saw the Rose.
"Sweetest flower," she cry'd, "that blows!
"What have you been?--it strikes my mind,
"The very fairest of your kind:
"The change I can perceive, with grief.
"May the winds spare your drooping leaf:
"Remain, tho' you are past your prime,
"And beg another day of Time.
"This bud falls short of you, in truth;
"I'll crop the little upstart youth."
        Thus sudden snap'd it from the stem,
Unmindful of each spark'ling gem.
        Now droop'd, now hung his blushing head,
As if to say, my life seems fled.
Silent the Rose was all the while,
Retorting only by a smile.

        Camilla took another view,
Crying--"Fairest flower, adieu!
"This Bud, this foolish Bud," she said,
" 'Tis nothing worth, 'tis almost dead,"
Then turn'd once more to look around,
And careless threw it on the ground;
Where laying in degraded state,
"Justice," he cry'd, "is in my fate;
"And makes the matter past dispute,
"For, Rose, I perish at your root."

MORAL.

Thus the bold youth impatient waits
To be possessor of estates,
Arms, titles, he has right to bear,
When once become the lawful heir:
But nought from his proud claim derives;
Death strikes him, while his sire survives.

Original fables by a Lady

Printed by W. Calvert, Shire Lane, Lincoln's Inn, for B. Crosby and Co. London, 1810

To your Royal Highness the following Fables are dedicated, with a wish that in an interval of leisure some transient amusement may be obtained.