The Hawthorn and Forest Trees

WHERE Forest Trees their foliage spread,
A low born Hawthorn rear'd its head;
But still, tho' lowly, it is true,
Its shape, and shade, and blosoms too,
In fair conjunction, made it vie
With shrubs in estimation high;
To share attention with the rest,
Pleas'd not--it would be thought the best.
It grew so wide, so proud, so tall,
That soon it overtop'd them all.
        Observing which, the Gard'ner said--
"My shrubs droop here beneath this shade;
"And to admit both sun and air,
"I'll fell this Hawthorn, tho' so fair."

        The axe close by the root was laid,
The Gar'dner's foot upon the spade;
He paus'd--"Why let it stand," said he;
"I'll only lop this spreading Tree."
        'Twas done. The Hawthorn, once elate,
Now patiently submits to fate;
Access gives free to air and light,
And much abash'd shrinks from the sight.
        The lofty Trees that grac'd the bound
Of this well decorated ground,
In triumph wav'd their branches tall
At the poor humbled Hawthorn's fall.
        But, ah! what things will come to pass,
When Time has turned up his glass.
Fortune, we see, her fav'rites shun--
The lord of the domain was one;
Who, to appease her angry frown,
Cut his loftiest timber down.

Each Tree in falling sadly moan'd;
At ev'ry stroke the Dryads groan'd;
While their last look they cast about,
And saw the Hawthorn sprouting out,
Who since the last reverse of fate,
More modestly had borne her state;
With proper dignity, she cry'd--
        "It does not gratify my pride;
"I triumph not at what I see,
"Nor exultations found in me:
"With that reproof which he'ven has sent,
"I rest, both humbled and content."
        A modest sprig each year brought out
Blossoms, the fairest that could sprout;
Whilst scatter'd on the fields around
Lay Trees and barks all o'er the ground.
Convincing proof, Trees, Pride, and all,
With their great master had a fall.

MORAL.

Those who in time their faults correct,
May reasonably good expect.
And who exults in such a case,
Will scarce escape from worse disgrace.

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.