Select poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume XIII, Issue 556, 2 March 1868, Page 4

Select poetry.

THE PEBBLE AND THE ACOEN. //W a t>T £ Pst'blG ! Mini virlii t,fj ilf»nO SI Were tie swelling words of a tiny stone; “ Nor time nor seasons can alter me: I am abiding while ages dee. The pelting hail, and the drizzling rain, Hare 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, Por I am as old as the big round earth. The children of men arise, and pass Out of the world, like blades of grass; Auil liittiiy & iuuii OU iucj uub liOu, That’s gone from sight, and under the sod. lam a Pebble! but who art thou. Battling along from the testloss bough f” The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abashed and mute; She never before had been so near This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; And she felt for a time at a loss to know How to answer a thing so coarse and low. But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look or the keen retort. At length she said, in a gentle tone, “ Since it has happened that I am thrown Prom 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 one Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel, Has over subdued, or made to feel! " And soon in the earth she sunk away, From the comfortless spot where the Pehhio lay. But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the peering head of the infant oak; And as it arose and its branches spread, The Pebble looked up, and wondering, said, " A modest Acorn—never to tell What was enclosed in its simple shell! That the pride of the forest was folded up In the narrow space of its little cup! And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, Which proves that nothing could hide her worth'. And, O, 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 word Prom the humbler Pebble again he 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. Miss Godld.