Book I: The Oak and the Reed

The oak one day address'd the reed:--'To you ungenerous indeedHas nature been, my humble friend,With weakness aye obliged to bend.The smallest bird that flits in airIs quite too much for you to bear;The slightest wind that wreathes the lakeYour ever-trembling head doth shake.The while, my towering formDares with the mountain topThe solar blaze to stop,And wrestle with the storm.What seems to you the blast of death,To me is but a zephyr's breath.Beneath my branches had you grown,That spread far round their friendly bower,Less suffering would your life have known,Defended from the tempest's power.Unhappily you oftenest showIn open air your slender form,Along the marshes wet and low,That fringe the kingdom of the storm.To you, declare I must,Dame Nature seems unjust.'Then modestly replied the reed:'Your pity, sir, is kind indeed,But wholly needless for my sake.The wildest wind that ever blewIs safe to me compared with you.I bend, indeed, but never break.Thus far, I own, the hurricaneHas beat your sturdy back in vain;But wait the end.' Just at the word,The tempest's hollow voice was heard.The North sent forth her fiercest child,Dark, jagged, pitiless, and wild.The oak, erect, endured the blow;The reed bow'd gracefully and low.But, gathering up its strength once more,In greater fury than before,The savage blastO'erthrew, at last,That proud, old, sky-encircled head,Whose feet entwined the empire of the dead!