The lowly and contented state
Is farthest from the wounds of fate.
A fir tree upon a humble thorn
From his high top look'd down with scorn.
"For loftiest fanes we grow," she said,
"Of us the tallest masts are made,
While thou, poor bramble, canst produce
Nothing of ornament or use."
"Great tree," the modest thorn replied,
"When the sharp axe shall pierce your side,
In vain you then may wish to be
Unsought-for, and unknown like me."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]