THE PLEA OF THE CITY ELM 



By MARIAN MEAD. Chicago, IlL 



I ONG years, a watchman of the woods, I grew; 

 The sanctuary of a thousand birds. 

 Sweetly the cardinal whistled, flashing bright, 

 Amid my springtide leafage; from my crown 

 The thrush at morn and eve breathed heavenly prayers; 

 The merry robin chose me for his nest, 

 And warred with barking squirrels for his rights. 



Then came a day of ruin. Right and left, 



The spicy woodland smoked ; my comrades lay 



Prey to the axe. The busy hands of man 



Built in our ancient realm a human home. 



I only left, with mutilated roots. 



And crippled branches, strove to bear myself 



As worthy warrior of the ancient world. 



I sheltered with my boughs this human brood ; 

 The children laughed to see the squirrels race 

 Along my rugged trunk ; still, in the spring, 

 Ihe piping oriole glanced from twig to twig. 

 And painted bluejays cheered the winter hours. 

 How grateful was my shadowy green in heat ! 

 And all the year beneath the sun and moon 

 A'ly boughs drank in the common fainting air. 

 That, by the secret power vouchsafed to me, 

 I breathe back ever to refresh the world, 

 Purified, and with healing in its wings. 



But now, a weary state is mine. A swarm 

 Of smoking roofs surround me ; noxious airs 

 Arise from every side; my roots are pent 

 In case of stone, and no enriching soil 

 Is given to feed them ; scorching winds and dust, 

 Through the long summer days, my tender leaves 

 Shrivel and clog; and bring with them a blight 

 That kills off branch on branch. Even the weight 

 Of burdensome dead wood they spare me not ; 

 And yearly weaker I, and stronger death. 



Man sways my fate, for men my life is given. 



Well have I served, and many years might serve. 



Must I thus pass, neglected, from my post? 



No longer look upon the silent stars. 



And breathe the joyful sunshine, gathering thence 



Strength for my sweeping limbs, my traceries 



Of winter twigs, my burst of springtide bloom. 



The summer glory of my towering green, 



My shadowy cool, my power to bless mankind ? 



O, Master, generations yet to come. 

 Shall they enjoy the wholesome good I give? 

 Oh, hear this timely plea, and help the sum 

 Of long years' growth ; help noble beauty live ! 



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