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THE WOODBINE AND THE OAK: 
AN APOLOGUE. 
A cay smiling woodbine her arms spread around, 
When by chance to an oak the young tendrils were bound. 
This oak was no sapling: full long had he stood, 
And defied the rude storms that had swept thro’ the wood: 
All rough was his bark; and around might you see, 
From his acorns upspringing, full many a tall tree; 
Yet his foliage was green; and, erect in his pride, 
He look’d up to the skies, and the tempest defied; 
And he gloried the more in the vigour remain’d, 
When he saw the gay blossom his branches sustain’d. 
She, fragrant and sportive and iovely and gay 
As the Star of the Morn, or the Zephyrs of May, 
With a sigh and a smile, and a glance that would fain 
Act the semblance of coyness, and look like disdain, 
Exclaims, “ By what magic, thou moss-menac’d tree, 
Are the folds of my freshness thus twin’d upon thee? 
T am young, I am blooming, in sweets I abound, 
And gaze where I will on the forest around, 
~ Elm, maple and holm seem my favour to woo, 
And invite my fresh bloom—wherefore lavish’d on you ? 
Bid the Fates of thy date some sage Iustres retrace ; 
Or loosen my arms from this wayward embrace.” 
He smil’d and replied (for he felt her arms twine 
More closely around as she seem’d to repine)— 
“Tt is true that young trees in the forest abound 
Might exult that thy tendrils should fold them around ; 
Some that tower up aloft, some that arborous spread, 
Some that, crown’d with full blossoms, wave proudly the head; 
And if but my merits could sue for thy grace, 
. My desolate arms must resign the embrace. - 
But Fortune has planted thee close by my side, 
And the wild winds of heayen thy young branches have tied, 
By an impulse mysterious, that looks like decree: 
Let me hope, for thy boon; for ’tis rapture to me. 
And though I could wish, of the years have pass’d o’er me, 
Some few, for thy sake, the kind Fates would restore me, 
Yet has each that revolv’d to some shoot given birth, 
That shall shelter thy sweetness, and cherish thyworth. 
Nor has Time, that alone can experience impart, 
Yet chill’d the warm currents should freshen the heart : 
My boughs are not wither’d, my foliage not shed; 
My sap is not dried, not yet hoary my head. 
I have stood through the tempests that, raging around, 
Have laid many younger uptorn on the ground; ° 
And my gréen-looking age, and the storms I withstood, 
Prove no wild taint of youth has infected my blood. 
“ Then cling to me still; let my strength be thy stay, 
While thy blossoms adorn me, so lovely and gay ; 
For these arms shall not shrink, nor this stem shail not bend, 
When the hurricanes rage, or the torrents descend. 
So—pine not, sweet tendril; but cling to the tree, » 
That grows young at thy touch, and shall flourish for thee. 
By decay yet unsapp’d, by the tempest unbroke, 
*Tis an oak with a heart, @nd a true heart of oak !” hat 
