ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. I 7 



THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS. 



IT was not many centuries since, 

 When, seated on the moonlit green, 

 Beneath the tree of liberty 



A ring of weeping sprites was seen. 



* * * * 

 They met not as they once had met, 



To laugh over many a jocund tale ; 

 But every pulse was beating low, 



And every cheek was cold and pale. 



There rose a fair but faded one, 



Who oft had cheered them with her song ; 

 She waved a mutilated arm, 



And silence held the listening throng. 



" Sweet friends," the gentle nymph began, 



* * * * 



" When often by our feet has passed 



Some biped, Nature's walking whim, 

 Say, have we trimmed one awkward shape 

 Or lopped away one crooked limb ? 



" Go on, fair Science ; soon to-thee 



Shall Nature yield her idle boast ; 

 Her vulgar fingers formed a tree, 



But thou hast trained it to a post. 



" Go paint the birch's silver rind, 



And quilt the peach with softer down ; 

 Up with the willow's trailing threads, 



Off with the sunflower's radiant crown ! 



* * * * 



" I cannot smile, 



* * * * 

 " Again in every quivering leaf 



That moment's agony I feel, 

 When limbs, that spurned the northern blast, 

 Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel. 



" A curse upon the wretch that dared 

 To coop up with his felon saw ! 



* * * * 



" May nightshade cluster round his path, 



And thistles shoot, and brambles cling; 

 May blistering ivy scorch his veins, 



And dogwood burn, and nettles sting. 

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