ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
17 
THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS. 
I T 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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