by C. Raymond and Ludwig von Theobald.

Arise, ye swains! for fair Aurora’s light

Shews the wild geese in scurrying matin flight;

In shifting ranks their silent course they take,

And for the valley marshlands quit the lake:

Tho’ loose they fly, in various modes arrang’d,

Their eyes are steady, and their goal unchang’d.

Thus in brute instinct Nature shews her law;

Excites our wonder, and compels our awe.

But hark! from yonder grove the pleasing peal

Of redbreasts, winging to their morning meal;

In softer tones the lusty bluejay chants,

While maple shades the bobbing grackle haunts:

From neighb’ring wall the bluebird’s carol rings,

And in the mead the lark rejoicing sings.

Forests and fields attend the welcome strain,

And hail the advent of the feather’d train;

Swift pour the airy legions from the shores

Where Mexique’s Bay its genial currents pours:

In waves unnotic’d throng the tuneful band,

To glad the soul, and cheer the Northern strand,

Obedient to the sway of Jove’s all-pow’rful hand.

Alive with song the gentle bluebird floats;

The hermit thrush disdains melodious notes;

None marks their solid course, but as they come,

Each gains a greeting to his Northern home.

Now drip the maples with their vernal juice,

While growing thorns their swelling buds unloose;

On grassy slopes the furry coils untwine,

Where soon hepatica’s white blooms will shine.

Almighty Pan! whose vast unchanging will

Clothes the green wildwood and enrobes the hill,

How calm the workings of thy great decrees!

How still thy magic o’er the flow’ry leas!

No march of feet, or sound of timbrel shakes

The sylvan scene, or stirs the drowsy brakes:

In songful peace the law resistless moves,

And pleases while it rules the meadows and the groves.

Part II. Why Trees Are Tall—by Ward Phillips

Attend! Attend! ye dreaming Dryad throng!

Bend your green boughs, and mark the rising song!

Awake, ye Naiads, feel the vernal thrill,

And from each fount increase the crystal rill!

O’er rolling plains let rural Fauns disport,

While Pan, their King, holds universal court:

All Nature’s choir, with ever-youthful voice,

Proclaims the spring, and bids the world rejoice.

‘Twas at this joyful time that o’er the wold

Roam’d a sad swain, oppress’d with grief untold;

Damon his name, who found his Delia cold.

Six feet and one the slender stripling tow’rs,

Bends o’er the trees, and stoops to glimpse the bow’rs;

A comely youth, in wit and learning great,

Skill’d in each art, and master of debate—

Yet pensive now, since Eros’ cruel dart

Had pierc’d his own, but not his Delia’s, heart.

Th’ unhappy youth his burning misery

In sonnets carv’d on many a hoary tree;

Till ev’ry bird, and ev’ry rustling wind

Could read the tale—”My Delia is unkind!”

It chanc’d one noon, that on a woodland steep

The heavy-lidded shepherd dropt to sleep;

Worn out with weeping, he in dreams implor’d

His cruel Delia for a gentle word;

Till mov’d beyond his wont, he spake aloud

The fruitless plaint, while still in slumber bow’d.

Now at this sound the pitying trees are mov’d,

For well they know young Damon’s fate unlov’d:

Carv’d on their bark the woeful truth appears,

And their deep roots are damp with Damon’s tears.

From out each trunk the patron Dryad starts,

And all behold the youth who touch’d their hearts;

Around his slumbrous form in throngs they press,

To mark his grief, and praise his loveliness.

“Sisters, behold!” the grave Ptelea cry’d,

“The lovely victim of a Delia’s pride!

“So fair a stripling should not pine alone—

“I vow, I’ll make the tender boy mine own!”

Scarce had she spoke, when winsome Phegia’s voice

Oppos’d the speaker, and denounc’d the choice;

“It is not meet,” the rival nymph declar’d,

“That with thy age his tender youth be pair’d;

“I, I alone, deserve a wife’s estate;

“A bright companion, and a fitting mate!”

But as they quarrel, other nymphs exclaim

In rising tones, and utter Damon’s name:

The blooming Drusa owns a loving fire,

And sad Aegeira swlls the amorous choir;

Sphendamnia with Oesua now contends,

And female strife the forest quiet rends.

“He’s mine!” each screams, and seeks to clutch the prize,

Yet fails to clasp the idol of her eyes;

“He’s mine!” Aloft the echoing cry proceeds,

And frets the Fauns that roam the upland meads.

The youth, awaked, the beauteous train beholds,

Whilst ev’ry nymph her arms about him folds.

He sees—he screams—ungentle to the fair

When he perceives his Delia is not there—

But all too late; for in a frenzy’d mood

The Dryads hold him in their native wood.

Each swears to keep him, and as lawful pelf

Labours in vain to draw him to herself;

Till the mad band, their strength diversely bent,

Grasp but sad fragments, by the tussle rent.

Thus Thracia’s savage matrons wildly tore

The pensive Orpheus on swift Hebrus’ shore.

Ptelea gains his head, so lately deck’d

With twining myrtle, and vast intellect;

Young Phegia wins an arm, whose pendent hand

The magic quill of genius could command.

All mourn alike, throughout the sighing grove,

The hapless object of their common love;—

When lo! on high supernal rays diffuse,

And spew Apollo with each wrathful Muse:

Down from Parnassus swoop the angry train

T’ avenge their fav’rite—but they swoop in vain.

For the quick Dryads, as they view the sky,

Back to their shelt’ring trees in terror fly.

The mangled swain they with themselves enclose,

And where he roam’d, an empty forest grows.

In genuine tears stand Phoebus and the Nine;

Like mortals in their grief, but in their wrath divine.

Meanwhile young Damon’s friends, in lonely quest,

Search for the tender lad they lov’d the best

“Damon!” In vain the aged Theobald cries!

“Damon!” Oft wipes wise Mocrates his eyes.

No sign, no word, the vanished youths convey’d,

Tho’ each sad comrade for a letter prays;

And anguish’d poets sing their grief in Dorick lays.

But one bright day, within the heart of spring,

The sorrowing Theobald went a-wandering;

With eyes intent upon the heav’ns above,

In grief he trod each w. k. mead and grove,

Till suddenly his elevated glance

Observ’d a most unusual circumstance!

What may this mean—that ev’ry tree in sight

Shou’d rise to more than twice its wonted height?

What novel influence sways the Dryad throng

That trees shou’d grow so lanky and so long?

Thus mus’d the bard, till thro’ the tow’ring trees

Spread a low sound, as of a passing breeze;

Old Theobald pauses, and with straining ears

A tale of wonder from the branches hears.

“In this tall grove,” low sigh’d the leafy train,

“Behold the Damon thou hast sought in vain!

“By Dryads captur’d, and by Dryads torn,

“In hoary trees my spirit is reborn;

“My body, lost, has yet this pow’r alone—

“To give the trees dimensions like its own:

“So mark thou well; henceforth shall woods arise

“Whose verdant branches touch the airy skies.

“My soul survives, altho’ my frame be dead,

“And turn’d to wood—so like my Delia’s head!”

Thus paus’d the prison’d youth, and nevermore

His accents bless’d the Appletonian shore.

E’er must his spirit own the Dryad thrall,

And trees grow graceful, Galpinesque, and tall!