LINES

A man that owned some trees in town, ( And much averse to cut them down ) Finding the Law was full and plain, No trees should in the streets remain,

One evening seated at his door, Thus gravely talked the matter o'er: “The fatal Day, dear trees, draws nigh, When you must, like your betters, die,

Must die!— and every leaf will fade That many a season lent its shade, To drive from hence the summer's heat, And make my porch a favourite seat.

“Thrice happy age, when all was new, And trees untouched, unenvied grew, When yet regardless of the axe, They feared no law, and paid no tax!

The shepherd then at ease was laid, Or walked beneath their cooling shade; From slender twigs a garland wove, Or traced his god within the grove;

Alas! those times are now forgot, An iron age is all our lot: Men are not now what once they were, To hoard up gold is all their care:

The busy tribe old Plutus calls To pebbled streets and painted walls; Trees now to grow, is held a crime, And These must perish in their prime!

“The trees that once our fathers reared, And even the plundering Briton spared, When shivering here full oft he stood, Or kept his bed for want of wood —

These trees, whose gently bending boughs Have witnessed many a lover's vows, When half afraid, and half in jest, With Nature busy in his breast,

With many a sigh, he did not feign, Beneath these boughs he told his pain, Or coaxing here his nymph by night, Forsook the parlour and the light,

In talking love, his greatest bliss To squeeze her hand or steal a kiss — These trees that thus have lent their shade, And many a happy couple made,

These old companions, thus endeared, Who never tattled what they heard, Must these, indeed, be killed so soon — Be murdered by the tenth of June!

“But if my harmless trees must fall, A fortune that awaits us all, ( All, all must yield to Nature's stroke, And now a man, and now an oak )

Are those that round the churches grow In this decree included too? Must these, like common trees, be bled? Is it a crime to shade the dead?

Review the law, I pray, at least, And have some mercy on the priest Who every Sunday sweats in black To make us steer the skyward track:

The church has lost enough, God knows, Plundered alike by friends and foes — I hate such mean attempts as these — Come — let the parson keep his trees!

“Yet things, perhaps, are not so bad — Perhaps, a respite may be had: The vilest rogues that cut our throats, Or knaves that counterfeit our notes,

When, by the judge their sentence passed, The gallows proves their doom at last, Swindlers and pests of every kind, For weeks and months a respite find;

And shall such nuisances as they, Who make all honest men their prey — Shall they for months avoid their doom, And you, my trees, in all your bloom,

Who never injured small or great, Be murdered at so short a date! “Ye men of law, the occasion seize, And name a counsel for the trees —

Arrest of judgment, sirs, I pray; Excuse them till some future day: These trees that such a nuisance are, Next New-Year we can better spare,

To warm our shins, or boil the pot — The Law, by then, will be forgot.”