INTRODUCTION.

THE common opinion concerning the nymphs whom the ancients called Hamadryads, is more to the honour of trees than anything yet mentioned. It was thought that the fate of these nymphs had so near a dependence on some trees, more especially oaks, that they lived and died together. For this reason, they were extremely grateful to such persons as preserved those trees with which their being subsisted.

A certain youth, being about to fell an oak, having, at the entreaty of the Hamadryad who inhabited it, preserved it in this manner, the nymph conceived a violent attachment to him, and they long lived together in the forest, happy in each other's society. But he, becoming weary of this simple life, returns to his old friends and associates in the city, which desertion throws the unfortunate Hamadryad into the most grievous despair.

One day she chanced to spy her lover, who had wandered into the forest, and, casting herself at his feet, besought him not to forsake her; but, finding him inflexible, she passionately conjured Pan to prevent his departure, who deprived him of the use of his limbs. However, says the story, he was not so much a cripple but he made a shift to cut down the tree, and, consequently, to fell his mistress.

A TALE OF AN OAK TREE.

"Non si desto fin, che garrir le augelli,
Non senti lieti, e salutar gli albori,
E mormorar il fiume, e gli arboscelli
E con l'onda scherzar l'aura e co' i fiori
E parle voce uscir, tra l'aqua e i rami."

I.

THE forest wide with axe's stroke is ringing,

And echoes to the quick, sharp, busy sound; The giant oak, his form august slow swinging,

With crashing weight, falls thundering to the ground; The beech with spreading arms lies low,

And towering pine, and wavy birch, sink, bending to the blow.

Through the reft branches streaming,

The yellow beams are gleaming,

Drinking the dew from herb and peeping flower,

That in cool covert lay,

Hid from the fervid ray,

Until that hour.

II.

Relentless he had been around him lie
The prostrate victims of his woodman might-
Their verdant tresses sweep the earth, the sigh
Of morn no more to whisper with delight;
Their glorious heads no more, in lofty pride,
'Gainst the blue vault in bold relief to stand,-
The tempest braved the thunderbolt defied-
All levell'd to the dust by that brave hand.

Like haughty conqueror, o'er the battle plain,
He casts a glance-content-and to the work again.

III.

Before a beauteous tree the spoiler stood,

Gazing upon the pendent branches waving, Where the slant beam of evening pours a flood

Of glittering light, their graceful tendrils laving, Bowing and bending to the frolic air,

Like some sweet, sportive child, all innocent of care.

IV.

He shakes his axe; and, triumphing, he cries-
"In truth thou art a fair and matchless prize ;-
Yet tremble!-here must end thy sylvan reign:
To-morrow, like thy brothers of the shade,
Thou too must bend thy heav'n-aspiring head,
Soil'd on the dusty earth, those tresses bright;
Then borne aloft the trophies of my might-
To crown the labours of my wild campaign."

V.

..But now behind the western clouds to rest Sinks the red orb; and through the leafy shade Trembles the moon; and down, by toil opprest, To earth he falls, his couch her bosom made.

VI.

He sleeps. On moss, with violets overgrown,
His youthful limbs with careless grace are thrown;
His vigorous arm, idly beneath his head,
With hyacinthine clusters richly spread;
O'er the dark sparkling orbs the eyelids close,
Steep'd in the balmy dew of silent, decp repose.

VII.

So lay the beauteous boy of old,

Who drew the crescent-queen, so cold, Down from her "inter-lunar" cave, In silver showers of light, a kiss to crave.

VIII.

What vision glides within the secret cell,

Where swarming fancies, slumber-bound, retire?

What voice harmonious, by some secret spell,
Creeps through the silent porches of the ear,
And, whispering near,

Blends with the busy thoughts, and does the theme inspire?

IX.

What shadowy form, above the sleeper's brow,
Bends softly now?

Breathing and fluttering like the summer breeze,
When it woos the waving trees?
What is that thing,

So gently whispering?

X.

A form more soft than the silver ray,
To Ida's mount, that found a way,
And kiss'd the shepherd as he lay;
More light than the feather'd clouds that fly
Across the azure summer sky;

With a voice that is most sweet,
Warbling-wild-trembling-exquisite,
Like the unletter'd winds of heav'n,
Whose tones, unaccented, are driv'n
Along the lone harp's answering strings,
Murmuring unutterable things-

Prompts his wild dream, in accents low.

Falt'ring, melodious, as a silver stream-soft, melancholy

"The wretch who drags the load of life-
The slave who hangs his chain with tears-
Care, want, and sickness, pain and strife—
Age 'mid the bitter dregs of years—