to it did not belong to the tree, but were the effects of the climate
into which it had been removed. It was brought from the sunny vales of
Italy, where it had been delicately reared by the side of the Orange and
the Myrtle, and transplanted into the cold climate of New England. The
tender constitution of this tree could not endure our rude winters;
and every spring witnessed the decay of a large portion of its small
branches. Hence it became prematurely aged, and in its decline carried
with it the marks of its infirmities.

But, with all these imperfections, the Lombardy Poplar was more worthy
of the honors it received from our predecessors than of its present
disrepute. It is one of the fairest of trees, in the vigor of its health
and the greenness of its youth. But nearly all the old Poplars are
extirpated, and but few young trees are coming up to supply their
places. While I am now writing, I see from my window the graceful spire
of one solitary tree, towering above the surrounding objects in the
landscape, and yielding to the view something of an indescribable charm.
There it stands, the symbol of decayed reputation, in its old age still
retaining the primness of its youth; neither drooping in its infirmities
under the weight of their burden, nor losing in its desertedness the
fine lustre of its foliage; and in its disgrace still bearing itself
proudly, as if conscious that its former honors were deserved, and
not forgetting that dignity which becomes one who has fallen without
dishonor.

There is no other tree that so pleasantly adorns the sides of narrow
lanes and avenues, or so neatly accommodates itself to limited
inclosures. Its foliage is dense and of the liveliest green, tremulous,
and making delicate music to the light fingers of every breeze; its
terebinthine odors scent the soft vernal wind that enters your open