ure
in surveying these humble ruins, whose history would illustrate the
domestic habits of our ancestors. The cellar of the old house is now
a part of the pasture-land, and its form can be traced by the simple
swelling of the turf. Sumachs and Cornel-bushes have usurped the
place of the exotic shrubbery in the old garden; and the only ancient
companions of the Poplars, now remaining, are here and there a
straggling Lilac or Currant-bush, a tuft of Houseleek, and perhaps,
under the shelter of some dilapidated wall, the White Star of Bethlehem
is seen meekly glowing in the rude society of the wild-flowers.

The Lombardy Poplar, which was formerly a favorite way-side ornament,
a sort of idol of the public, and, like many another idol, exalted to
honors that exceeded its merits, fell suddenly into unpopularity and
disgrace. After having been admired and valued as if its leaves were all
emeralds and its buds apples of gold, it was spurned and ridiculed and
everywhere cut down as a cumberer of the ground. The faults attributed
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