TRANSFORMATION.

THE LAST SPEECH AND CONFESSION OF A MAHOGANY-TREE NYMPH.

You’ve heard in Greek mythology Of nymph and hamadryad Who had their being in a tree; Perchance, the tale admired. Yet live we, in oblivion sunk; Though strange, my tale’s as sure as That I was once a stately trunk In the forests of Honduras.

My home was in a jungle low, And tall tree ferns grew round me; The humming-birds flew to and fro, And wild lianas bound me; The panther, jaguar, and ounce, Lurk’d ever in my branches On weary travellers to pounce While journeying to their ranches. Me, merchants from Honduras found Who had not got a log any; They cut me prostrate on the ground To make first-rate mahogany.

They pack’d me in a darksome hold; We cross’d the ocean quivering; They took me to a region cold That set my timbers shivering; Above, an atmosphere of fog; Around me, masts upstanding— When they had piled me log by log, Upon the dockyard landing.

And then they came with rule and chalk Numb’ring my feet and inches, And pack’d us high beside that walk With pullies, cranks, and winches; And one by one my logs were sold, And one by one were taken, Till I, the spirit of the whole, Was left of form forsaken.

And when the auction sale was past, Mourning each separate splinter I flitted formless round the masts, Through all that ice-bound winter, Still with benumb’d and torpid sense All plan or hope deferring, Till, when the spring sun shone intense, My spirit’s sap was stirring,

I heard a wordless, whisper’d sound, (Such as we tree-nymphs utter,) Of swelling twigs, and buds unbound, And tremulous leaflets’ flutter,— And saw a dim, green, glossy face With eyes like pearly flowers,— And knew the spirit of our race, Fresh from Honduras’ bowers.

“Poor disembodied nymph,” I thought It said; “Go, seek thy children, A true statistical report To bring us, though bewild’ring, Of what with every inch they’ve done, Each splintering and chipling; Then, backwards to Honduras flown, Thou’lt have another sapling.”

I wing’d my way elate with hopes, To seek each cabinet maker— To Druse and Heal’s well furnish’d shops, And the Bazaar of Baker— Each piano manufactory, To Broadwood and to Collard— Where’er a portion of my tree, Was carried, there I follow’d:

And where’er a sofa or chair I saw, Or bedstead or wardrobe furnish’d, Or centre-table with spreading claw, With my wood all brightly burnish’d, Each knot, and knob, and scar, and split, And delicate grain appearing. Long was my search, made longer yet By the general use of veneering.

I’ve flitted through a mansion proud To watch a grand piano, The centre of a list’ning crowd High-bred in tone and manner: I’ve stood by many a shining board, Were dinners were demolish’d, And view’d the silver and glass encored— Seen double in the polish.

And beside a stately bed I’ve stood, Where curtains of silken splendour O’er damask hangings and polish’d wood, Threw a lustre subdued and tender. A dainty cradle stood near its head, But no form was in it sleeping, For the couch of state held the baby dead, And the mother knelt near it weeping:

I came beneath a gorgeous dome, With fretted arch and column, And stained glass windows through the gloom That made it very solemn. And by the pulpit stairs I stood The preacher’s words to follow— The sounding-board was my own wood— (That, and the words were hollow):

And I’ve wandered to the library— The bookshelves there were mine— Belonging to one of the Ministry; The whole was wondrous fine. (I thought the pay seem’d very high, The work of an easy nature, And wondered if that was the reason why They would not suffer women to try To sit in the Legislature):

And I’ve been up a dismal attic flight, Not knowing why there I hasten’d, And I found ’twas the sewing-table bright To which a machine was fasten’d; And a girl was working, so pale and drear, And in such a forlorn condition, That, ghost as I was, I had shed a tear, But I knew that that garret was woman’s sphere, And dressmaking her mission.

Last month I came to a table round Which cover’d, to my surprise, is, (Whilst a critical crowd collects around,) With chips of all lengths and sizes: And I knew I’d found the last piece of wood; And back, to my former station, My spirit crossed the Atlantic flood To begin a new transformation. So I laid the glimpses that I had had Of the motley life of this nation Upon this table—or good or bad— For the general delectation.