POETE2 Ys

The following beautiful Ode was written by Dr. R. M. Byrd, and sent to the Buckeyes at their late celebrations
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by Dr. k. M. Byrd, and sent to the Buckeyes at their late celebration:-

 ODE.-THE SYCAMORE. Rude tree, now gaunt with cid, Storm-Worn and thunder-scarred, without a

 spray,

 Dodder, or moss, or n1isletoe, to deck Thine antique nakedness; majestic wreck Of the great wilderness now past away; What tales of blood, of wild and woodland

 fray,

 Lie in thy holloWs celPd, Haply couldst thou but speak the scenes

 thou hast beheld. A monarch in past years, Thy speekled boughs, though now SC leahfiess,

 roll'd Pillows of verdure iii the summer gust, And to the swelling river swept, like dust, Clouds of autumnal tribute: thus, of old, When the red Shawnee rottedsfn thy mould The grave yard of his peers,- Tine Dark and Bloody Gronnd-the lonely

 land Of tears.

 Yea, at thy root the roar Of wrath has sounded, and the death song

 woke;

 The tortured Huron, dying at the stake, Dream'd of his green paths by his surging

 lake; Or captive maiden, from the hills of oak And pine, blue Unikas, beneath the yoke, Wept her rough play grounds OCT, Peaks, Yales, and gushing springs, ne'er to be

 look q en# more.