First Ode.

Transplant the beauteous tree!     Gardener, it gives me pain;     A happier resting-place     Its trunk deserved.     Yet the strength of its nature     To Earth's exhausting avarice,     To Air's destructive inroads,     An antidote opposed.     See how it in springtime     Coins its pale green leaves!     Their orange-fragrance     Poisons each flyblow straight.     The caterpillar's tooth     Is blunted by them;     With silv'ry hues they gleam     In the bright sunshine,     Its twigs the maiden     Fain would twine in     Her bridal-garland;     Youths its fruit are seeking.     See, the autumn cometh!     The caterpillar     Sighs to the crafty spider,     Sighs that the tree will not fade.     Hov'ring thither     From out her yew-tree dwelling,     The gaudy foe advances     Against the kindly tree,     And cannot hurt it,     But the more artful one     Defiles with nauseous venom     Its silver leaves;     And sees with triumph     How the maiden shudders,     The youth, how mourns he,     On passing by.     Transplant the beauteous tree!     Gardener, it gives me pain;     Tree, thank the gardener     Who moves thee hence!