The Beech, no longer rule the helm?
What! shall the ignoble Fir, a plant,
In tempest born, and nurs’d in want,
Far from black regions of the north,
And native famine, issue forth;
In this our happier soil take root,
And dare our birthright to dispute?”
On this the fatal storm began,
Confusion thro’ the forest ran;
Mischief in each dark shade was brewing,