| |
| O LEAVE this barren spot to me! | |
| Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! | |
| Though bush or floweret never grow | |
| My dark unwarming shade below; | |
| Nor summer bud perfume the dew | 5 |
| Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; | |
| Nor fruits of autumn, blossom born, | |
| My green and glossy leaves adorn; | |
| Nor murmuring tribes from me derive | |
| Th’ ambrosial amber of the hive; | 10 |
| Yet leave this barren spot to me: | |
| Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! | |
| |
| Thrice twenty summers I have seen | |
| The sky grow bright, the forest green; | |
| And many a wintry wind have stood | 15 |
| In bloomless, fruitless solitude, | |
| Since childhood in my pleasant bower | |
| First spent its sweet and sportive hour; | |
| Since youthful lovers in my shade | |
| Their vows of truth and rapture made, | 20 |
| And on my trunk’s surviving frame | |
| Carved many a long forgotten name. | |
| Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, | |
| First breathed upon this sacred ground; | |
| By all that Love has whispered here, | 25 |
| Or Beauty heard with ravished ear; | |
| As Love’s own altar honour me: | |
| Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! | |
| |
