O leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or floweret never
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers I have
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant
First spent its sweet and sportive hour;
Since youthful lovers in my
Their vows of truth and rapture made,
And on my trunk's surviving
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,
Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love's own altar honor me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
