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 bird perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The ambrosial amber of the hive;
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
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;
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,
Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love’s own altar honour me:
Spare woodman, spare the beechen tree!