Volume Iii Part 25 (1/2)

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gus.h.i.+ng joy Here, too, my sisters played.

My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand-- Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend!

Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend.

Old tree! the storm still brave!

And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not.

George Pope Morris [1802-1864]

THE BEECH TREE'S PEt.i.tION

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 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; 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 honor me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

THE POPLAR FIELD

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade; And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the gra.s.s behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charmed me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, To muse on the peris.h.i.+ng pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he.

William Cowper [1731-1800]

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE

Come, let us plant the apple-tree.

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infant's feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet; So plant we the apple-tree.