The Beech Tree's Petition

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!