204 $t ftml) of tfje ^Fritf) Common. 



No sound then was heard but the gush of the rill, 

 Or the woodpecker tapping some hollow beech-tree ; 



While the sun shed his last purple glow on the hill, 

 And the last hum was heard of the home-loving bee. 



But now far away from that sunny hill side, 

 'Mid the stir and the din of the proud city's throng, 



I think, is that tree standing yet in its pride ? 

 Are the echoes still woke by the merry birds' song ? 



They tell me the woodcutter's hatchet was heard, 

 To thin the tall trees where they drooped o'er the lea ; 



But he marr'd not the home of the wandering bird, 

 The haunt of my childhood, my own beechen-tree. 



May peace in the cot of that woodman abide, 

 And grateful birds sing to him all the day long, 



May his steps long be firm on the sunny hill's side, 

 And echo respond to the voice of his song. 



I can think of that tree, where no green trees are seen, 

 'Mid the city's loud din, for the spirit is free, 



And dear to me still is the wild daisied green, 

 Where thy branches are waving, my own beechen-tree. 



