THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION 237 



Only the swallow, a-skimming 



The storm-cloud over the lea, 

 Knows how it feels to be flying 



When the gusts come strong and free 

 In the tip o' the top o' the top o' the tip of the popu- 

 lar poplar tree! 



THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION 



BY THOMAS CAMPBELL 



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; 



