WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE 315 



'Twas my forefather's hand 



That placed it near his cot; 

 There, woodman, let it stand 



Thy axe shall harm it not! 



That old familiar tree, 



Whose glory and renown 

 Are spread o'er land and sea 



And wouldst thou hew it down? 

 Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 



Cut not its earth-bound ties; 

 Oh, spare that aged oak, 



Now towering to the skies! 



When but an idle boy, 



I sought its graceful shade; 

 In all their gushing 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! 



