THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or flow'ret 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 blootless, 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 whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As Love's own altar honor me:

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

FIELD FLOWERS

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing strearns, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of old ruinous castles ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore;

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks,
In the vetches that tangled their shore.

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

SONG.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary laborer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,
That send'st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odors rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr❜d
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to he riven
By absence from the heart.

O THOU by whose expressive art
Her perfect image Nature sees
In union with the Graces start,

And sweeter by reflection please!

In whose creative hand the hues

Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine,

I bless thee, Promethéan Muse!

And call thee brightest of the Nine !

Possessing more than vocal power,
Persuasive more than poet's tongue;
Whose lineage, in a raptured hour,

From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung;

Does Hope her high possession meet?
Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown?
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,
When all we love is all our own.

But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear,
Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;
Lone absence plants a pang severe,
Or death inflicts a keener dart.

Then for a beam of joy to light

In memory's sad and wakeful eye! Or banish from the noon of night

Her dreams of deeper agony.

Shall Song its witching cadence roll?
Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,
That breathed when soul was knit to soul,
And heart to heart responsive beat?

What visions rise! to charm, to melt!
The lost, the loved, the dead are near!
Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt!
And cease that solace too severe !

But thou, serenely silent art!

By heaven and love wast taught to lend A milder solace to the heart,

The sacred image of a friend.

All is not lost! if, yet possess'd,

To me that sweet memorial shine:-
If close and closer to my breast
I hold that idol all divine.

Or, gazing through luxurious tears,

Melt o'er the loved departed form, Till death's cold bosom half appears

With life, and speech, and spirit warm.

She looks! she lives! this tranced hour, Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power, Or glory's wealthy diadem.

Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid

A treasure to my soul has given,

Where beauty's canonized shade

Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven.

No spectre forms of pleasure fled,

Thy softening, sweetening tints restore; For thou canst give us back the dead,

E'en in the loveliest looks they wore.