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 whisper'd here,
Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love's own altar honor me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
--_Thomas Campbell._
(This piece was written for Miss Mary Campbell, the poet's sister; it
appeared first in the _Morning Chronicle_.
The tree, the subject of the lines still ornaments the grounds at
Ardwell, in Scotland, the seat of James Murray McCulloch, Esq.)
1950
Like a tree, am I sheltering others by my life?
1951
The greater the difficulty the more glory in surmounting it. Skilful
pilots gain their reputation from storms and tempests.
1952