Enough, while memory tranced and glad

Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had,

Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallow'd thoughts so dear;

But drink to them that we love most,
As they would love to hear.

"And take," he said, "this token

To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken In affection's latest breath."

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart,

When the youth beside him fell:

But the trumpet warn'd to part,

And they took a sad farewell.

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

The ambrosial amber of the hive;

Yet leave this barren spot to me:

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Z

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,