  Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I’ll protect it now. ’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 would’st 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 grateful 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 heartstrings 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. —George P. Morris. |
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