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The ruthless pike, intent on waf
The silver eel, and motled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine;
And edges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen,
And lasses chaunting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale.
And ancient Faith, that knows no guile,
And Industry embrown'd with toil,
And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar'd;
The blessing they enjoy to guard.



Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

It grew and it flourish'd for many an age,

And many a tempest wreak'd on it its rage,

But when its strong branches were bent with the


It struck its roots deeper, and flourish'd more fast.

Its head tower'd high, and its branches spread round,

For its roots were struck deep, and its heart it was sound;

The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd, And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade.

The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear, Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her spear,

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood.

There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk, It struck in its mouths, and its juices it drunk; The branches grew sickly depriv'd of their food, And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood.

The foresters saw and they gather'd around, Its roots still were fast, and its heart still was sound;

They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread, But the ivy they spar'd on its vitals that fed.

No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd, Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade; Lopt and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen, A monument now what its beauty has been.

The Oak has receiv'd its incurable wound,

They have loosen'd the roots, though the heart may be sound;

What the travellers at distance green flourishing


Are the leaves of the ivy that ruin'd the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood,
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!


O leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Tho' bush or flowret 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 murm'ring 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 have I seen,
The sky grow bright, the forest green ;
And many a wint'ry 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,
Carv'd many a long forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love hath whisper'd here,
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
As Love's own altar honour me,

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!


Oh! he is worn with toil! the big drops run Down his dark cheeks; hold, hold thy merci less hand,

Pale tyrant! for, beneath thy hard command, O'erweari'd nature sinks. The scorching sun

As pitiless as proud prosperity,

Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies, Arraigning, with his looks, the patient skies, While that inhuman trader lifts on high

The mangling scourge. Oh ye who, at your


Sip the blood-moisten'd beverage! thoughts
like these

Haply ye scorn: I thank thee, gracious God!
That I do feel upon my cheek, the glow
Of Indignation, when, beneath the rod,
A sable brother writhes in silent woe,


Adieu my dear Lory-adieu !
No longer with mimic and play
And innocent prattle may you
Beguile a dull hour of my day.

The Lory is a native of the East and of very distinguished beauty amongst the Parrot tribe.

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