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;...
At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering bills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?...