THE OAK.

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 wouldst thou hack 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 kiss'd me here;

My father press'd my hand—

Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings 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.

ROSABEL.

I miss thee from my side, beloved,

I miss thee from my side;

And wearily and drearily,

Flows Time's resistless tide.

The world, and all its fleeting joys,
To me are worse than vain,
Until I clasp thee to my heart,
Beloved one, again.

The wildwood and the forest path,

We used to thread of

yore,

With bird and bee have flown with thee,

And gone for evermore!

There is no musick in the grove,

No echo on the hill;

But melancholy boughs are there

And hushed the whip-poor-will.

I miss thee in the town, beloved,

I miss thee in the town;

From morn I grieve till dewy eve
Spreads wide its mantle brown.

My spirit's wings, that once could soar
In fancy's world of air,

Are crushed and beaten to the ground

By life-corroding care.

No more I hear thy bird-like voice,

Nor see thy winning face;

That once would gleam like morning's beam In mental pride and grace:

Thy form of matchless symmetry,

Where Nature's hand has set

A seal that partial memory

Can never once forget.

I miss thee every where, beloved,

I miss thee every where;

Both night and day wear dull away,
And leave me in despair.

The banquet-hall, the play, the ball,
And childhood's gladsome glee,

Have lost their charms for me, beloved
My soul is full of thee!

Has Rosabel forgotten me,

And love I now in vain!

If that be so, my heart can know
No rest on earth again.

A sad and weary lot is mine,

To love and be forgot,

A sad and weary lot, beloved,

A sad and weary lot.