O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,Whose truths electrify the sage.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
For there no yew nor cypress spread their glom But roses blossom'd each rustic tomb.
What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.
But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.
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