THE TALKING OAK.

ONCE more the gate behind me falls;

Once more before

my face

I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls,

That stand within the chace.

Beyond the lodge the city lies,

Beneath its drift of smoke;

And ah! with what delighted eyes
I turn to yonder oak.

For when my passion first began,
Ere that, which in me burn'd,

The love, that makes me thrice a man,
Could hope itself return'd;

To yonder oak within the field
I spoke without restraint,

And with a larger faith appeal'd
Than Papist unto Saint.

For oft I talk'd with him apart,
And told him of my choice,

Until he plagiarised a heart,

And answer'd with a voice.

Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven None else could understand;

I found him garrulously given,

A babbler in the land.

But since I heard him make reply

Is many a weary hour;

'Twere well to question him, and try

If yet he keeps the power.

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern,

Broad Oak of Sumner-chace,

Whose topmost branches can discern

The roofs of Sumner-place!

Say thou, whereon I carved her name,

If ever maid or spouse,

As fair as my Olivia, came

To rest beneath thy boughs.

'O Walter, I have shelter'd here

Whatever maiden grace

The good old Summers, year by year

Made ripe in Sumner-chace:

'Old Summers, when the monk was fat,

And, issuing shorn and sleek,

Would twist his girdle tight, and pat

The girls upon the cheek,

Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence,

And number'd bead, and shrift, Bluff Harry broke into the spence And turn'd the cowls adrift:

'And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive

When his man-minded offset rose

To chase the deer at five;

'And all that from the town would stroll,

Till that wild wind made work

In which the gloomy brewer's soul

Went by me, like a stork:

'The slight she-slips of loyal blood, And others, passing praise,

Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud

For puritanic stays:

'And I have shadow'd many a group

Of beauties, that were born

In teacup-times of hood and hoop,
Or while the patch was worn;

'And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, About me leap'd and laugh'd

The modish Cupid of the day,

And shrill'd his tinsel shaft.

I swear (and else may insects prick
Each leaf into a gall)

This girl, for whom your heart is sick,
Is three times worth them all;

'For those and theirs, by Nature's law,

Have faded long ago;

But in these latter springs I saw

Your own Olivia blow,