Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense.
Ah ! let me not be fool’d, sweet saints : I trust
That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God,
Among you there, and let him presently
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft,
And climbing up into my airy home,
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ;
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost,
I prophesy that I shall die to-night,
A quarter before twelve.

But thou, O Lord,
Aid all this foolish people ; let them take
Example, pattern : lead them to thy light.


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: ..

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