« ElőzőTovább »
Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense.
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God,
But thou, O Lord,
THE TALKING OAK.
ONCE more the gate behind me falls ;
Once more before my face
That stand within the chace.
Beyond the lodge the city lies,
Beneath its drift of smoke ;
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,
Than Papist unto Saint.
For oft I talk'd with him apart,
And told him of my choice,
And answer'd with a voice.
Tho' what he whisper'd under Heaven
None else could understand ;
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,
To rest beneath thy boughs.
“O Walter, I have shelter'd here
Whatever maiden grace
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,
And number'd bead, and shrift,
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
Went by me, like a stork :
“ The slight she-slips of loyal blood,
And others, passing praise,