POEMS. THE TALKING OAK. I. ONCE more the gate behind me falls; I see the mouldered Abbey-walls, II. Beyond the lodge the city lies, Beneath its drift of smoke; And ah! with what delighted eyes III. For when my passion first began, IV. To yonder oak within the field And with a larger faith appealed V. For oft I talked with him apart, And answered with a voice. VI. Though what he whispered under Heaven None else could understand; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the land. VII. But since I heard him make reply 'T were well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power. VIII. Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, Broad oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place! IX. Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, came To rest beneath thy boughs? X. "O Walter, I have sheltered here Whatever maiden grace The good old Summers, year by year, Made ripe in Sumner-chace: XI. "Old Summers, when the monk was fat, And, issuing shorn and sleek, Would twist his girdle tight, and pat XII. "Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, Bluff Harry broke into the spence, XIII. "And I have seen some score of those XIV. “And all that from the town would stroll, Till that wild wind made work, In which the gloomy brewer's soul |