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 plagiarized 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 royal blood,
      And others, passing praise,
Straight-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,

"From when she gamboll'd on the greens
      A baby-germ, to when
The maiden blossoms of her teens
      Could number five from ten.

"I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain,
      (And hear me with thine ears,)
That, tho' I circle in the grain
      Five hundred rings of years---

"Yet, since I first could cast a shade,
      Did never creature pass
So slightly, musically made,
      So light upon the grass:

"For as to fairies, that will flit
      To make the greensward fresh,
I hold them exquisitely knit,
      But far too spare of flesh."

Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern,
      And overlook the chace;
And from thy topmost branch discern
      The roofs of Sumner-place.

But thou, whereon I carved her name,
      That oft hast heard my vows,
Declare when last Olivia came
      To sport beneath thy boughs.

"O yesterday, you know, the fair
      Was holden at the town;
Her father left his good arm-chair,
      And rode his hunter down.

"And with him Albert came on his.
      I look'd at him with joy:
As cowslip unto oxlip is,
      So seems she to the boy.

"An hour had past---and, sitting straight
      Within the low-wheel'd chaise,
Her mother trundled to the gate
      Behind the dappled grays.

"But as for her, she stay'd at home,
      And on the roof she went,
And down the way you use to come,
      She look'd with discontent.

"She left the novel half-uncut
      Upon the rosewood shelf;
She left the new piano shut: