The Talking Oak

Once more before my face

I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls,

      That stand within the chace.

Beneath its drift of smoke;

And ah! with what delighted eyes

      I turn to yonder oak.

Ere that, which in me burn'd,

The love, that makes me thrice a man,

      Could hope itself return'd;

I spoke without restraint,

And with a larger faith appeal'd

      Than Papist unto Saint.

And told him of my choice,

Until he plagiarised a heart,

      And answer'd with a voice.

None else could understand;

I found him garrulously given,

      A babbler in the land.

Is many a weary hour;

'Twere well to question him, and try

      If yet he keeps the power.

Broad Oak of Sumner-chace,

Whose topmost branches can discern

      The roofs of Sumner-place!

If ever maid or spouse,

As fair as my Olivia, came

      To rest beneath thy boughs.—

Whatever maiden grace

The good old Summers, year by year,

      Made ripe in Sumner-chace:

And, issuing shorn and sleek,

Would twist his girdle tight, and pat

      The girls upon the cheek,

And number'd bead, and shrift,

Bluff Harry broke into the spence,

      And turn'd the cowls adrift:

Fresh faces, that would thrive

When his man-minded offset rose

      To chase the deer at five;

Till that wild wind made work

In which the gloomy brewer's soul

      Went by me, like a stork:

And others, passing praise,

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

      For puritanic stays:

Of beauties, that were born

In teacup-times of hood and hoop,

      Or while the patch was worn;

About me leap'd and laugh'd

The modish Cupid of the day,

      And shrill'd his tinsel shaft.

Each leaf into a gall)

This girl, for whom your heart is sick,

      Is three times worth them all;

Have faded long ago;

But in these latter springs I saw

      Your own Olivia blow,

A baby-germ, to when

The maiden blossoms of her teens

      Could number five from ten.

(And hear me with thine ears,)

That, tho' I circle in the grain

      Five hundred rings of years—

Did never creature pass

So slightly, musically made,

      So light upon the grass:

To make the greensward fresh,

I hold them exquisitely knit,

      But far too spare of flesh."

And overlook the chace;

And from thy topmost branch discern

      The roofs of Sumner-place.

That oft hast heard my vows,

Declare when last Olivia came

      To sport beneath thy boughs.

Was holden at the town;

Her father left his good arm-chair,

      And rode his hunter down.

I look'd at him with joy:

As cowslip unto oxlip is,

      So seems she to the boy.

Within the low-wheel'd chaise,

Her mother trundled to the gate

      Behind the dappled grays.

And on the roof she went,

And down the way you use to come

      She look'd with discontent.

Upon the rosewood shelf;

She left the new piano shut:

      She could not please herself.

And livelier than a lark

She sent her voice through all the holt

      Before her, and the park.

And in the chase grew wild,

As close as might be would he cling

      About the darling child:

So fleetly did she stir,

The flower she touch'd on, dipt and rose,

      And turn'd to look at her.

And sang to me the whole

Of those three stanzas that you made

      About my 'giant bole;'

She strove to span my waist:

Alas, I was so broad of girth,

      I could not be embraced.

That here beside me stands,

That round me, clasping each in each,

      She might have lock'd her hands.

As woodbine's fragile hold,

Or when I feel about my feet

      The berried briony fold."

And shadow Sumner-chace!

Long may thy topmost branch discern

      The roofs of Sumner-place!

I carved with many vows

When last with throbbing heart I came

      To rest beneath thy boughs?

These knotted knees of mine,

And found, and kiss'd the name she found,

      And sweetly murmur'd thine.

And down my surface crept.

My sense of touch is something coarse,

      But I believe she wept.

She glanced across the plain;

But not a creature was in sight:

      She kiss'd me once again.

That, trust me on my word,

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind,

      But yet my sap was stirr'd:

A pleasure I discern'd

Like those blind motions of the Spring,

      That show the year is turn'd.

The ringlet's waving balm—

The cushions of whose touch may press

      The maiden's tender palm.

But languidly adjust

My vapid vegetable loves

      With anthers and with dust:

Whereof the poets talk,

When that, which breathes within the leaf,

      Could slip its bark and walk.

From spray, and branch, and stem,

Have suck'd and gather'd into one

      The life that spreads in them,

But lightly issuing thro',

I would have paid her kiss for kiss

      With usury thereto.'

And overlook the lea,

Pursue thy loves among the bowers,

      But leave thou mine to me.

Old oak, I love thee well;

A thousand thanks for what I learn

      And what remains to tell.

At last, tired out with play,

She sank her head upon her arm,

      And at my feet she lay.

I breathed upon her eyes

Thro' all the summer of my leaves

      A welcome mix'd with sighs.

The music from the town—

The whispers of the drum and fife,

      And lull'd them in my own.

To light her shaded eye;

A second flutter'd round her lip

      Like a golden butterfly;

To make the necklace shine;

Another slid, a sunny fleck,

      From head to ancle fine,

And shadow'd all her rest—

Dropt dews upon her golden head,

      An acorn in her breast.

And pluck'd it out, and drew

My little oakling from the cup,

      And flung him in the dew.

I felt a pang within

As when I see the woodman lift

      His axe to slay my kin.

The finest on the tree.

He lies beside thee on the grass.

      O kiss him once for me.

That have no lips to kiss,

For never yet was oak on lea

      Shall grow so fair as this."

Look further thro' the chace,

Spread upward till thy boughs discern

      The front of Sumner-place.

That but a moment lay

Where fairer fruit of Love may rest

      Some happy future day.

The warmth it thence shall win

To riper life may magnetise

      The baby-oak within.

Or lapse from hand to hand,

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet

      Thine acorn in the land.

Nor wielded axe disjoint,

That art the fairest-spoken tree

      From here to Lizard-point.

All throats that gurgle sweet!

All starry culmination drop

      Balm-dews to bathe thy feet!

And while he sinks or swells

The full south-breeze around thee blow

      The sound of minster bells.

That under deeply strikes!

The northern morning o'er thee shoot,

      High up, in silver spikes!

But, rolling as in sleep,

Low thunders bring the mellow rain,

      That makes thee broad and deep!

That only by thy side

Will I to Olive plight my troth,

      And gain her for my bride.

She, Dryad-like, shall wear

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball

      In wreath about her hair.

And praise thee more in both

Than bard has honour'd beech or lime,

      Or that Thessalian growth,

And mystic sentence spoke;

And more than England honours that,

      Thy famous brother-oak,

Till all the paths were dim,

And far below the Roundhead rode,

      And humm'd a surly hymn.