POEMS.

THE TALKING OAK.

I.

ONCE more the gate behind me falls;
Once more before my face
I see the mouldered Abbey-walls,
That stand within the chace.

II.

Beyond the lodge the city lies,

Beneath its drift of smoke;

And ah! with what delighted eyes

I turn to yonder oak!

III.

For when my passion first began,
Ere that which in me burned,
The love that makes me thrice a man,
Could hope itself returned;

IV.

To yonder oak within the field.
I spoke without restraint,
And with a larger faith appealed
Than Papist unto Saint.

V.

For oft I talked with him apart,
And told him of my choice,
Until he plagiarized a heart,

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.