NCE more the gate behind me falls;
Once more before my face

I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls,

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 plagiarised 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 loyal blood,

And others, passing praise,

Strait-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 modest 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;