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Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense.
Ah! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints. I trust

That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God,
Among you there, and let him presently
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft,
And climbing up into mine airy home,
Deliver me the blessed sacrament;

For by the warning of the Holy Ghost,
I prophesy that I shall die to-night,
A quarter before twelve.

But thou, O Lord,

Aid all this foolish people; let them take
Example, pattern: lead them to thy light.



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 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.

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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,

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"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:

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