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.

THE TALKING OAK.

1.

ONCE more the gate behind me falls ;

Once more before my face

I see the moulder'd 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 burn'd,

The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself return'd;

IV.

To yonder oak within the field

I spoke without restraint,

And with a larger faith appeal'd

Than Papist unto Saint.

V.

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.

VI.

Tho' what he whisper'd under Heaven

None else could understand;

I found him garrulously given,

A babbler in the land.

VII.

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.

VIII.

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern,

Broad Oak of Sumner-chace,

Whose topmost branches can discern

The roofs of Sumner-place!

IX.

Say thou, whereon I carved her name,

If ever maid or spouse,

As fair as my Olivia, came

To rest beneath thy boughs.

X.

"O Walter, I have shelter'd here

Whatever maiden grace

The good old Summers, year by year,

Made ripe in Sumner-chace :

XI.

"Old Summers, when the monk was fat,

And, issuing shorn and sleek,

Would twist his girdle tight, and pat

The girls upon the cheek,

XII.

"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:

XIII.

"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;

XIV.

"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:

XV.

"The slight she-slips of loyal blood,

And others, passing praise,

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

For puritanic stays: