. Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . of silky feather grow —And while he sinks or swells The full south-breeze around thee blowThe sound of minster bells. The fat earth feed thy branchy under deeply strikes ! The northern morning oer thee shoot,High up, in silver spikes ! Nor ever lightning char thy grain. But, rolling as in sleep,Ivow thunders bring the mellow rain That makes thee broad and deep ! And hear me swear a solemn oath, That only by thy sideWill I to Olive plight my troth. And gain her for my bride. The Talking Oak. 99 And when my marriage morn may fall, She, Dryad-lik
. Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . of silky feather grow —And while he sinks or swells The full south-breeze around thee blowThe sound of minster bells. The fat earth feed thy branchy under deeply strikes ! The northern morning oer thee shoot,High up, in silver spikes ! Nor ever lightning char thy grain. But, rolling as in sleep,Ivow thunders bring the mellow rain That makes thee broad and deep ! And hear me swear a solemn oath, That only by thy sideWill I to Olive plight my troth. And gain her for my bride. The Talking Oak. 99 And when my marriage morn may fall, She, Dryad-like, shall wearAlternate leaf and acorn-ball In wreath about her hair. And I will work in prose and rhyme. And praise thee more in bothThan bard has honourd beech or lime. Or that Thessalian growth, In which the swarthy ringdove sat, And mystic sentence spoke ;And more than England honours that, Thy famous brother-oak, Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim,And far below the Roundhead rode. And hummd a surly LOVH AND DUTY. Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? Or all the same as if he had not been ? Not so. Shall Error in the round of timeStill father Truth ? O shall the braggart shoutFor some blind glimpse of freedom work ItselfThro madness, hated by the wise, to lawS}Stem and empire ? Sin itself be foundThe cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ?And only he, this wonder, dead, becomeMere highway dust? or year by year aloneSit brooding in the ruins of a of youth, the spectre of himself? If this were thus, if this, indeed, were the narrow brain, the stony staring eye glazed oer with sapless days,The long mechanic pacings to and set gray life, and apathetic am I not the nobler thro thy love ?O three times less unworthy ! likewise thouArt more thro Love, and greater than thy years,The Sun will run his orbit, and the MoonHer circle. Wait, and Lov
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