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LII. “ 'Tis little more: the day was warm;

At last, tired out with play,
She sank her head upon her arm,

And at my feet she lay.


“ Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves.

I breathed upon her eyes
Thro' all the summer of my leaves

A welcome mix'd with sighs.

“ I took the swarming sound of life —

The music from the town —
The whispers of the drum and fife,

And lulld them in my own.


“ Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip

To light her shaded eye ;
A second flutter'd round her lip

Like a golden butterfly ;

6 A third would glimmer on her neck

To make the necklace shine ;
Another slid, a sunny fleck,

From head to ankle fine.


“ Then close and dark my arms I spread,

And shadow'd all her rest — Dropt dews upon her golden head,

An acorn in her breast.

LVIII. “But in a pet she started up,

And pluck'd it out, and drew My little oakling from the cup,

And flung him in the dew.


“ And yet it was a graceful gift

I felt a pang within
As when I see the woodman lift

His axe to slay my kin.'


“ I shook him down because he was

The finest on the tree.
He lies beside thee on the grass.

O kiss him once for me.


“O kiss him twice and thrice for me,

That have no lips to kiss, For never yet was oak on lea

Shall grow so fair as this."


Step deeper yet in herb and fern,

Look further thro’ the chace, Spread upward till thy boughs discern

The front of Sumner-place.

This fruit of thine by Love is blest

That but a moment lay . Where fairer fruit of Love may rest

Some happy future day.


I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, .

The warmth it thence shall win To riper life may magnetise

The Baby-oak within.


But thou, while kingdoms overset,

Or lapse from hand to hand, Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet

Thine acorn in the land.


May never saw dismember thee,

Nor wielded axe disjoint, That art the fairest-spoken tree

From here to Lizard-point.


O rock upon thy towery top

All throats that gurgle sweet! All starry culmination drop

Balm-dews to bathe thy feet!


All grass of silky feather grow —

And while he sinks or swells
The full south-breeze around thee blow

The sound of minster bells.

The fat earth feed thy branchy root,

That under deeply strikes !
The northern morning o'er thee shoot,

High up, in silver spikes !


Nor ever lightning char thy grain,

But, rolling as in sleep,
Low thunders bring the mellow rain,

That makes thee broad and deep!


And hear me swear a solemn oath,

That only by thy side
Will I to Olive plight my troth,

And gain her for my bride.


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