| |
| A BARD, dear muse, unapt to sing, | |
| Your friendly aid beseeches. | |
| Help me to touch the lyric string, | |
| In praise of Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| What tho’ my tributary lines | 5 |
| Be less like Pope’s than Creech’s, | |
| The theme, if not the poet, shines, | |
| So bright are Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| O’er many a dell and upland walk, | |
| Their silvan beauty reaches, | 10 |
| Of Birnam-wood let Scotland talk, | |
| While we’ve our Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| Oft do I linger, oft return, | |
| (Say, who my taste impeaches) | |
| Where holly, juniper, and fern, | 15 |
| Spring up round Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| Tho’ deep embower’d their shades among, | |
| The owl at midnight screeches, | |
| Birds of far merrier, sweeter song, | |
| Enliven Burnham-beeches. | 20 |
| |
| If ‘sermons be in stones,’ I’ll bet | |
| Our vicar, when he preaches, | |
| He’d find it easier far to get | |
| A hint from Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| Their glossy rind here winter stains, | 25 |
| Here the hot solstice bleaches. | |
| Bow, stubborn oaks! bow, graceful planes! | |
| Ye match not Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| Gardens may boast a tempting show | |
| Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches, | 30 |
| But daintiest truffles lurk below | |
| The boughs of Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| Poets and painters, hither hie, | |
| Here ample room for each is | |
| With pencil and with pen to try | 35 |
| His hand at Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| When monks, by holy Church well schooled, | |
| Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches, | |
| Cured souls and bodies, judged or ruled, | |
| Then flourished Burnham-beeches. | 40 |
| |
| Skirting the convent’s walls of yore, | |
| As yonder ruin teaches, | |
| But shaven crown and cowl no more | |
| Shall darken Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| Here bards have mused, here lovers true | 45 |
| Have dealt in softest speeches, | |
| While suns declined, and, parting, threw | |
| Their gold o’er Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| O ne’er may woodman’s axe resound, | |
| Nor tempest, making breaches | 50 |
| In the sweet shade that cools the ground | |
| Beneath our Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
| Hold! tho’ I’d fain be jingling on, | |
| My power no further reaches— | |
| Again that rhyme? enough—I’ve done, | 55 |
| Farewell to Burnham-beeches. | |
| |
