Burnham Beeches

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.
Here the hot solstice bleaches.
Bow, stubborn oaks! bow, graceful planes!
Ye match not Burnham beeches.

Gardens may boast a temptnig show
Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches,
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
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,

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
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.
In the sweet shade that cools the ground
Beneath our Burnham beeches.

Hold I though I'd fain be jingling on,
My power no further" reaches—
Again that rhyme? enough,—I've done,
Farewell to Burnham beeches.