Burnham-Beeches

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
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,
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.
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.

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 tempting show
Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches,
But daintiest truffles lurk below
The boughs of Durnham-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! tho' I'd fain be jingling on.
My power no further reaches—
Again that rhyme? enough — I've done.
Farewell to Burnham-beeches.