Tennyson told Mr. Aubrey de Vere that the poem was an experiment meant to test the degree in which it is in the power of poetry to humanise external nature. Tennyson might have remembered that Ovid had made the same experiment nearly two thousand years ago, while Goethe had immediately anticipated him in his charming _Der Junggesett und der Mühlbach_. There was certainly no novelty in such an attempt. The poem is in parts charmingly written, but the oak is certainly “garrulously given,” and comes perilously near to tediousness. Once more the gate behind me falls; Once more before my face I see the moulder’d Abbey-walls, That stand within the chace. Beyond the lodge the city lies, Beneath its drift of smoke; And ah! with what delighted eyes I turn to yonder oak. For when my passion first began, Ere that, which in me burn’d, The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself return’d; To yonder oak within the field I spoke without restraint, And with a larger faith appeal’d Than Papist unto Saint. For oft I talk’d with him apart, And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarised a heart, And answer’d with a voice. Tho’ what he whisper’d, under Heaven None else could understand; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the land. But since I heard him make reply Is many a weary hour; ’Twere well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power. Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place! Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, came To rest beneath thy boughs.— “O Walter, I have shelter’d here Whatever maiden grace The good old Summers, year by year, Made ripe in Sumner-chace: “Old Summers, when the monk was fat, And, issuing shorn and sleek, Would twist his girdle tight, and pat The girls upon the cheek. “Ere yet, in scorn of Peter’s-pence, And number’d bead, and shrift, Bluff Harry broke into the spence,[1] And turn’d the cowls adrift: “And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive When his man-minded offset rose To chase the deer at five; “And all that from the town would stroll, Till that wild wind made work In which the gloomy brewer’s soul Went by me, like a stork: “The slight she-slips of loyal blood, And others, passing praise, Strait-laced, but all too full in bud For puritanic stays:[2]> “And I have shadow’d many a group Of beauties, that were born In teacup-times of hood and hoop, Or while the patch was worn; “And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, About me leap’d and laugh’d The Modish Cupid of the day, And shrill’d his tinsel shaft. “I swear (and else may insects prick Each leaf into a gall) This girl, for whom your heart is sick, Is three times worth them all; “For those and theirs, by Nature’s law, Have faded long ago; But in these latter springs I saw Your own Olivia blow,