THE TALKING OAK.
81
lxviii.
And while he sinks or swells
The full south-breeze around thee blow
The sound of minster bells.
lxix.
That under deeply strikes!
The northern morning o'er thee shoot,
High up, in silver spikes!
lxx.
But, rolling as in sleep,
Low thunders bring the mellow rain,
That makes thee broad and deep!
lxxi.
That only by thy side
Will I to Olive plight my troth,
And gain her for my bride.
