William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Burnham-beechesHenry Luttrell (1765?1851)
A
Your friendly aid beseeches.
Help me to touch the lyric string,
In praise of Burnham-beeches.
Be less like Pope’s than Creech’s,
The theme, if not the poet, shines,
So bright are Burnham-beeches.
Their silvan beauty reaches,
Of Birnam-wood let Scotland talk,
While we’ve our Burnham-beeches.
(Say, who my taste impeaches)
Where holly, juniper, and fern,
Spring up round Burnham-beeches.
The owl at midnight screeches,
Birds of far merrier, sweeter song,
Enliven Burnham-beeches.
Our vicar, when he preaches,
He’d find it easier far to get
A hint from Burnham-beeches.
Here the hot solstice bleaches.
Bow, stubborn oaks! bow, graceful planes!
Ye match not Burnham-beeches.
Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches,
But daintiest truffles lurk below
The boughs of Burnham-beeches.
Here ample room for each is
With pencil and with pen to try
His hand at Burnham-beeches.
Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches,
Cured souls and bodies, judged or ruled,
Then flourished Burnham-beeches.
As yonder ruin teaches,
But shaven crown and cowl no more
Shall darken Burnham-beeches.
Have dealt in softest speeches,
While suns declined, and, parting, threw
Their gold o’er Burnham-beeches.
Nor tempest, making breaches
In the sweet shade that cools the ground
Beneath our Burnham-beeches.
My power no further reaches—
Again that rhyme? enough—I’ve done,
Farewell to Burnham-beeches.