Memory now
     Is the sole life among the ruins grey,
     And like a phantom in fantastic play
     She wanders with rank weeds stuck on her brow,
     Over grass-hidden caves and turret-tops,
     Herself almost as tottering as they;
     While, to the steps of Time, her latest props
     Fall stone by stone, and in the Sun’s hot ray
     All that remains stands up in rugged pride,
     And bridal vines drink in his juices on each side.

     To A nightingale

     O nightingale! how hast thou learnt
     The note of the nested dove? 
     While under thy bower the fern hangs burnt
     And no cloud hovers above! 
     Rich July has many a sky
     With splendour dim, that thou mightst hymn,
     And make rejoice with thy wondrous voice,
     And the thrill of thy wild pervading tone! 
     But instead of to woo, thou hast learnt to coo: 
     Thy song is mute at the mellowing fruit,
     And the dirge of the flowers is sung by the hours
     In silence and twilight alone.

     O nightingale! ’tis this, ’tis this
     That makes thee mock the dove! 
     That thou hast past thy marriage bliss,
     To know a parent’s love. 
     The waves of fern may fade and burn,
     The grasses may fall, the flowers and all,
     And the pine-smells o’er the oak dells
     Float on their drowsy and odorous wings,
     But thou wilt do nothing but coo,
     Brimming the nest with thy brooding breast,
     ’Midst that young throng of future song,
     Round whom the Future sings!

     Invitation to the country

     Now ’tis Spring on wood and wold,
     Early Spring that shivers with cold,
     But gladdens, and gathers, day by day,
     A lovelier hue, a warmer ray,
     A sweeter song, a dearer ditty;
     Ouzel and throstle, new-mated and gay,
     Singing their bridals on every spray —
     Oh, hear them, deep in the songless City! 
     Cast off the yoke of toil and smoke,
     As Spring is casting winter’s grey,
     As serpents cast their skins away: 
     And come, for the Country awaits thee with pity
     And longs to bathe thee in her delight,
     And take a new joy in thy kindling sight;
     And I no less, by day and night,
     Long for thy coming, and watch for, and wait thee,
     And wonder what duties can thus berate thee.

     Dry-fruited firs are dropping their cones,
     And vista’d avenues of pines
     Take richer green, give fresher tones,
     As morn after morn the glad sun shines.

     Primrose tufts peep over the brooks,
     Fair faces amid moist decay! 
     The rivulets run with the dead leaves at play,
     The leafless elms are alive with the rooks.

     Over the meadows the cowslips are springing,
     The marshes are thick with king-cup gold,
     Clear is the cry of the lambs in the fold,
     The skylark is singing, and singing, and singing.