The cry is at thy gates, thou darling ground,
Again; for oft ere now thy children went
Beggared and wroth, and parting greeting sent
Some red old alley with a dial crowned;
Some house of honour, in a glory bound
With lives and deaths of spirits excellent;
Some tree, rude-taken from his kingly tent,
Hard by a little fountain’s friendly sound.
O for Virginius’ hand, if only that
Maintain the whole, and spoil these spoilings soon!
Better the scowling Strand should lose, alas,
Her walled oasis, and where once it was,
All mournful in the cleared quadrangle sat
Echo, and ivy, and the loitering moon.