
66 
POETRY OF 
Whither hath fled the choral band 
That filled the abbey’s nave? 
Yon dark sepulchral yew trees stand 
O’er many a level grave: 
In the belfry’s crevices the dove 
Her young brood nurseth well, 
Whilst thou, lone flower, dost shed above 
A sweet decaying smell. 
In the season of the Tulip cup, 
When blossoms clothe the trees, 
How sweet to throw the lattice up, 
And scent thee on the breeze: 
The butterfly is then abroad, 
The bee is on the wing, 
And on the hawthorn by the road 
The linnets sit and sing. 
Sweet Wall flower—sweet Wall flower! 
Thou conjurest up to me 
Full many a soft and sunny hour 
Of boyhood’s thoughtless glee, 
