YEA, Oxford, for the glories of one wreath

The wither'd fragrance of all time is fee;

Trees draw their sacrifice of greenery

From the old charnels that repose beneath;--

So let me feel the impulse of thy breath,

Like an enchanter's spell, awak'ning me

To thy new treasures of Eternity

Bursting from out the pregnant soils of Death:

And therefore through my lips to all the earth

Adown the ages be thine anthem sung,

Undying Truth's perennial rebirth--

The burthen of the Old and ever Young:

'For me and mine new wealth from old is grown:

And sure, who love me, shall be all my own!'