ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. Why dost thou build the hall? Son of the winged days! Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court.-Ossian. THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle; Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. Of the mail cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, Th' escutcheon, and shield, which with every blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing num bers, Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd wreath; Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan* slumbers, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressey; For the safety of Edward and England they fell; My Fathers, the tears of your country redress ye; How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell. * Horistan Castle, in Derbyshire, an ancient seat of the Byron family. On Marston,* with Rupert,t 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch, their country defend ing, Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, "Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish, He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; will he live, or like you will he perish; When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own. Like you EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. Αστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν ἑφος. OH, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear, What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier! What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death! Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated. Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He rd commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, The spot, where now thy mouldering ashes lie, A FRAGMENT. WHEN, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice If that with honour fail to crown my clay, THE TEAR. O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Our sympathies move; When Truth in a glance should appear; The lips may beguile With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection's a Tear. Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile Whilst the soul-telling eye Mild Charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shews the soul from barbarity clear; Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear. The man doom'd to sail The soldier braves death For a fanciful wreath In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe When in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a Tear. |