I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. < Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?' Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices, [vale: And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car; Clouds there encircle the forms of my Fathers, They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. Ill starr'd, though brave, did no vision's foreboding, Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,t Victory crown'd not your fall with applause; Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber, You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar,t The pibrochs resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again; Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you, Yet, still are you dearer than Albion's plain : I allude here to my maternal ancestors, 'the Gordon's,' many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the First of Scotland: by her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors. + Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action,' pars pro toto.' A tract of the Highlands so called; there is also a Castle of Braemar. § The bagpipe.. England! thy beauties are tame and domestic, TO ROMANCE. PARENT of golden dreams, Romance! But leave at once thy realms of air To mingling bands of fairy elves; LOW And friends have feeling for-themselves. It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, the page of an historian, or modern novelist. With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway, No more on fancied pinions soar : Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye, And think that eye to truth was dear; To trust a passing wanton's sigh, And melt beneath a wanton's tear! Romance! disgusted with deceit, Far from thy motley court I fly, Where Affectation holds her seat, And sickly Sensibility; Whose silly tears can never flow For any pangs excepting thine; Who turns aside from real woe, To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. Now join with sable Sympathy, With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir, To mourn a swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire, But bends not now before thy throne. Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, R Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me Ossian. with all their deeds. NEWSTEAD! fast falling, once resplendent dome! Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'st pride! But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief, In thee, the wounded conscience courts relief, * As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the author had, originally, no inteution of inserting the following: it is now added at the particular request of some friends. + Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas à Beckett. This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, 'The Wild Huntsman:' synonymous with vassal. The red cross was the badge of the crusaders. Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl, And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield; And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. As 'gloaming,' the Scottish word for twilight,' is far more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore, in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. ↑ At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. |