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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


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


Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd


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, 'gainst traitors contending,

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak


For the rights of a monarch, their country defend


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; Like you will he live, or like you will he perish; When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own.


̓Αστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν ἑψος. 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,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh

The spot, where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire laments his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none like thee his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But, who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image what new friendship can efface?
Ah none! a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary friendship sighs alone.


WHEN, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh may my shade behold no sculptured urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone :

If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot,
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.


O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit-Gray.
WHEN Friendship or Love

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
To mask detestation, or fear;
Give me the soft sigh,

Whilst the soul-telling eye

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow,

To us mortals below,

Shews the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt

Where this virtue is felt,

And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer;
As he bends o'er the wave
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

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.

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