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At will, and wound his bosom as they go.
like visions to their viewless home,
- Thou only, terrible Ocean, hast a power,
forehead. If thy waves be driven
Thou trackless and immeasurable main !
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent.
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 halls.
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 choaked up the rose, which bloomed in the way
Of the mail-covered Barons, who proudly to battle,
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurelled 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 Cressy;
For the safety of Edward, and England, they fell; My fathers ! the tears of your country redress you,
How you fought! how you died I still her annals can tell.
On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enriched with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of their monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to loyalty sealed.
Shades of heroes farewell ! your descendant departing
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 be ne'er will disgrace your renown : Like you he will live, or like you be will perish : When decayed may he mingle his dust with your own.
MOONLIGHT AT THE SEA-SIDE.
The heavens are cloudless, the winds are asleep,
The shepherd's blythe whistle hath ceased on the hill,
Now the weary fisher hath moored his light skiff,
The young autumn moon looks abroad o'er the scene,
It is thus with man in prosperity's hour-
When the moonlight heavens their glories unfold,
'Tis in the softness of such a sweet hour