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At length, in spells no longer bound,
And all assume a varied hue;
And even woman's smiles are true.
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
A Pylades* in every friend?
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
And friends have feeling for-themselver!
No more on fancied pinions soar.
And think that eye to truth was dear;
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
Far from thy motley court I fly,
And sickly Sensibility;
For any pangs excepting thine;
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
To mourn a swain for ever gone,
But bends not now before thy throne.
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrensy glow;
It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Crestes, 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, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist.
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
From you a sympathetic strain.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu !
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
Where unlamented you must lie:
Convulsed by gales you cannot weather;
ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES,
SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT ONE O HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.
"But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse ?"-New Bath Guide.
CANDOUR compels me, Becher! to commend
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine,
November 20th, 1846
ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.*
It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their de; ds. '— USHLAN
NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once resplendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant Henry's pride !+
Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state;
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
No mail-clad serfs,+ obedient to their lord,
In grim array the crimson cross demand ;§
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band:
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,
But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.
• As one poem on this subject is already printed, the author had, originally, no inten tion of inserting this piece. It is now added at the particular request of some friends.
Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas à Becket.
This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, "The Wild Huntsman," synony mous with vassal.
The red cross was the badge of the crusaders
A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl;
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.
Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed;
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
No friend, no home, no refuge but their God.
Shakes with the martial music's novel din !
High-crested banners wave thy walls within.
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow,
Ah, vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,
Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
Not unavenged the raging baron yields;
The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
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.
Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave;
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.
To lead the band where godlike Falkland fell.†
Such victims wallow on the gory ground.
There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse,
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread
Raked from repose in search for buried gold.
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
And sable Horror guards the massy door.
What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies;
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;
Loathing the offering of so dark a death.‡
• Lord Byron, and his brother Sir William, held high commands in the royal army. The former was general in chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II.; the latter had a principal share in many actions.
Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry
This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which occas.oned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers: both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition; but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave for the casuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subiect of my poem.