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At length, in spells no longer bound,
1 break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays in mortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,

And all assume a varied hue;
When virgins seem no longer vain,

And even woman's smiles are true.
And must we own thee but a name,

And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a sylph in every dame,

A Pylades* in every friend?
But leave at once thy realms of air

To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman 's false as fair,

And friends have feeling for-themselver!
With shame I own I've felt thy sway
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er:
No more thy precepts I obey,

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.
Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears,
On all occasions swiftly flow;

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,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant bard at least may claim

From you a sympathetic strain.

Adieu, fond race! a long adieu !

The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,

Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather;
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas must perish altogether.



"But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madame Squintum my work should abuse,

May I venture to give her a smack of my muse ?"-New Bath Guide.

CANDOUR compels me, Becher! to commend
The verse which blends the censor with the friend.
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon,-must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart :
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.

When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind:
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstripp'd and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove :
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power,
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.

Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know!
The artless Helicon I boast is youth ;-
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth.
Far be't from me the " virgin's mind" to "taint
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer.
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe-

She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine,
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.

November 20th, 1846


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 !+
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide.

Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,

Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.

No mail-clad serfs,+ obedient to their lord,

In grim array the crimson cross demand ;§
Or gay assemble round the festive board

Their chief's retainers, an immortal band:

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye

Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
His feudal realm other regions lay;
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.

Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view ;
Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found,

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;
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,

The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,

Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming* spreads her waning shado,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary paid.+

Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed;
Religion's charter their protecting shield,

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls,

And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another Henry the kind gift recalls,+

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;

He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world in deep despair-

No friend, no home, no refuge but their God.
Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,

Shakes with the martial music's novel din !
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,

High-crested banners wave thy walls within.
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increased alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers,

War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow,
And dart destruction in sulphureous showers.

Ah, vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,

Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege,
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.

Not unavenged the raging baron yields;

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields,
And days of glory yet for him remain.

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;
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.
Trembling, she snatch'd him from the unequal strife,*
In other fields the torrent to repel;
For nobler combats, here, reserved his life,

To lead the band where godlike Falkland fell.†
From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,
While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense now ascends to heaven,

Such victims wallow on the gory ground.

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse,
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread
Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould;
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead,

Raked from repose in search for buried gold.
Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,

The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
Retire; the clamour of the fight is o'er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,

And sable Horror guards the massy door.
Here desolation holds her dreary court:

What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort,
To flit their vigils in the hoary fane.

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel

The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies;
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;
Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones,

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.

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