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Quod he, "Those gay waves they call me."
On Christchurch bar did lie afloat;
And fend our princes every one,
A LODGE IN THE NEW FOREST.
HINEFIELD! as through thy solitude I rove, Now lost amid the deep wood's gloomy night, Doubtful I trace a ray of glimmering light; Now where some antique oak, itself a grove, Spreads its soft umbrage o'er the sunny glade, Stretched on its mossy roots at early dawn, While o'er the furze with light bound leaps the fawn, I count the herd that crops the dewy blade: Frequent at eve list to the hum profound That all around upon the chill breeze floats, Broke by the lonely keeper's wild, strange notes; At distance followed by the browsing deer; Or the bewildered stranger's plaintive sound That dies in lessening murmurs on the ear.
ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
EWSTEAD! fast-falling, once resplendent dome! Religion's shrine! repentant Henry's pride! Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloistered tomb, Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
Hail to thy pile! more honored in thy fall,
Than modern mansions in their pillared 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, ordained to die, A votive pilgrim in Judæa's clime.
But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
Or blood-stained guilt repenting solace found,
A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend,
Years rolled on years; to ages ages yield;
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
One holy Henry reared the Gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; Another Henry the kind gift recalls,
And bids devotion's hallowed echoes cease.
Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;
Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnished arms, The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increased alarms.
Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep; Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers:
These, these he views, and views them but to weep.
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret;
Cherished affection only bids them flow.
Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes
Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great; Yet lingers mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate.
Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine,
ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
HROUGH 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 bloomed in the
Of the mail-covered barons who proudly to battle
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,
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 ye; How you fought! how you died! 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 a monarch, their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty sealed.