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 gothick walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY (1) 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 increas'd alarms,

An abbey once, a regal fortress (2) now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers;

War's dread machines o'erhang thy threat'ning brow, And dart destruction, in sulphurcous showers.

(1) At the dissolution of the monasteries, HENRY VIII bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.

(2) Newstead sustained a considerable siege, in the war between CHARLES I and his Parliament,

Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,
Tho' oft repuls'd, by guile, o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege,
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.

Not unaveng'd, the raging Baron yields,
The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd, still, his faulchion there he wields,
And days of glory, yet, for him remain.

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 (1) from the unequal strife, In other fields, the torrent to repel;

For nobler combats, here, reserv'd his life,

To lead the band, where god-like FALKLAND (2) 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.

(1) 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. Vide, Clarendon, Hume, etc.

(2) Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the Battle of Newberry, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry.

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,
Rak'd 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 cave receives his bones, Loathing (1) the offering of so dark a death.

(1) This is an historical fact; a violent tempest occurred

The legal Ruler (1), now, resumes the helm,

He guides thro' gentle seas the prow of state; Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.

The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
Howling, resign their violated nest;
Again the Master on his tenure dwells,
Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptur❜d zest.

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,

Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return;
Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.

A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float,
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;

And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,
The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze:

Beneath their coursers' hoof the valleys shake,

What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chace! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake,

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.

immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans, and the cavaliers; both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition, but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide; I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem.

(1) Charles II.

Ah! happy days! too happy to endure !

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew; No splendid vices glitter'd to allure :

Their joys were many, as their cares were few.

From these descending, sons to sires succeed,
Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart;
Another chief impels the foaming steed,
Another crowd pursue the panting hart.

Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in its sway.

Deserted now,

he scans thy grey-worn towers;

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,

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom with empassion'd glow.

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,

Thee to irradiate, with meridian ray;
Hours, splendid as the past, may still be thine,
And bless thy future, as thy former day.