NEWSTEAD! fast falling, once resplendent dome! 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, Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. Ne mail-clad Serfs, 3 obedient to their Lord, De might inspiring Fancy's magic eye But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief, Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, A Monarch bride thee from that wild arise, Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl. Sor raised their pious voices, but to pray. * As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the aurace back ongically no intention of inserting the following: it is aded as he particular request of some friends. • Henry II founded Newstead, soon after the murder of Thomas . Bein The ad used by Walter Scott, in his poem, The Wild Mostemon • .***anymous with Vassal. • The Bel Cross was the badge of the Crusaders. * As • Gil among the Scottish word for Twilight, is far more marwal, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, katy De Mare, in his Letters to Burns, I bave ventured to trast of us barmony The Emary was de ficated to the Virgin. Years roll on years-to ages, ages yield- Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. High crested banners, wave thy walls within. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, Unite in concert with increased alarms. An abbey once, a regal fortress now, War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow, Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. Trembling she snatch'd him 3 from the unequal strife, In other fields the torrent to repel, For nobler combats here reserved his life, To lead the band where god-like FALKLAND 4 fell. From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound, Far different incense now ascends to heavenSuch victims wallow on the gory ground. There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sød ; 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 of buried gold. At the dissolution of the Monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 1 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and bis Parliament, 3 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands in the royal army: the form r was General in Chief in Ireland, Licutenant 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. 4 Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in the tanks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry, 1 Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, What satellites declare her dismal reign! And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. The legal Ruler now resumes the helm, He guides thro' gentle seas the prow of state: The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return; 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' hoofs the valleys shake: What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake, Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 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 his sway. Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towersThy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which cccasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers, both interpreted the circumstance into disine interposition, but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casu sts of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence waited the subject of my poem. Charles II. as Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers- Cherish'd affection only bids them flow; Or gew-gaw grottos of the vainly great; Thee to eradiate with meridian ray; TO E. N. L. ESQ. Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico. DEAR L——, in this sequester'd scene, While all around in slumber lie, I crush the fiend with malice fraught, In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing To soothe its wonted heedless flow, HOR. E.. Still may I rove untutor'd, wild, And even in age at heart a child. Though now on airy visions borne, And all my former joys are tame. I think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whiriwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast, When lull'd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse, Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now, without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire; My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; is a wife, and C E And Carolina sighs alone, a mother, And Mary's given to another; In truth, dear L——, 't was time to flee, The aid which once improved their light, And hade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires, As many a boy and girl remembers, Winle all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now dear L, 't is midnight's noon, flas thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light, And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shali see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear loved peaceful seat Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then, with those our childhood knew, We ll mingle with the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of soul shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn. ΤΟ On! had my fate been join'd with thine, To thee, the wise and old reproving; "T was thine to break the bonds of loving. And spoil the blisses that await him ; For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; 'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; This tiresome round of palling pleasures, These thoughtless strains to passion's measures, If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd; For nature seem'd to smile before thee; For then it beat but to adore thee. But now I seek for other joys; To think would drive my soul to madness; STANZAS. I WOULD I were a careless child, Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. Accords not with the free-born soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands I hate the slaves that cringe around: Sassenagh, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying either Lowland or English. I ask but this-again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel The world was ne'er design'd for me; Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal" The hour when man must cease to be? A visionary scene of bliss; I loved-but those I loved are gone; When all its former hopes are dead! Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, Have made, though neither Friends nor Foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist'rous Joy is but a name. This busy scene of splendid woe, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, To flee away and be at rest.' LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW ON THE HILL. SEPT. 2, 1807. SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, ↑ Psalm lv. v. 6. —. And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove. then would I fly away and be at rest. This verse also coustitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language. How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recal the past; And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, Take, while thou can'st, a lingering last farewell!» When Fate shall chill at length this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought 't would soothe my dying hour, If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell: With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to dieAnd here it linger'd, here my heart might he; Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose: For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Prest by the turf where once my childhood play'd, Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; Blest by the tongues that charm'd iny youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here, Deplored by those in early days allied, And unremember'd by the world beside. THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. AN IMITATION OF DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twiligh he recals the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!» Past is the race of heroes) but their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind! they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests, he rolls his form in the whirlwind; and hovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood; Lochlin s sons had fled before his angry spear: but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks-they stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul; his thoughts were given to friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes" Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin. Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal tlies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs. They stood around. The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though C D&derably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from Nists and Eu.yalus, of which episode a translation has been already given. >as of Morven, » said the hero, « to-morrow we meet be; but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? sts in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, the chief to arms? The path is by the swords many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts Speak, ye chiefs! who will arise?» a of Tremmor! mine be the deed,» said darkOra, and mine alone. What is death to me? -de skep of the mighty, but little is the danger. of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay the stream of Lubar.»-« And shalt thou fall ⚫said fair-haired Calmar, « Wilt thou leave thy far: Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, ars has been the chase of the roebuck, and the of girls; ours be the path of danger: ours has de cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling mks of Lubar.»-« Calmar!» said the chief of why should thy yellow locks be darkened - of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father Lis hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy: but -eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in She listens to the steps of the hunter on the and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him "Calmar is fallen by the steel of Lochlin; he with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' uld tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why 4 Ler voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? mar! live to raise my stone of moss; live to me in the blood of Lochlin! Join the song of my grave. Sweet will be the song of death * from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile s of praise,»-« Orla!» said the son of * could I raise the song of death to my friend? I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart alipak in sighis; faint and broken are the sounds Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. d shall be ours on high; the bards will mingle s of Orla and Calmar.» 2 spear Try at the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are thest of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim es through the night. The northern star points path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his Here the troops are mixed: they frown in Iter shields beneath their heads. Their swords at distance, in heaps. The fires are faint; their ser til in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes the slumbering band. Half the journey is Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the 3. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the is raised on high. Why dost thou ady brow, Chief of Oithona?» said fair-haired We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time It is a time for vengeance,» said Orla, y brow. «Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but y him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall Found: my fame shall not soar on the blood amber. Rise, Mathon! rise! the son of Connal calls; ife is his: rise to combat. Mathon starts from at did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs en the plain. Fly, Calmar fly!» said darkOrla Mathon is mine; I shall die in joy; but Lochlin crowds around; fly through the shade of night.» Orla turns; the helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall. His wrath rises; his weapon glitters on the head of Orla; but a spear pierced his eye His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield: his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength. Moru glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many: grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks: yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey. Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. Tis Calmar-he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame: it glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives: he lives, though low. « Rise,» said the king, «rise, son of Mora; 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven.»> « Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla;» said the hero, «what were the chase to me, alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora: let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark.» They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The Bards raised the song. « What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice roils on the thunder. Tis Orla; the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm.>> 1 I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the Translation of a series of Poems, complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults, particularly in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.-The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original, as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author. |