Quod he, "Those gay waves they call me." On Christchurch bar did lie afloat; And fend our princes every one, Charles Kingsley. R RHINEFIELD A LODGE IN THE NEW FOREST. HINEFIELD! as through thy solitude I rove, While o'er the furze with light bound leaps the fawn, William Sotheby. NEW Newstead Abbey. ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. JEWSTEAD! 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, Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord, 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, The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view ; Or blood-stained guilt repenting solace found, A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, Years rolled on years; to ages ages yield; One holy Henry reared the Gothic walls, And bids devotion's hallowed echoes cease. Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer; No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. 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. Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers; Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes Yet lingers mid thy damp and mossy tombs, Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, Lord Byron. THROUG 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 way. Of the mail-covered barons who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 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, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 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 scaled. |