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,
Outstripped and vanquished 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 labored 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.

thor of several philanthropic plans for the amelioration of the condition of the poor. In this gentleman the youthful poet found not only an honest and judicious critic, but a sincere friend. To his care the superintendence of the second edition of "Hours of Idleness," during its progress through a country press, was intrusted, and at his suggestion several corrections and omissions were made.]

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 26, 1806.

ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY

"It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds."- Ossian.

NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-replendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S * pride!

* Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas à Becket.

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 Judea's clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
His feudal realm in 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-stained guilt repenting solace found,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl,

* The red cross was the badge of the crusaders.

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-extinguished 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 shade,
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 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;
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,

* 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.

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 burnished 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;
Unconquered still, his falchion there he wields,
And days of glory yet for him remain.

Still in that hour the warrior wished to strew
Self-gathered laurels on a self-sought grave;

*Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his parliament.