Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.

No mail-clad serfs (1), obedient to their lord,
In grim array the crimson cross (2) 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, ordain'd 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-stain'd 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;
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,

Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.

(1) This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, "The Wild Huntsman;" synonymous with vassal.

(2) The red cross was the badge of the crusaders.

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd 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 (1) spreads her waning shade,

The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary (2) 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 rear'd the gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY (3) 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.

(1) 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.

(2) The priory was dedicated to the Virgin.

(3) At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. [See ante, p. 16. note.]

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 increased alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress (1) 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; Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, And days of glory yet for him remain. •

Still in that hour the warrior wished 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.

(1) Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his parliament.

Trembling, she snatched him (1) from th' unequal strife,

In other fields the torrent to repel ;

For nobler combats, here, reserved his life,

To lead the band where godlike 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.

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, Raked 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.

(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.

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

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-omened 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 caves receive his bones,
Loathing (1) the offering of so dark a death.

The legal ruler (2) now resumes the helm,

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state; Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate.

(1) This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred 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.

(2) Charles II.