| |
| NEWSTEAD! 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, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| A votive pilgrim in Judæa’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. | 20 |
| |
| 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, | 25 |
| Where Sherwood’s outlaws once were wont to prowl; | |
| 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, | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| Or matin orisons to Mary paid. | |
| |
| Years rolled 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. | 40 |
| |
| 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; | 45 |
| 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! | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| Unite in concert with increased alarms. * * * * * | |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| Deserted now, he scans thy gray 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; | 65 |
| Cherished affection only bids them flow. | |
| Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget, | |
| But warm his bosom with impassioned glow. | |
| |
| Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes | |
| Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great; | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| And bless thy future as thy former day. | |
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