Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, That fame and that memory still will he cherish, то NEWSTEAD ABBEY. Norman Abbey whirled the noble pair, An old, old monastery once, and now Still older mansion, of a rich and rare Mixed Gothic, such as artists all allow Few specimens yet left us can compare Withal it lies perhaps a little low, Because the monks preferred a hill behind, To shelter their devotion from the wind. It stood embosomed in a happy valley, Crowned by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke; And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally The branching stag swept down with all his herd, Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed; The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood With their green faces fixed upon the flood. Its outlet dashed into a deep cascade, Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding Its shriller echoes like an infant made Quiet sank into softer ripples, gliding Into a rivulet; and, thus allayed, Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw. A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile (While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screened many an aisle. These last had disappeared, a loss to art: The first yet frowned superbly o'er the soil, And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourned the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch. Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice, as tell The annals of full many a line undone, The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign. But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned, The Virgin Mother of the God-born child, With her son in her blessed arms, looked round, Spared by some chance when all beside was spoiled; She made the earth below seem holy ground. This may be superstition, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. A mighty window, hollow in the centre, But in the noontide of the moon, and when Is musical, Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. Others, that some original shape or form, Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fixed hour) To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower: The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact; I 've heard it, once perhaps too much. Amidst the court a Gothic fountain played, Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: The spring rushed through grim mouths, of granite made, Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, The mansion's self was vast and venerable, Still unimpaired, to decorate the scene; The rest had been reformed, replaced, or sunk, Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, joined At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. Lord Byron. WHAT A PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD. HAT made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell? "T was not the thought of Byron, of his cry Stormily sweet, his Titan agony; It was the sight of that Lord Arundel Who struck; in heat, the child he loved so well, They hang; the picture doth the story tell. Matthew Arnold. |