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 blessed 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 !
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
High-crested banners, wave thy walls within.

Of changing sentiuels 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 fortresst 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;

But Charles' protecting Genius hither flew,

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.

• At the dissolution of the monasteries Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.

+ Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his Parliament.

Trembling, she snatched him from the unequal strife,
In other fields the torrent to repel ;

For nobler combats here reserved his life,

To lead the band where god-like Falkland+ 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 commixed with horse,
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.
Graves, long with rank and sighing leaves o'erspread,
Ransacked, resign, perforce, their mortal mould;
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead,
Raked from repose in search of buried gold.
Hushed 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.
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 reigu !
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omened birds resort,
To fit their vigils in the holy 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.

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. Vide Clarendon, Hume, &c.

Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his ge, was killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron s regiment of cavalry.

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans,
Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones,
Loathing the offering of so dark a death.
The legal rulert 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.
The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
Howling, resign their violated nest;
Again the master on his tenure dwells,

Enjoyed, from absence, with enraptured zest.
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,

Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return;
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.
A thousand songs on tuneful Echo float;
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;
And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note-
The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.
Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake;
What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase!
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;
Exulting shouts announce the finished race.
Ah! happy days! too happy to endure!
Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew :
No splendid vices glittered to allure;

Their joys were many, as their cares were few.

From these descending, sons to sires succeed,
Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ;

Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart.

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.

♦ Charles II.

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.

Deserted now, he scans thy grey 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 ;

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;
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,
And bless thy future as thy former day.

William, the eldest son, born in 1722, succeeded to the family honours, on the death of his father, in 1736. He entered into the naval service, and became lieutenant of the Victory, under Admiral Balchen; which ship be had but just left before she was lost on the rocks of Alderney. In 1763 he was made Master of the Stag-hounds; but in 1765 he was sent to the Tower, and tried before the House of Peers, for killing his relation and neighbour, Mr. Chaworth, in a duel fought at the Star and Garter Tavern, in Pall Mall; of which unhappy occurrence the following is the only authentic and impartial statement that has been published :—

'Lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth were neighbours in the country, and it was their custom to meet, with other gentlemen of Nottinghamshire, at the Star and Garter Tavern, in Pall Mall, once a month, at what was called the Nottinghamshire Club.

The meeting at which the unlucky dispute arose that produced the duel was on the 26th of January, 1765, at which were present John Hewett, Esq. who sat as chairman, Lord Byron, the Honorable

D

Thomas Willoughby, Sir Robert Burdett, Frederic Montagu, John Sherwin, Francis Molineux, William Chaworth, George Donston, and Charles Mellish, jun. Esqrs.

Their usual hour of dining was soon after four; and the rule of the club was, to have a bill and a bottle brought in at seven.

Till this hour all was jollity and good humour; but Mr. Hewett, who was toast-master, happening to start some conversation about the best method of preserving the game, setting the laws in being for that purpose out of the question, the subject was taken up by Mr. Chaworth and Lord Byron, who happened to be of different opinions; Mr. Chaworth insisting on severity against poachers and unqualified persons, and Lord Byron declaring that the way to have most game was to take no care of it at all. Mr. Hewett's opinion was, that the most effectual way would be to make the game the property of the owner of the soil. The debate became general, but was carried on with acrimony only between Lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth; the latter, in confirmation of what he had said, insisting that Sir Charles Sedley and himself had more game on five acres than Lord Byron had on all his manors. Lord Byron, in answer to this, proposed a bet of one hundred guineas; and Mr. Chaworth called for pen, ink, and paper, to reduce the wager to writing, in order to take it up; but Mr. Sherwin treating it in a jesting manner, as a bet that never could be decided, no bet was laid, and the conversation went on. Mr. Chaworth said, that were it not for Sir Charles Sedley's care, and his own, Lord Byron would not have a hare on his estate; and Lord Byron asking, with a smile, what Sir Charles Sedley's manors were? was answered by Mr. Chaworth, Nuttall and Bulwell. Lord Byron did not dispute Nuttall, but added, that Bulwell was his; on which Mr. Chaworth with some heat replied, "If you want information with respect to Sir Charles Sedley's manors, he lives at Mr. Cooper's, in Dean-street, and, I doubt not, will be ready to give you satisfaction; and, as to myself, your lordship knows where to find me, in Berkeley-row" or words to that effect. These words, uttered in a particular manner, could admit of no reply, and at once put an end to that subject of discourse; every gentleman in company fell into chat with him who sat next to him; and nothing more was said generally till Mr. Chaworth called to settle the reckoning, as was his general practice, in doing of which Mr. Fynmore, the master of the tavern, observed him a little flurried; for, in marking, he made a small mistake. The book had lines ruled in checks, and against each member present an 0 was