Newstead Abbey

In the dome of my Sires as the clear moonbeam fallsThrough Silence and Shade o'er its desolate walls,It shines from afar like the glories of old;It gilds, but it warms not--'tis dazzling, but cold.

Let the Sunbeam be bright for the younger of days:'Tis the light that should shine on a race that decays,When the Stars are on high and the dews on the ground,And the long shadow lingers the ruin around.

And the step that o'erechoes the gray floor of stoneFalls sullenly now, for 'tis only my own;And sunk are the voices that sounded in mirth,And empty the goblet, and dreary the hearth.

And vain was each effort to raise and recallThe brightness of old to illumine our Hall;And vain was the hope to avert our decline,And the fate of my fathers had faded to mine.

And theirs was the wealth and the fulness of Fame,And mine to inherit too haughty a name;rAnd theirs were the times and the triumphs of yore,And mine to regret, but renew them no more.

And Ruin is fixed on my tower and my wall,Too hoary to fade, and too massy to fall;It tells not of Time's or the tempest's decay,sBut the wreck of the line that have held it in sway.

"Oh! banish care"--such ever beThe motto of thy revelry!Perchance of mine, when wassail nightsRenew those riotous delights,Wherewith the children of DespairLull the lone heart, and "banish care."But not in Morn's reflecting hour,When present, past, and future lower,When all I loved is changed or gone,Mock with such taunts the woes of one,Whose every thought--but let them pass--Thou know'st I am not what I was.But, above all, if thou wouldst holdPlace in a heart that ne'er was cold,By all the powers that men revere,By all unto thy bosom dear,Thy joys below, thy hopes above,Speak--speak of anything but Love.

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,The tale of one who scorns a tear;And there is little in that taleWhich better bosoms would bewail.But mine has suffered more than well'Twould suit philosophy to tell.I've seen my bride another's bride,--Have seen her seated by his side,--Have seen the infant, which she bore,Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,When she and I in youth have smiled,As fond and faultless as her child;--Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,Ask if I felt no secret pain;And I have acted well my part,And made my cheek belie my heart,Returned the freezing glance she gave,Yet felt the while that woman's slave;--Have kissed, as if without design,The babe which ought to have been mine,And showed, alas! in each caressTime had not made me love the less.

But let this pass--I'll whine no more,Nor seek again an eastern shore;The world befits a busy brain,--I'll hie me to its haunts again.But if, in some succeeding year,When Britain's "May is in the sere,"Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimesSuit with the sablest of the times,Of one, whom love nor pity sways,Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise;One, who in stern Ambition's pride,Perchance not blood shall turn aside;One ranked in some recording pageWith the worst anarchs of the age,Him wilt thou know--and knowing pause,Nor with the effect forget the cause.