| |
| THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle; | |
| Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; | |
| In thy once smiling garden the hemlock and thistle | |
| Have choked up the rose which late bloomed in the way. | |
| |
| Of the mail-covered barons who proudly to battle | 5 |
| Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine’s plain, | |
| The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, | |
| Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. | |
| |
| No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, | |
| Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurelled wreath; | 10 |
| Near Askalon’s Towers John of Horistan slumbers, | |
| Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. | |
| |
| Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of Cressy; | |
| For the safety of Edward and England they fell: | |
| My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; | 15 |
| How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell. | |
| |
| On Marston, with Rupert ’gainst traitors contending, | |
| Four brothers enriched with their blood the bleak field; | |
| For the rights of a monarch, their country defending, | |
| Till death their attachment to royalty sealed. | 20 |
| |
| Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing | |
| From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu! | |
| Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting | |
| New courage, he ’ll think upon glory and you. | |
| |
| Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, | 25 |
| ’T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret; | |
| Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, | |
| The fame of his fathers he ne’er can forget. | |
| |
| That fame and that memory still will he cherish, | |
| He vows that he ne’er will disgrace your renown; | 30 |
| Like you will he live or like you will he perish; | |
| When decayed, may he mingle his dust with your own. | |
| |
