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At will, and wound his bosom as they go.
A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour,
Thou trackless and immeasurable main !
To meet the hand that writ it; line nor lead
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent.
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
Why dost thou build the hall? Son of the winged days! Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty halls.
Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay,
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choaked up the rose, which bloomed in the way
Of the mail-covered Barons, who proudly to battle,
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; 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 you, 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 their monarch their country defending, Till death their attachment to loyalty sealed.
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,
When decayed may he mingle his dust with your own.
MOONLIGHT AT THE SEA-SIDE.
The heavens are cloudless, the winds are asleep,
The shepherd's blythe whistle hath ceased on the hill,
Now the weary fisher hath moored his light skiff,
The young autumn moon looks abroad o'er the scene,
As if the dark tempest had never been there.
It is thus with man in prosperity's hour
He plucks the gay blossom from pleasure's sweet flower,
And his eye beams as joyously bright and clear
As if it had never been dhamed with a tear.
When the moonlight heavens their glories unfold,
'Tis in the softness of such a sweet hour