Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
Elegy on Newstead Abbey
By Lord Byron (17881824)N
Religion’s shrine! repentant Henry’s pride!
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloistered tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
Than modern mansions in their pillared state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
In grim array the crimson cross demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board
Their chief’s retainers, an immortal band:
Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,
Marking each ardent youth, ordained to die,
A votive pilgrim in Judæa’s clime.
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
The monk abjured a world he ne’er could view;
Or blood-stained guilt repenting solace found,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.
Where Sherwood’s outlaws once were wont to prowl;
And superstition’s crimes, of various dyes,
Sought shelter in the priest’s protecting cowl.
The humid pall of life-extinguished clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.
Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary paid.
Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed;
Religion’s charter their protecting shield,
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another Henry the kind gift recalls,
And bids devotion’s hallowed echoes cease.
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world in deep despair,—
No friend, no home, no refuge but their God.
Shakes with the martial music’s novel din!
The heralds of a warrior’s haughty reign,
High crested banners wave thy walls within.
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnished arms,
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increased alarms.
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.
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.
Cherished affection only bids them flow.
Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom with impassioned glow.
Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great;
Yet lingers mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur ’gainst the will of fate.
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine,
And bless thy future as thy former day.