1
- 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 bloomd in the way.
2
- Of the mail-coverd Barons, who proudly to battle
- Led their vassals from Europe to Palestines plain,
- The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,
- Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
3
- No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
- Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurelld wreath;
- Near Askalons towers, John of Horistan slumbers,
- Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.
4
- 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;
- How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell.
5
- On Marston, with Rupert, gainst traitors contending,
- Four brothers enrichd with their blood the bleak field;
- For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
- Till death their attachment to royalty seald.
6
- Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
- From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
- Abroad, or at home, your remebrance imparting
- New courage, hell think upon glory and you.
7
- Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
- Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
- Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
- The fame of his fathers he neer can forget.
8
- That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
- He vows that he neer will disgrace your renown:
- Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
- When decayd, may he mingle his dust with your own!
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