NEWSTEAD ABBEY, 
 
 
 BY PROFESSOR CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY SIMPKIN & MARSHALL 
 1831 . 
 
NEWSTEAD ABBEY, 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 BY PROFESSOR CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY SIMPKIN & MARSHALL. 
 
%%i 
 
 c tfib w 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 u Si Canimus Sylvas Sylvas sint Consule dignae.” 
 
 Virgil, 
 
 To Newstead Abbey, in the Month of May, 
 With lightsome heart, romantically gay ; 
 
 From Mansfield town with anxious steps I hied, 
 
 ~ ^ To view that scene, the seat of Classic pride. 
 
 With silent wonder I survey’d those piles. 
 
 In gloomy grandeur midst gay nature’s smiles ; 
 There nodding towers, mould ring in decay, 
 s Of fallen splendor give a grand display. 
 
 .Some thousand pounds, with taste and Masters care. 
 Shall bring the Abbey to its old repair ; 
 
 Expended sums on best masonic art. 
 
 Augments new beauties in each fragile part : 
 
 The tott’ring aisle improves with skill once more. 
 And Newstead Honours shall again restore ; 
 Dilapidation quickly shall correct. 
 
 Fill up each chasm, and stop each frail defect. 
 
 The stuccoed honour of these ancient walls. 
 
 In thirty-one a Briton’s taste recalls ; 
 
 For which the bard most joyful truly sings 
 This haunt of Heroes and abode of Kings. 
 
 The Gothic-arch, in ruin still sublime. 
 
 Bids proud defiance to the hand of time ; 
 
6 
 
 Of former structure this a model stands; 
 
 And rearing high the rural scene commands. 
 
 Its gloomy front some thousand winters stood* 
 Majestic Mansion of the ancient wood. 
 
 The neighboring oaks* which still its portals guard* 
 Shall shine in verse while Britain has a bard ; 
 Stupendous offspring of a parent soil* 
 
 Whose Sherwood strength oft aided warlike toil. 
 
 Ye aged bulwarks fain my muse would sing — 
 
 Your harden’d power to guard Great Britain’s King — 
 Your pond’rous strength — your mighty giant force. 
 To stop his foes and mar their hostile course ; 
 
 And though success his conquest had not crown’d* 
 Your fame no less shall wond’ring age astound. 
 
 That ruin’d Hall* which now majestic droops* 
 
 In Monarch awe kept Britain’s rebel troops. 
 
 Historic page will long that prowess boast* 
 
 Which hade defiance to a dauntless host — 
 
 Which bravely stood the thund’ring and the storm 
 Of men aspiring wonders to perform: 
 
 Beleagur’d round by armies thick enclos’d* 
 Unshrinking ardour countless ranks oppos’d ; 
 
 There dauntless valour brav’d the warring toil 
 Of rushing foes to storm the sacred aisle. 
 
 From yonder turret* on the lofty wall* 
 
 Unerring death flew shap’d in musket-hall ; 
 
 And to the shades some thousands had consign’d. 
 With bullet vengeance whizzing through the wind. 
 Here carnage dire imbru’d the plain with gore — 
 Here Heroes fell* who sunk to rise no more — 
 
7 
 
 Deeds here perform'd, when in Britannic rage. 
 
 Shall long be sounded in the Poet’s page : 
 
 And many a fallen corse, on Newstead plain. 
 Augments the mass of mortals nobly slain. 
 
 This warring fort strong battlements defend. 
 
 And vengeful foes in vain their fury spend ; 
 
 Here long the proudest, and the ablest too. 
 
 Found Newstead Abbey British Waterloo ; 
 
 And though compell’d the laurel to resign. 
 
 This regal fort shall still immortal shine. 
 
 How chang’d, alas ! this pious, peaceful haunt. 
 
 Where Virgin Nuns did sacred anthems chant 
 
 Where holy Monks oft pour’d the fervent prayT 
 
 As pure in thought as midnight solemn air. 
 
 Nought now is heard but clamour, loud and din. 
 
 In this abode of sacrilege and sin. 
 
 One holy Henry, in religion great. 
 
 To heaven's bright Queen these walls did dedicate : 
 Another Henry sends the Monks adrift ; 
 
 And robs the Virgin of the pious gift. 
 
 In fell despair these inmates now must roam 
 Through world of care, no refuge, friends, or home. 
 Through life they wander from this blest abode — 
 Their cheering hope they faithful rest on God. 
 Devotion now proud Monarch’s must revile. 
 
 And peaceful Abbots banish in exile. 
 
 Thus Kings enact their stern despotic laws. 
 
 And ransack Abbeys for some golden cause ; 
 
 Thus drive the pious from Religion's cell. 
 
 And Newstead fill with hostile martial yell. 
 
Here female shrieks, commix’d with dying groans. 
 And rummag’d graves must yield up human hones. 
 For buried gold they rake the silent tomb. 
 
 While murky horror guards the Gothic room. 
 Rapacious wolves within these precincts prowl — 
 And blazing helmets must succeed the cowl. 
 
 No more the pious shall their matins sing — 
 
 No more with vespers shall the Abbey ring — 
 
 No more the Virgin supplicating hows. 
 
 Nor ’fore the Altar pays her promis’d vows. 
 
 The votive knee no more, alas ! is bent, — 
 
 No more the night in holy vigils spent — 
 
 No more the Cross, that Christian banner proud. 
 Within these walls by Monarchs is allowed. 
 
 Two regal emblems of a beastly race. 
 
 Inglorious stand, the guardians of the place ; 
 Ferocious bred, and as ferocious horn. 
 
 The Lion this, and that the Unicorn. 
 
 The Cross despis’d, — these animals succeed 
 That holy Cross on which our Lord did bleeed. 
 Such were the fruits of Henry’s politics. 
 
 To tear down abbeys and the crucifix ; 
 
 To model churches on a new foundation ; 
 
 First, last Apostle, of the Reformation. 
 
 This Royal Founder, clever to devise. 
 
 To plan salvation, and to make men wise : 
 Intrepid sailor, skilful to discharge. 
 
 To guide the helm, and manage Peter’s barge— 
 Religion’s tempest manfully to brave — 
 
 To ride in triumph, and to stem the wave : 
 
9 
 
 To ocean’s depths the mariner consign. 
 
 Who is not charter’d by his gospel line ; 
 
 Pope, Peter, Demon, he’ll at once confound. 
 
 And Priests unhallow’d drive from British ground. 
 His Bible Acts my muse is loth to tell. 
 
 The candid reader knows the truth too well. 
 
 I believe the bard who matchless nobly sings — 
 Truth still is truth, and facts are stubborn things. 
 
 But why thus dwell on paths so often trod ; 
 
 Some abler pen may try the cause of God : 
 
 Tis not my province, I the task resign. 
 
 Let Churchmen write, I’m not a bred divine. 
 
 My jaded muse, once more thy task resume. 
 
 With potent vigour let the laurel bloom. 
 
 A son of Mars, who fought in foreign land. 
 
 Deserves this emblem, matchless, noble, grand ; 
 
 His British valour, during three campaigns. 
 
 Requires the essence of the brightest strains. 
 
 The Spanish Dons oftimes with wonder view'd — 
 
 In agile speed their Gallic foes pursu’d. 
 
 As timid Hares our sportsmen oft run down. 
 
 Thus our brave Colonel chas’d them throngh the town. 
 The flying Stag, or fleetest hunted Doe, 
 
 Could not in speed out-run the vanquish’d foe : 
 
 O’er hills and dales from field of fight he fled. 
 
 Or gasping, falling, sunk among the dead. 
 
 Here dying Heroes in one carnage lay, — 
 
 There human slaughter, groaning, crown’d the day — 
 Here bleeding heaps their fleeting breath resign— 
 There some in vain oppose the British line. 
 
10 
 
 Yon brave Battalion Boney sees with tears — 
 
 The pride of France — his vancpiish’d Cuirassiers : — 
 Before our Colonel, struck with pallid awe. 
 
 From contest shrink, and from the field withdraw ; 
 Though nobly clad in burnish’d coat of mail. 
 
 Our Newstead Briton made them turn their tail : 
 Great mighty Jove had will’d these troops should feel 
 The useless pomp of glitt’ring temper’d steel. 
 
 This dastard train, though shining armour crown’d. 
 Fled from the plain with many a ghastly wound : 
 But when their prowess once again we view. 
 
 Their coward fame expires at Waterloo. 
 
 Ye Gods ! what language can in verse explain 
 The martial wonders of the British train. 
 
 Behold our Colonel fly from gun to gun. 
 
 Charge, rouse, applaud, and lead his Fleroes on : 
 
 He courts fell danger in the hottest fire — 
 
 None but the brave appease a Wildman’s ire. 
 
 The Gallic Chief, with lion boldness seeks. 
 
 While yet his sword with Frenchmen’s slaughter reeks. 
 Through fighting hosts he for the tyrant flies. 
 
 And seeks great Nap , with anxious eagle-eyes. 
 
 That hour auspicious did kind fate bestow. 
 
 Our valiant Colonel prostrate vanguish’d low. 
 
 Had sav’d all Europe from a wicked foe. 
 
 By one tremendous mortal British blow. 
 
 But this the Gods had otherwise design’d. 
 
 For some great cause unknown to human mind : 
 
 Yet still true courage claims the Poet’s meed — 
 
 ’Tis Honour’s boon — so onward I proceed. 
 
11 
 
 To Hector's room kind fate my footsteps led. 
 
 And shew'd how laurels deck'd the Colonel's bed. 
 Which he had brought from the ensanguin'd field 
 Of Waterloo, where Gallia’s Chief did yield. 
 
 5 Twas on that day Britannia's darling pride. 
 
 With Gallic gore his reeking sword had dy’d ; 
 
 The bravest warriors of the hostile band. 
 
 That day fell victims to his conquering hand. 
 Methinks I see him face the stubborn foe — 
 
 Bear down their ranks, and their battalions mow ; 
 By ardour rous'd, devoid of dread or fear. 
 
 He made them tremble at the British cheer : 
 
 He charges home, in flank, in rear, and van. 
 
 And proves a Hector, though a little man. 
 
 O could my muse but now in verse pourtray 
 His deeds of valour on that glorious day; 
 
 How he had fought; and how no son of Gaul 
 In single combat could our Chief appal. 
 
 His mighty mind did dauntless valour show. 
 
 And death sure follow'd every mortal blow. 
 
 His troops he led midst cannon’s loudest thunder,— 
 He prov'd a Nestor and an Alexander. 
 
 Fire and caution, in the hottest rage. 
 
 Shall mark our Colonel on the British page. 
 
 Pallas and Mars were hov'ring round his head. 
 
 As through the field he valiant Heroes led. 
 
 Fight on, they cried ; fight on, our darling son. 
 
 And share the glory with great Wellington. 
 Victory this day shall all thy toil reward. 
 
 And future age shall long thy fame record. 
 
12 
 
 As thus they spoke, their Hero they inspir’d— 
 
 His mettle rous’d — fresh vigour he acquir’d : 
 
 So from that forth some thousands of the foe. 
 
 Our Newstead Colonel sent to Styx below. 
 
 Their ranks he broke with more than human arm ; 
 And like great Ajax wonders did perform : 
 
 He bore down standards, men, and horse and all, - 
 And brought home trophies pendent in the Hall. 
 
 In Newstead Abbey, now retir’d from strife. 
 
 He lives in comfort with his lovely wife. 
 
 Sometimes old Boatswain* will their time amuse — 
 That faithful Dog of Byron’s candid muse. 
 
 * The Dog here mentioned, to whom Lord Byron once 
 owed his life, and for whose fidelity his Lordship erected a 
 Monument, with the following Inscription : — 
 
 “ Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who 
 possessed beauty without vanity, — strength without insolence, — 
 courage without ferocity ; and all the virtues of man without 
 his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if 
 inscribed over human ashes, is but a just]tribute to the memory 
 of Boatswain — a dog who was born in Newfoundland, May, 
 1803, and died at Newstead, October, 1808. 
 
 “ When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
 Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth ; 
 
 The Sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe, 
 
 And storied urns record who rests below. 
 
 When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
 
 Not what he was — but what he should have been. 
 
 But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend, 
 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend — 
 
 Whose honest heart is still his master’s own, 
 
 WTio labours, fights, lives, breathes, for him alone — 
 
13 
 
 The marble stone, which marks his last remains. 
 Shall long be view’d the wonder of the plains : 
 Two Satyrs stand in gloomy solitude, — 
 Impervious boughs the solar rays exclude. 
 
 The Sculptor’s art, with classic skill displays. 
 Their youthful offspring in this sylvan maze* 
 Here rural grandeur Fancy’s power awakes. 
 
 And ravish’d sight beholds three sylvan lakes* 
 With wonder fill’d, the mind extatic feels. 
 
 And through each sense a sweet sensation steals* 
 Great Homer’s lays, or Maro’s tuneful muse. 
 Could chant the beauties of these sylvan views* 
 Descriptive power essays the task in vain — 
 Byron must rise to strike his Lyre again. 
 
 Great matchless Bard ! alas ! alas ! no more ; 
 The sacred Nine shall long thy loss deplore ; 
 
 XJnhonour-d falls ! unnoticed all his worth, 
 
 Denied in Heaven the soul he held on earth : 
 
 While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 
 
 And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven ! 
 
 Oh ! man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
 
 Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power. 
 
 Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 
 Degraded mass of animated dust. 
 
 Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 
 
 Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
 
 By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 
 
 Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 
 Ye ! who behold perchance this simple urn, 
 
 Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn ; 
 
 To mark a Friend’s remains these stones arise— 
 l never knew but one, and here he lies !” 
 
14 
 
 Their plaintive wailings in yon hallow’d dell— 
 Struck on my ear like potent fairy spell. 
 
 Their mournful sounds, me thought, was thy last 
 knell— 
 
 Tarnshx’d to earth I stood in awful mood ! 
 
 When, lo ! I saw the Genius of the flood. 
 
 Whose sable figure, and whose godlike make, 
 Appear’d reflected by the silv’iy lake ; 
 
 With solemn ]3ace, majestic, gloomy, slow. 
 
 He stalk’d, quite pensive, through the vale below ; 
 Behind some Nymph a wavTing cypress bore. 
 
 That last sad emblem, round the silent shore : 
 Their way they sped to yon lofty tower. 
 
 Where oft his Lordship sjDent a Classic hour. 
 These sacred walls have seen in lucubration. 
 
 His midnight muse oft wrapt in contemplation. 
 That matchless Bard! within this ancient haunt. 
 
 In quondam days, Athenian lore did chant : 
 
 Here sportive thought, some thousands fictions drew ; 
 Here verse was form’d, the best the world e’er knew ; 
 Here stanzas made with, energy divine. 
 
 In British Annals shall immortal shine. 
 
 And lo ! with truth, ’tis here it may be said ; 
 
 That brightest Science brightest Genius fed. 
 
 The future age will own that Star is set. 
 
 Whose powers refulgent shot such rays of Wit. 
 
 But from this tower, and this hallow’d fane. 
 
 My muse transports me backwards to the plain : 
 Here flow’ry meads — and here the bubbling brooks — ■ 
 Proclaim sweet murmurs through the elefted rocks; 
 
15 
 
 Meand’ring streams in chrystal riv’lets flow. 
 
 And sportive Bucks in gambols hunt the Doe. 
 
 Here verdant pastures, with sw^eet herbage feed. 
 
 The browsing, bleating, snowy, fleecy breed. 
 
 Here sylvan songsters warble natures praise ; 
 
 Men here, like gods, might joyous spend their days. 
 Here old Palemon,* Byron’s shepherd swain. 
 
 Oft tun’d his pipe, and sung a pleasing strain. 
 
 To yonder brook oft led his flock with care ; 
 
 Or neath the shade at noontide did repair. 
 
 This faithful Cyclops stands upon record. 
 
 In painted Honors by his grateful Lord. 
 
 Thus sterling worjth, when in the humblest swain. 
 Shall rank with Kings, though of a mighty reign. 
 The skilful Artist, with his pencil, tries 
 This lowly shej^herd to immortalize : 
 
 The Poet, too, his friendly aid combines. 
 
 To sing his virtues in these candid lines. 
 
 From youth to age a peaceful life he ran, 
 
 He liv’d and died a truly honest man. 
 
 In yonder grove or aromatic dale. 
 
 He oftimes listen’d to the Nightingale. 
 
 Midst magic sweetness, in these lovely bowers. 
 
 My Lord himself oft spent his best of hours. 
 
 Here dulcet music charms the ravish’d ear. 
 
 And sense enchauted thrills with fairy fear. 
 
 * Palemon and Cyclops are here used as synonimous terms, 
 to signify any shepherd. This is rested on Virgilian authority ; 
 both having followed the pastoral life, as that Poqt mentions. 
 
16 
 
 Here Nymphs and Graces coyly skip along — 
 
 And happy groups unite in vocal song. 
 
 Her choicest treasures Flora here displays. 
 
 On varied thousands, while the curious gaze : 
 
 With all the fond maternal parent skill. 
 
 The dew of Heav n for them she does distil : 
 
 A balmy drop for each she has in store. 
 
 While all her children scented odours pour.. 
 
 The Lily here attracts her partial care — 
 
 Then next the Rose with fragrance fills the air. 
 
 Ere Sol dispels the remnant morning gloom. 
 
 She fills the garden with a sweet perfume. 
 
 The giddy sight translucent beauties views,. 
 
 And Rainbow colours, midst botanic dews. 
 
 Here wonders grow, in dowry vegetation — 
 
 Taste here delights to rove for recreation. 
 
 Here nature boasts an everlasting bloom — 
 
 Here Phoebus bright dispels the winter’s gloom. 
 Within these bowers no chilling frosts are known — - 
 They live in Newstead, as in temperate zone. 
 December here might well compare with May — 
 
 In verdant honours and in beauties gay. 
 
 They here enjoy the happy golden age. 
 
 Which Virgil sings so sweetly in his page. 
 
 These vernal wonders shall this truth maintain. 
 
 In Newstead Hall old Saturn holds his reign. 
 
 If Goldsmith liv > d, he would no longer mourn 
 His Heaven on Earth, I mean his sweet Auburn. 
 
 To see those groves his soul Twould keenly ravish — 
 To sing their praise his powerful lays he’d lavish. 
 
17 
 
 That tuneful Bard could paint the dowry green. 
 The serpent walks, or rural Fairy scene — 
 
 The lovely, blooming, modest Lady’s Maid — 
 The Gardener, skilful at the pen or spade : 
 
 The clarion notes of noisy Chanticleer ; 
 
 The gabbling Gander, when the Fox is near. 
 Could sweetly make in verse the Newstead Crows 
 Like linnets sing, tho’ now their notes are prose. 
 Discordant numbers, from the ravag’d corn. 
 Proclaim their triumph loud as Highland horn : 
 And them to bring within the hounds of Bass, 
 Would be an honour to the Bardish race. 
 
 He could depict the gorgeous flashy tail 
 In Peacock pride — which sweeps along the vale. 
 Argean optics by great Juno’s words, 
 
 Instellate grace her favourite carriage birds. 
 
 And when transported o’er the morning dew. 
 
 Her pageant honours gaping rustics view. 
 
 In splendid triumph, with her beauteous train. 
 The goddess flies majestic o’er the plain. 
 
 Near yon green shade, or on the silent lake. 
 
 In liquid sport the Duck pursues the Drake. 
 Domestic fowl, by nature gently tame. 
 
 In pennate flocks dissect the limpid stream. 
 
 The frisking Babbit, now no longer shy. 
 
 From hostile man velocious will not fly. 
 
 The timid Hares in friendly concord feed — 
 
 And mix promiscuous with the Canine breed. 
 
 By gentle manners, this truly well-bred race. 
 
 Can watch, can guard— are fit for war or peace. 
 
18 
 
 The little Hen her Ban tin seeks with care — 
 Instinctive cacklings plaintive fill the air. 
 
 Through groves she flies to seek her long lost mate. 
 Then spousal pecks express her fondness great. 
 
 How grand a lesson this to man affords — T 
 
 This happy union in the Newstead birds, y 
 
 Speak largest volumes in the strongest words. \ 
 The mother turkey with her youthful chicks : — 
 The ColonePs dog* — the stranger how he licks. 
 
 The Pheasant too, in nature’s plumage gay. 
 
 Which woos the Cock, and flaps her wings in play. 
 Here lovely songsters, in harmonious cage. 
 
 In sweetest carols doth the mind engage. 
 
 Delightful Warblers,')' chirping natures note — 
 
 The Colonel brought from foreign lands remote. 
 
 He them selected for his Lady gay, — 
 
 Her heart to charm by their enchanting lay. 
 
 And while each bird its tuneful sonnet sings. 
 
 The ear is ravish’d of illustrious Kings. 
 
 Enraptur’d strains alternately they tune. 
 
 At eve, at morn, in Autumn, Spring, or J une. 
 Uniting chorus with extatic skill. 
 
 The pip displays of their harmonious bill. 
 
 * The Colonel’s Dog ran out to meet me — 
 
 He wagg’d his tail, and flew to greet me. 
 
 His welcome, and his canine speed, 
 
 Had prov’d lie was Lord Byron’s breed. 
 
 f The sight of a beautiful Aviary, in Newstead Abbey ? 
 having attracted the Professor’s notice, occasioned the above 
 lines, and awakened all the energies of his poetical fancy. 
 
19 
 
 They much delight with melody his Grace — - 
 And canker’d care from anxious bosoms chase. 
 
 This lively, sprightly, cheerful, pretty throng. 
 Awake in numbers all the soul of song. 
 
 Here still new beauties please the stranger’s eye — 
 Enchanted here I’d sweetly live and die. 
 
 The Painter’s art most skilfully displays 
 These ancient Kings, the pride of former days. 
 
 Here Royal Henry, of notorious strife. 
 
 In pictur’d canvass imitates the life : 
 
 And there his Spouse, of British Queens a Paragon — 
 The great, illustrions, matchless Kate of Arragon. 
 Here Scottish Mary, with her Cross, appears. 
 
 The Royal Captive of some nineteen years. 
 
 And tho’ in noisome dungeon long confin’d. 
 
 They had not power to subjugate her mind. 
 
 That holy love. Religion, which she bore. 
 
 Had made her welter in her pious gore. 
 
 Her life she lost by harsh inhuman laws. 
 
 For her adhering to Devotion’s cause. 
 
 The fondness great for Old Britannia’s creed. 
 
 Her made a Martyr, and her bosom bleed. 
 
 She stands most lovely in the Colonel’s room. 
 
 In royal graces, and in beauty’s bloom. 
 
 Salvation’s banner, pendent from the neck. 
 
 Protects in vain the innocent and meek. 
 
 Her virtues rare are chang’d to foulest deeds — 
 
 No shield the Cross — insulted are her beads. 
 Through human frailty if she stept aside. 
 
 Her God she lov’d, and in his cause she died. 
 
20 
 
 Great Byron next, with painted grace endu’d. 
 
 The eye attracts, in studious attitude. 
 
 The thinking brow of the interior man 
 Is here depicted on exterior plan. 
 
 The Limner’s touch a weight of thought conveys — 
 The silent look the musing Bard displays. 
 
 Each strong expression in his Lordship’s face, 
 Marks this fine emblem of Italian grace. 
 
 The matchless tincture makes the portrait true ; 
 
 It wants hut life, and Byron starts to yon* 
 
 A comic Dame then next appears to sight, 
 
 Thalia’s daughter, as the morning bright ; 
 
 Her powers dramatic, caus’d in Drury-Lane 
 Excessive joy, or an extreme of pain. 
 
 Sjddons thy name — a deathless fame ensures. 
 
 Thou lasting loss to comic amateurs. 
 
 Thy worth theatric on the British stage. 
 
 Was long confest unri vail’d in thy age. 
 
 What deaf’ning cheers thy genius oftimes won — 
 Thou heart and soul of true dramatic fun. 
 
 That tragic fate the Muse shall long deplore. 
 
 Which fill’d the house with plaudits and uproar. 
 Here finest paintings, — works of arts and taste, — 
 
 In splendid rooms are in succession plac’d. 
 
 Here ancient Knights, renown’d for deeds of arms— 
 And Ladies gay, much priz’d for beauty’s charms. 
 Bards, Sages, Heroes, chivalrous in fame. 
 
 Live here in canvass permanent in name. 
 
 In Newstead Hall, the lan scape rural scenes. 
 
 Are grac’d with Monarchs and their royal Queens. 
 
«■ 
 
 21 
 
 The Limner s art a skill divine pourtrays. 
 
 Men, life, and nature, in some thousand ways. 
 Fam’d Angelo to high perfection bent. 
 
 With powerful grace gave all a living tint. 
 
 That genius great in painting most sublime. 
 
 Ne’er yet was match’d, nor shall till end of time. 
 Italia’s wonder, like him no artist knew. 
 
 To make a mortal an immortal too. 
 
 He could, by art, the oddest fashions shape — 
 
 Could make a Camel gallop with an Ape. 
 
 Could make this Ape descend and ride a Donkey ; 
 And then could change this Rider to a Monkey. 
 
 He, Proteus like, had a prolific knack 
 To keep the Monkey on the Camel’s back. 
 
 To make folk laugh, would place them in a a room. 
 And keep the Ape to be the Monkey’s groom. 
 Poetic powers attempt to draw in vain. 
 
 The varied wonders which these walls contain. 
 Through Britain’s Isle no paintings can compare 
 With Newstead portraits, tasteful, grand, and rare. 
 To make them move with human animation. 
 
 They want but breath and vital inspiration. 
 
 Such are the beauties, — such the taste within — - 
 And those without are far beyond my pen. 
 
 Worth here retir’d from martial din of arms. 
 
 This haunt selected for its Sherwood charms. 
 
 From town remote he lives in rural fun. 
 
 With these best friends> his faithful Dog and Gun. 
 And when at noon the toil and sport are oer. 
 
 The festive bottle will new life restore. 
 
22 
 
 Thrice happy man, the owner of these plains. 
 
 Where health, where wealth, and rural grandeur 
 reigns — 
 
 Where sweet content is -kn,own throughout the year^ 
 And where the stranger gets the choicest cheer: 
 Where British feeling welcomes at the door. 
 
 The child of want, the needy, and the poor. 
 
 Here festive mirth, with manners fine as gay. 
 
 Shall cheer the guest who feels inclin’d to stay. 
 
 The jocund song, the courtly polish'd air, 
 
 A Host bespeak of frankness most sincere. 
 
 The pun, the joke, the lively repartee. 
 
 Expressive prove his heart is full of glee. 
 
 His lovely consort, courteous debonair. 
 
 In Newstead Hall feels emulous to share. 
 
 Her lib'ral bounty, with a libTal hand. 
 
 The poor man’s comfort and and the rich man s friend. 
 This worthy Lady nature has design’d 
 A perfect model of the female mind. 
 
 0 ! may this fond, connubial, spousal pair. 
 
 In Newstead Hall be strangers long to Gare ; 
 
 May they be blest throughout the stage of life — 
 Thrice happy husband, and thrice happy wife : 
 
 May every bliss attend their gay career. 
 
 Each Spring, each Autumn, and revolving Year. 
 
 So to conclude to Jove this supplication, 
 
 1 here shall drink a flowing strong libation. 
 
 Good health I wish the Lady and the Colonel \ 
 
 And three times three shall end my Newstead Journal. 
 
EXTEIttPOHE LINES, 
 
 On being shewn a Human Skull formed into a Drinking Cup. 
 
 This super-human flowing Cup, 
 
 The great Lord B. was wont to sup ; 
 
 And whilst the Bard the liquor drains, 
 
 It gives him Wit, instead of brains ; 
 
 The head is fill’d with inspiration, 
 
 The more you quaff this strange potation ; 
 
 Such magic virtue in the skull, 
 
 The more you drink the less you’re dull ; 
 
 ’Tis said this Cranium did contain 
 Platonic lore and JEneid strain : 
 
 Some Hebrew, too, and choicest Greek, 
 
 Its learned owner once could speak, — 
 
 He was a worthy pious Abbot, 
 
 And knew the Bible from long habit : 
 
 For Classic skill immortal made, 
 
 Ere he from earth had wing’d his shade. 
 
 And as he was a great Divine, 
 
 They fill his head with British wine : 
 
 And lo ! this bev’rage sipp’d with care, 
 
 Doth make the judgment bright and clear ; 
 
 The mind expands with brilliant thought, 
 
 At ev’ry potent Cheerful draught ; 
 
 Creates new fancies in the head, — • 
 
 And life recals to genius fled. 
 
 When next I’m seized with writing hobby, 
 
 And wish to view that ancient Abbey ; 
 
 This Monkish Skull will aid my quill, 
 
 To court the Muse with greater skill. 
 
 To write again my other theme, 
 
 Requires the pow’r of Classic steam ; 
 
 It wants a Goblet, super human, 
 
 To sing an Abbey so uncommon. 
 
 These wond’rous cups, instead of glasses, 
 
 Shall make me ride the great Pegasus : 
 
 Then my next Canto will succeed, 
 
 My Horse is of Celestial breed,— 
 
 He’ll fly through air with rapid speed. 
 
 And when he tries his wild career, 
 
 I’ll prove the pow’r of British beer : 
 
 To stop his flight — to guide the reins, 
 
 Great Art requires on iEther’s plains j 
 To check, to curb, to manage, pull. 
 
 Is aided by a Newstead Skull, 
 
 One drink from this old Abbot’s pate, 
 
 Inspires the mind with Classic weight, 
 
 } 
 
24 
 
 It whets the genius, warms the soul'. 
 When you exhaust this magic bowl ; 
 Energizes the dullest man, 
 
 And fashion’s verse on Homer’s plan. 
 
 The following is Lord By ron's Inscription on the above SkulL 
 
 Start not — nor deem my spirit fled : 
 
 In me behold the only skull, 
 
 From which, unlike a living head, 
 
 Whatever flows is never dull. 
 
 I lived, I loved, I quaff’d like thee ; 
 
 I died ; let earth my bones resign : 
 
 Fill up — thou canst not injure me; 
 
 The worm hath fouler lips than thine, 
 
 jBetter to hold the sparkling grape, 
 
 Than nurse the earth-worm’s slimy brood t 
 
 And circle in the goblet’s shape 
 
 The drink of Gods, than reptile’s food. 
 
 Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 
 
 In aid of others let me shine ; 
 
 And when, alas! our brains are gone, 
 
 What nobler substitute than wine ! 
 
 Quaff while thou canst—another race, 
 
 When thou and thine like me are sped, 
 
 May rescue thee from earth’s embrace, 
 
 And rhyme and revel with the dead. 
 
 Why not? since through life’s little day 
 Our heads such sad effects produce, 
 
 Redeem’d from worms and wasting clay, 
 
 This chance is theirs — to be of use. 
 
 N»B. The Second Canto is preparing fir Publication , 
 
 G. Grawshaw, Printer, Briggate* Leeds.