Selections from Byron [antikvár]

ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY 1. Through the 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 choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way. 2. Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle, Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry 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-laurell'd wreath; Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers, Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel, by death. K"