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George Gordon Byron - On Leaving Newstead Abbey
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`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 court.` ~ Ossian


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 bloom`d in the way.

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 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-laurell`d 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 ye;
   How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell.

On Marston, with Rupert, `gainst traitors contending,
   Four brothers enrich`d with their blood the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
   Till death their attachment to royalty seal`d.

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, he`ll think upon glory and you.

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 ne`er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
   He vows that he ne`er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
   When decay`d, may he mingle his dust with your own!
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