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PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.


And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When virgins seem no longer vain,
And even woman's smiles are true.


And must we own thee but a name,

And from thy hall of clouds descend?

Nor find a sylph in every dame,

A Pyladest in every friend?

* First published in the Hours of Idleness.-ED.

It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion

But leave at once thy realms of air
To mingling bands of fairy elves?
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for-themselves?


With shame I own I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er:
No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar.
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;

To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear!


Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.

of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, the page of an historian or modern novelist.


Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir,

To mourn a swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire, But bends not now before thy throne,


Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow;

Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrensy glow;


will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant bard at least may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.


Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!

The hour of fate is hovering nigh; E'en now the gulf appears in view, Where unlamented you inust lie: Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether.


"It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds t."-Ossian.


NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY's pride!
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,


Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.


No mail-clad serfs§, obedient to their lord,
In grim array the crimson cross|| demand;
assemble round the festive board
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band:


*As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the author had, originally, no intention of inserting the following: it is now added at the particular request of some friends.

The motto was not given in the private volume.-ED.

Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas à Becket.

§ This word is used by Walter Scott in his poem, "The Wild Huntsman:" synonymous with vassal.

The red cross was the badge of the crusaders.


Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye

Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime.


But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.


Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.


A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl; And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.


Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.

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