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TO ROMANCE.

I.

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.

2.

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.

3.

And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend;
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,

A Pylades (1) in every friend?

(1) It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships, which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus,

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.

4.

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.

5.

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.

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.

6.

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 quire,

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

7.

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

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

Say, will

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

8.

Adieu! fond race, a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hov'ring nigh;
Even now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie;
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen

Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather, Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether.

ELEGY

ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY (1).

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

OSSIAN.

NEWSTEAD! fast falling, once resplendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY's (2) 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 (3), obedient to their Lord,
In grim array, the crimson cross (4) demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board,

Their chief's retainers, an immortal band.

(1) 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.

(2) HENRY II founded Newstead, soon after the murder of THOMAS A BECKET.

(3) This word is used by WALTER SCOTT, in his poem, « The Wild Huntsman: » as synonymous with Vassal.

(4) The Red Cross was the badge of the Crusaders.

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye

Retrace their progress, thro' 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 abjur'd 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 rais'd their pious voices, but to pray.

Where, now, the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming (1) spreads her waning shade;
The choir did, oft, their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary (2) paid.

(1) As « Gloaming, » The Scottish word for Twilight, is far more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly Dr. Moore, in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it, on account of its harmony.

(2) The Priory was dedicated to the Virgin.

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