THOU wert well known, Newstead of old,
When England, with her clothyard shaft,
Won kingdoms, and as blythe as bold,
Drank her brown ale and laught.
Beneath thy broad and ancient oak,
Her wassail shout she merrily woke,
And with white hand and welcome glance,
Called out Will Scarlett to the dance;
With Will, the gallant and the leal,
Came Little John, as true as steel,
And Allan of the dale; a score
Of lads in Lincoln green, and more,
Bestirred them, till that shaking tree
Dropt acorns to their games and glee.
Whilst Robin Hood, to mend their cheer,
A sharp shaft sent to seek the deer,
And Lincoln's prelate quaking stood,
And blest the knaves of blithe Sherwood.
Less joyous, but far smoother times,
Have passed o'er Newstead since her tree Shook its green branches to the rhymes
Of Robin's minstrelsie.
A soul of other stamp hath woke
His song beneath the outlaw's oak
One nobly born and proudly bred
Hath there the mirth and revel led;
Whose lofty soul and haughty heart
Were stung as with a poisoned darf.
One, like bold Robin, proud and kind,
Of daring thought and generous mind.
For wild of life, untamed of mood,
Was Byron, so was Robin Hood:
All else unlike, as saw to sword,
Lived Newstead's first and latest lord;
As frost to fire, as tears to mirth,
As light to darkness, heaven to earth.
To jolly Robin yet belongs
Enough of joy, enough of mirth,
Of social tales and saucy songs,
To keep his name on earth.
But to his great successor more
Was given than this, for he had store
Of lofty thought and lordly scorn
For meanness high or humbly born;
Much of that will which owned no awe
For holy or for human law;
Much of that lightning power which burned
All those on whom in wrath he turned;
Too much, too, of that withering thought
Which blasted all with whom he fought.
He sang of man-his poet rod
Called up the fiend and sank the god.
He threw his spell-men mourned to mark
Strong spirits rise, for they were dark.
He came to Newstead, came at length;
Came, not as Lara, soured and stained
With crime, but shorn of all his strength,
His charmed goblet drained.
The harp o'er which Childe Harold flung
His practised hand, lay all unstrung ;
And he, the loftiest of his race,
Lay rotting in his pride of place.
There! proof of his unsobered soul,
His wassail cup-a ghastly bowl!
Fill it with wine, and when 'tis full,
Drink, mortal! 'tis thy brother's skull.
O, noble Byron! thou hadst light,
Pure as yon sun, and warm, as bright;
But thou hadst darkness deeper far
Than winter night that knows no star.
I glory in thee; yet I weep
For thy stern moods and early sleep.
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