POEMS.
ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
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 desart comes, it howls in thy empty court. Ossian.
THRO' 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 choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way.
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.
