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perament of his mind, than the defects of the heart:

“ In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd;
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot,
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot ;
His silence form’d a theme for other's prate -
They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped,
But ’scaped in vain, for in their memory yet,
His mind would half exult and half regret:
With more capacity for love than earth
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth,
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth,
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ;
With thought of years in phantom chase mispent,
And wasted powers for better purpose lent;
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath
In hurried desolation o'er his path,
And left the better feelings all at strife
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life.”

know his fate. What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known? A hater of his kind ? yet some would say With them he could seem gay amidst the gay; But own'd, that smile, if oft observed and near, Waned in its mirth, and withered to a sneer ; That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : Yet there was softness too in his regard, At times, a heart as not by nature hard, But once perceiv’d, his spirit seem'd to chide Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem One doubt from others' half withheld esteem; In self-inflicted penance of a breast Which tenderness might once havewrung from rest; In vigilance of grief that would compel The soul to hate from having loved too well. There was in him a vital scorn of all : As if the worst had fall’n which could befal, He stood a stranger in this breathing world, An erring spirit from another hurl'd;

He was one who made the world judge of him more harshly than it would have done, and has left mankind to deplore that his career was cut short, ere time and the influences of religion had softened the asperities of his mind, and led him to atone, in some degree, for the injuries he had done them. Perhaps the wayward course of his career may be ascribed to that bitter disappointment of his early days, so powerfully and so beautifully described in the finest of all his minor productions— “The Dream :" and if so, who is there that will not temper that anger which he may have felt against him, with some degree of pity ? Peace, then, to his ashes ! and

when he appears before the great tribunal of his heavenly Judge, may that be found in him which may cause his transgressions to be blotted from the book of life! The wish of his earlier days, the visiter to the Abbey will see is now fulfilled in the restoration of the Hall of his Ancestors, by his school. fellow and his early friend :

“ Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine,

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine,

And bless thy future as thy former day.” After I had made such a leisurely survey of Newstead as this, I retired to my room, to read in private the last description of the place which the marvellous, but perverted pen of Byron traced in one of his works, one, which though containing many fine and beautiful passages, every friend, not merely to religion and virtue, but to the memory of the Poet also, must ever wish that he had never written. But this description, though quaint, is so accurate, that I could not forbear reading and transcribing it :“ To Norman Abbey whirl’d the noble pair,

An old, old monastery once, and now
Still older mansion, of a rich and rare
Mix'd gothic, such as artists all allow

Few specimens yet left us can compare

Withal : it lies perhaps a little low, Because the Monks preferr'd a hill behind, To shelter their devotion from the wind.

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley,
Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid

oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder

stroke; And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally

The dappled foresters - as day awoke, The branching stag swept down, with all his

herd, To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed By a river, which its soften'd way did take

In currents thro' the calmer water spread Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and

stood With their

faces fix'd


the flood.

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade,

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding Its shriller echoes like an infant made

Quiet - sunk into softer ripples, gliding

Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd,
Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now

hiding Its windings thro’the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile (While yet the Church was Rome's), stood half

apart In a grand arch, which once screened many an

aisle. These last had disappear'd — a loss to art ; The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil,

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourn’d the power of time's, or tempest's

march, In gazing on that venerable arch.

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,
Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in

stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from the

When each house was a fortalice

The annals of full many a line undone, -
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain
For those who knew not to resign nor reign.

as tell

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd,
The Virgin Mother of the God-born


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