Soon a new Morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of Anarchy from Britain's skies; The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell, And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans; Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath; Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones, Loathing [12] the offering of so dark a death.
The legal Ruler [13] now resumes the helm, He guides through gentle seas, the prow of state; Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.
The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells, Howling, resign their violated nest; [iv] Again, the Master on his tenure dwells, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale, Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return; Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale, And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.
A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float, Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.
Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake; What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake; Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.
Ah happy days! too happy to endure! Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure; Their joys were many, as their cares were few.
From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed; Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another Chief impels the foaming steed, Another Crowd pursue the panting hart.
Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; The last and youngest of a noble line, Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.
Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers; Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep; Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers; These, these he views, and views them but to weep.
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret: Cherish'd Affection only bids them flow; Pride, Hope, and Love, forbid him to forget, But warm his bosom, with impassion'd glow.
Yet he prefers thee, to the gilded domes, [14] Or gewgaw grottos, of the vainly great; Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of Fate.