Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay;
In the once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choked up the rose that once bloomed in the way.
Lord Byron (1803)

The little twig that Byron planted here,
In manhood's hope and early prime,
The twig he gave his constant love and care
In Britain's far-famed classic clime,
Has grown to be a towering, stalwart tree;—
But Byron, master mind, O where is he!

And Newstead Abbey, where he lived and dreamed,
Still marks the sacred precincts well;
But long ago the stranger's banners streamed
O'er towers where Byron's heart did swell!
His lofty oak, with arms outstretched to God,
Speaks for the Bard—as Missolonghi's sod.

Old Newstead and its giant oak may stand
The fury of the storm and age,
But they must both decay, ere Byron's wand
Shall lose its power of love and rage!
Ere from the human heart shall fade away
The magic spell he breathed in life's short day!

I love him well, this wayward child of song,
Whose life in all was passing strange;
With mind so bitter sweet, so weak, so strong—
With power to soothe, to charm, estrange;—
Within his grasp the harp was made to flow
The sweetest, saddest notes the heart can know!

And he will live when Newstead and its tree
Have crumbled back to mother dust;
His name is linked with song and liberty,
And time such fame can never rust!
E'en Albion's glorious name must pale and wane,
While Byron's fame through endless time will reign!