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O thou! to whose creative power
We dedicate the festal hour,
Our Roman-hearted fathers broke
Thy parent empire's galling yoke, But thou, harmonious monarch of the mind, Around their sons a gentler chain shall bind ;Still o'er our land shall Albion's sceptre wave, And what her mighty Lion lost her mightier Swan shall
BY F. G. HALLECX.
Home of the Percy's highborn race,
Home of their beautiful and brave, Alike their birth and burial place,
Their cradle, and their grave! Still sternly o’er the castle gate Their house's Lion stands in state,
As in his proud departed hours ; And warriors frown in stone on high, And feudal banners “flout the sky”
Above his princely towers.
A gentle hill its side inclines,
Lovely in England's fadeless green,
Through this romantic scene
While summer's wind blew soft and low,
A thousand years ago.
Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile :
Does not the succouring Ivy, keeping Her watch around it seem to smile,
As o'er a loved one sleeping ?
One solitary turret gray
Still tells, in melancholy glory, The legend of the Cheviot day,
The Percy's proudest border story. That day its roof was triumph's arch;
Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome,
The music of the trump and drum;
Welcomed her warrior home.
Wild roses by the Abbey towers
Are gay in their young bud and bloom :
A Templar's knightly tomb.
Where the Cross was damped with his dying breath;
Was thick with the darts of death.
Wise with the lore of centuries,
Those giant oaks could tell,
Of beings born and buried here;
The welcome and farewell,
The Norman's curfew-bell.
I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame,
Each high, heroic name,
Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons ;
That last half stanza- it has dashed
From my warm lip the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eye-beam flashed,
The power that bore my spirit up Above this bank-note world—is gone ; And Alnwick’s but a market-town, And this, alas! its market-day, And beasts and borderers throng the way;