_A Picture At Newstead._

What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?-- ’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony; It was the sight of that Lord Arundel Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well, And his child’s reason flickered, and did die. Painted (he willed it) in the gallery They hang; the picture doth the story tell.

Behold the stern, mailed father, staff in hand! The little fair-haired son, with vacant gaze, Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!

Methinks the woe, which made that father stand Baring his dumb remorse to future days, Was woe than Byron’s woe more tragic far.