Chapter I

I leave thee, Warwick, and thy precincts grey,
Amidst a thousand winters still the same,
Ere tempests rend thy last sad leaves away,
And from thy bowers the native rock reclaim;
Crisp dews now glitter on the joyless field,
The gun's red disk now sheds no parting rays,
And through thy trophied hall the burnished shield
Disperses wide the swiftly mounting blaze.