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.