My father's ancient seat;
A stranger now must call thee his,
Which gars my heart to greet.
“Albeit that here in London Tower,
It is my fate to die,
O, carry me to Northumberland,
In my father's grave to lie.”
How few who visit Greenwich Hospital are aware that that noble institution, of which the country is so justly proud, has derived, for upwards of a century and a half, the immense revenue of six thousand a year from the ill-fated earl's forfeited estates!
Has not this effaced the treason?
I commend his story to you.