There down the steep the watchful warrior bold
In fated hour the storm of battle roll'd;
And, while the mountain deluges afar
Flooded the vales and swept the ranks of war,
Before pale Henry's van rush'd flight and fear,
And pestilence and famine dogg'd his rear.
Onward, with frequent pause, with fond delay,
To Corwen's height oft bending back my way,
Along the mazes of the neighbouring glades*,
Through deserts rude, and unfrequented shades,
I trace the caves and deep recesses hoar
That roof'd the war worn head of wild Glendore.
Mid yon dark cliffs, whose woods romantic wreathe
Athwart the wave that winds their roots beneath,
When War's keen bloodhounds prest their wearied
Couch'd in his lair awhile the chieftain lay; [prey,
Alone the mountain berry gave him food,
And his sole drink chill Deva's troubled flood.
Warrior! I trace thee not by victory crown'd, When regal honours beam'd thy brows around; The songs of other days thy fame record, And British minstrels dwell on Cambria's lord. Touch'd by the strain, at twilight's haunted hour, Oft as I stray'd beneath thy ruin'd tower, Methought the Druid harp, the haunts among, To many a note of echoing triumph rung, While, from the slumber of their long repose, Forms of old kings and British warriors rose. Lo! where her phantoms wizard Fancy led, Untrodden heaths and silent deserts spread.
* Glyn dwrdwy, or the Valley of the Dee, the patrimony of the famous Owen Glendore. Not a vestige of his mansion remains. In the latter part of his life, it is related that he was forced to shelter himself in caves and desert places from the fury of his enemies.
In vain I seek where luxury's festal pyre
Flash'd on the rocks around a gleaming fire;
When the lost wanderer, mid the storms of night,
Look'd up, and bless'd the hospitable light.
No scatter'd ruins o'er the waste extend,
O'er their rent base no tumbling turrets bend;
No broken bastion lies with moss o'ergrown;
No fragment of a gray and mouldering stone.
Sorrowing I turn,and through the birchen shades,
That sweep o'er Llandysilio's shelter'd glades,
Seek the deserted fane, when daylight smiles
Through the rent roof and dim-discover'd aisles.
Vale of the cross! let other bards explore
Thy silvan scenes, green heights, and mountains
hoar;
The rill's soft lapse thy sloping turf that laves,
The wood's wild growth that o'er thy abbey waves:
Let others gaze upon the solemn hues
Time's mellowing touches on the stone diffuse, And unsunn'd damps that, mouldering where they fall,
Stream in rich stains, and picture o'er the wall.
I pause-to voluntary woes resign'd,
And lenient grief that leaves a balın behind.
Half of the destined days of life are o'er,
Gone like a dream of night, to rise no more!
Like a lone pilgrim, by sad penance led,
From Po's green banks or Arno's flowery bed,
Far off, o'er northern solitudes to roam,
Who, midway, musing on the toils to come,
Upon the Alpine boundary's lofty crest
Lingers awhile his wearied limbs to rest;
The abbey of Valle Crucis was a house of Cistertians, founded in the year 1200.
There as on either side the realms extend, [end, Whence first he wander'd, where his wanderings Bends wistful to the regions left behind,
And loud exclaims, in agony of mind- [blows, "Land! where each gale like vernal fragrance Where winter's sun on ripening plenty glows; Where, ever as I pass'd, the path around
Bloom'd with fresh flowers, and pendent fruitage [beam'd;
Hills, whose lone tops with lighted chantries
Vales,in whose nightly gloom the convents gleam'd;
Retreats, beneath whose shelter peace reposed,
And the tranced eye in blissful visions closed;
Farewell! down yon rude tract forlorn I go,
O'er pathless solitudes, o'er wastes of snow.
Heaven wills-fond, hopeless wish, no more rebel;
Be with this tear forgotten; so, farewell!'
Thus, from this midway bourn, my pausing eye
Beholds beneath life's varying journeys lie:
O'er the fair retrospect, thus memory cast,
Turns lingering to the dreams of pleasure past.
Pilgrim! thou once again mayst haunt the bower
Where fond affection nursed thy infant hour,
And lay thee down in age within the glade
Where innocence and thoughtless childhood play'd;
But never, once pass'd o'er, shall man be found
To sport again on youth's enchanted ground.
Then, oh! thou morn of life, man's vernal prime, Light Joys that wave the downy wings of time; Health, whose bright glow on roseate vigour bloom'd;
Pure Innocence, whose smile each look illumed; Gay Sprightliness, from vivid wonder sprung; Fancy, that sparkled life's new scenes among;
Dreams of delight, where rapt illusion wrought
A golden age, more fair than poets taught;
Pensive I bid your fleeting charms farewell,
And breathe a sigh o'er the dissolving spell.
Though youth, at times, not unchastised by woe,
Has wander'd in the gloomy vale below;
Yet, back returning still, its journey lay
Through life's illumined path and flowery way.
Bright on each year the sun of Hope arose,
And meek Content smiled peaceful at its close.
Then, while I pause upon the awful doom
That waits me, bending downward to the tomb,
Check'd be the thought, that, not without a crime,
Saddens o'er boded misery ere its time.
Still be firm faith and meek submission mine,
To bear the lot of man at life's decline :
So shall I not, when Nature claims her debt,
Mourn o'er past youth with vain and weak regret;
Nor perish my unprofitable birth,
Like a fleet shadow passing o'er the earth.
HERE Melancholy, on the pale crags laid,
Might muse herself to sleep; or Fancy come,
Witching the mind with tender cozenage,
And shaping things that are not; here all day
Might Meditation listen to the lapse
Of the white waters, flashing through the cleft,
And, gazing on the many shadowing trees,
Mingle a pensive moral as she gazed.
• Coombe Ellen (in Welsh, Cwm Elan) is situated among the most romantic mountains of Radnorshire, about five miles from Rbayd❜r.
High o'er thy head, amidst the shiver'd slate,
Behold, a sapling yet, the wild ash bend,
Its dark red berries clustering, as it wish'd
In the clear liquid mirror, ere it fell,
To trace its beauties: O'er the prone cascade,
Airy and light and elegant, the birch
Displays its glossy stem, amidst the gloom
Of alders and jagged fern, and evermore
Waves her light pensile foliage, as she woo'd
The passing gale to whisper flatteries.
Upon the adverse bank, wither'd, and stripp'd
Of all its pleasant leaves, a scathed oak
Hangs desolate—once sovereign of the scene,
Perhaps, proud of its beauty and its strength,
And branching its broad arms along the glen:
O, speaks it no remonstrance to the heart?
It seems to say, ' So shall the spoiler come,
The season that shall shatter your fair leaves,
Gay children of the summer! yet enjoy
Your pleasant prime, and lift your green heads high,
Exulting; but the storm will come at last,
That shall lay low your strength, and give your pride
To the swift-hurrying stream of age, like mine.'
And so severe Experience oft reproves
The gay and careless children of the world;
They hear the cold rebuke, and then again
Turn to their sport, as likes them, and dance on!
And let them dance; so all their golden prime
They give not up to vanity, but learn
That wisdom and that virtue which shall best
Bestead them, when the evil days draw nigh,
And the brief blossoms of their spring-time fade.
Now wind we up the glen, and hear below
The dashing torrent, in deep woods conceal'd;
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