University of Virginia Library

Alone I lingered at the rocky foot
Of Snowdon's throne—Snowdon, the awful king
Of Cambria's mountain realm,—and as I gazed
With longing eyes upon his cloudy crown,
I yearned, with feelings strong as they were strange,
To plant my daring foot upon his head
Of glory and sublimity. The wish
Inspired me with the power, and I prepared
With an enthusiast's ardour, to explore
The solitudes of mystery and might.

Wild was the way, and weary was the steep,
Up which I travelled with a tardy pace;
The sun shone fiercely in the summer sky,
And scarce the mountain winds could temper down
His sultry splendour. As I upward strained,
My brow was beaded with the dews of toil;
My tongue was wordless with increasing thirst,
Yet not a rill, or stream, or shaded well
Was seen to twinkle in the burning light.
Yet was the mind the conqueror; my dreams
Sustained and strengthened me along the way
Of savage desolation, till the crown,
The peaked, fantastic crown, on Snowdon's brow,
Loomed sternly, darkly in the azure air,
And lent new vigour to my panting heart.

A moment's rest, a moment's wildering thought,
A moment's look upon the world below,
And up I bounded with renewed delight,
To end my toilsome task. More wild and steep,
More terrible and strange, more silent yet,
Became the scene of grandeur I had sought;
And as I gained the goal of my desires,—
The utmost summit of the place of storms,
The highest stone in Cambria's magic land,
The granite diadem on Snowdon's head,—
A whirl of wonder and a gush of joy,
A mingled sense of terror and of love,
Came o'er my soul, and, languid as a child,
I sat in speechless ecstasy and awe!

I may not tell, in this imperfect strain,
The things I felt, the glories I beheld,
In this transcendent solitude; a pen
Dipped in a fountain of celestial fire,
And wielded by an angel's mystic hand,
Might fail in fitting language to convey
To mortal ear the feelings of my heart,
Or paint the matchless majesty that reigns
In this enchanting corner of the world.

Thirsting and faint, and feeble with excess
Of pleasure and amazement, I essayed
To find some herb wherewith to cool my lips,
And stay the pangs of agonising thirst.
Long was my search in vain; a scanty grass,
Brown, dry, and seared, was all I found,—anon
A line of glittering moisture on the stones
Caught my expectant eye; soon, soon I traced
The silvery promise to its source, and lo!
A cool delicious spring, a tiny well,
Scarce broader than a maiden's looking-glass,
Displayed its crystal bosom to my sight,
And wooed my willing lip. With eager haste
I stooped to quaff its nectar, while a thrill
Of exquisite delight ran through my veins,
Imparting strength and gladness. On its brink
I sat, exulting in my loneliness,
Feeding my soul with poesy. Afar
The dim blue circle of the level sea
Zoned the unbounded prospect: lakes and streams,
Gleaming and glittering in the valleys fair,
Mixed in the mighty picture; mountains vast,
Enclosing regions sterile, dark, and stern,
Bristled on every side, as if the world,
Tortured and tossed, like tempest-trodden waves,
To fury inconceivable, had turned
To sudden stone,—a monument of power
Built by the Eternal's wonder-working hand!
Soft snatches of green field, of waving wood,
Of human-dwelling-places, towns, and towers,
And corn-producing plains, filled up the whole,
Leaving an impress on my mind and heart
Which time can never weaken or destroy!

Another draught from the inspiring spring,
And I descended from the silent height
Of storm-defying Snowdon; as I went,
Grateful for dangers past, for beauties won,
For toils accomplished, and for pleasures felt,
In fancy then, but since in feeble words,
I sang the tiny Fountain of the Wild:—