Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTION.—Encomium on the Beauties of English Landscape. —Description of the Valley, Mountains, and Views round Abergavenny.— Scenery, and Reflections on the Road to Caerfily.—The Castle.—The Vale leading to the Pont-y-prid.—The Bridge.—Ewenny Priory.—The Fairies.—The Fall of Melincourt.—Caraig-cennin—its Cave.—The Vale of Towy.

Maria! for thy simple ear I seize
The pastoral reed, with no reluctant lip
At thy command, made vocal. Far from thee
While my lone feet o'er Cambria roam, the Muse
Soothing the way, selected flow'rets wreaths,
An offering for the goddess I adore,
Nature:—Maria! thou art Nature's child;
Be thine the chaplet gather'd for her shrine.

As in my lonely pilgrimage succeeds
Each sylvan view, mild, or of grace severe,
That charms with loveliest interchange, I hail
Thee, Albion! favour'd isle. Sublimely rise,
Tow'ring o'er bleak Helvetia, rocks on rocks;
Through the deep vales, in wide expansion, rush
Impetuous streams; and from the mountain brow
Dashes the foaming torrent: O'er thy skies,
Ausonia! suns, without a cloud, diffuse
Rich tints of glowing lustre; and the wreck
Of times remote, fanes and triumphal arcs
Strew thy historic ground; yet not the less,
Albion! o'er thee profusely Nature show'rs
Her gifts; with livelier verdure decks thy soil,
With every mingled charm of hill and dale,
Mountain and mead, hoar cliff, and forest wide;
And thine the ruins, where rapt genius broods
In pensive haunts romantic: rifted tow'rs
That beetling o'er the rock, rear the grey crest

Embattled, and within the secret glade
Conceal'd the abbey's ivy-mantled pile.

Here while I wake the reed, beneath the brow
Of the rent Norman tow'r that overhangs
The lucid Uske, th'enamour'd eye pursues
Along th'expanse the undulating line
That Nature loves. Whether with gentle bend
She slopes the vale, or lifts the gradual hill;
Winds the free rivulet, or down the bank
Spreads the wild woods luxuriant growth, or breaks
With interrupting heights the even bound
Of the outstretch'd horizon. Far and wide
Black'ning the plain beneath, proud Blorench low'rs,
Behind whose level length the Western sun
Dips his slope beam: there the opposed Mount
Eastern of craggy Skirid, sacred soil,

Oft trod by pilgrim foot. O'er the smooth swell
Of Derry glide the clouds, that gath'ring hang
Round yon steep brow amid the varied scene
Tow'ring aloft. As gradual up the height,
Of the rough hills ascending, Ceres leads
The patient step of labour, the wide heaths,
Where once the nibbling flock scant herbage cropt,
Wave in the breeze, with golden harvest crown'd.

How various winds the way, changing the view!
In the clear springs that o'er the pebbled road
Glide to the fretted brook that brawls beneath,
The Zephyr wets his wing, and sportive shakes
Drops of refreshing coolness through the air.

As from the fir-clad brow ling'ring I turn,
Ere the lov'd view recedes, to bid the spires
At distance gleaming o'er Uske's hidden vale

A last farewell, the mingled melodies
From bleating mead, swift rill, and vocal wood,
By breath of gentle winds slow wafted, come
In sweet confusion to the charmed ear.
Now the soft murmurs, faint and fainter heard,
Die, while in contrast harsh from yon lone isle,
Loudly, with ceaseless revolution whirl'd,
Bursts the cogg'd wheel, and on the anvil blows,
Falling at measur'd intervals, and oft
More mark'd by casual interruptions, fling
Heavily forth their weight of sound. Soft falls
Upon the dewy earth descending eve,
And onward as I wander, wavering mists
Shadow the face of Nature, and diffuse
The blue thin veil, that half concealing adds
To the dim scene imaginary charms.

'Tis now the time, when from the narrow world
Withdrawn, and its close fett'ring cares, the mind,

Swift as a prisoner from long bondage scap'd,
Exulting in its liberty, at will
Arrays its wild creation; yet the bard
That roams at eventide, through pathless woods,
His secret way, shapes not ideal scenes
More suited to the pensive range of thought,
Than yonder Castle, 'mid the ruins vast
Lifting its hoary brow. The mellow tints
That time's slow pencil lays from year to year
Upon the ancient tow'rs, spread o'er the wreck
A grateful gloom, and the thick clouds that sweep
Along the darken'd battlements, extend
The melancholy grandeur of the scene.
Hail, solemn wreck! Thou silent hour, belov'd
Of fancy, hail! and thou, that o'er yon hill,
Mild orb, slow rising, with soft radiance gleam'st
Upon the Castle, while each varied shape
Of turret, and nich'd battlement that fronts

The light's full stream, its shadowy image casts
On the retiring walls. As all unseen
I lie reclin'd beneath the hanging tow'r,
That o'er its base projects, doubtful in act
To fall; the stately pile; yon graceful hall,
“Suited for Sewrs and Seneschals,” enchant
The raptur'd spirit: Bold in all the pride
Of feudal strength the castle tow'rs, around
Ring the loud trumpets, and the crowded field
Shouts, while in long procession rang'd, fair dames,
Heralds, and steel-clad knights, and plumed steeds,
Move on in chivalry's emblazon'd pomp.

Soft was the breath of Eve, and soft the beam
Of the mild Moon, that gleaming on the wreck
Silver'd the Castle's crest: Grateful the hour,
Whose noiseless wings accompanied her course,
Hallow'd of fancy; yet the musing mind,
Oft mid the pensive pleasures that attend

The close of day, with many a mournful thought
Opprest, sad dwells on life's swift passing scene,
And dreams of bliss delusive; but reviv'd
From balmy rest, when at the peep of dawn
The traveller bounds with active spirits light
O'er the fresh meads that round his path diffuse
Fragrance, gay Hope attunes her fairy voice
Delightful, and the heart responsive beats
To the sweet cadence of her syren song.
Thus light at early dawn my footsteps haste
Along the pathway stealing to the vale,
Where, from his mountain source, impetuous, Taaffe
Flings the prone flood: Now the inclosing hills
Advance their brows, now bending back display
The sunny lawns, here bare of foliage, here
Darken'd with woods, that feath'ring fringe the brink
Of the swift river, where the lofty bridge

Bursts on the sight amid the lowly glen,
Like some stupendous work the pilgrim views
Wond'ring, o'er Balbeck's waste, or desert soil
Of Palmyrene. Great architect! illum'd
By nature's light, thy daring genius scorn'd
An imitated grace: No sculptur'd form,
Triton, or Nereid, or wrought River-god,
With meretricious ornament disturb
The simple grandeur of thy bold design.
Impatient of its bondage, twice the flood
Rush'd o'er the ruin'd bridge; again thy hand
Th'indignant torrent yok'd, and rear'd the work
Triumphant, that amid the waves shall stand
Secure, while time, by genius turn'd aside,
Shall spare (long may he spare!) th'unrival'd arch.

Still as the temper sways, the traveller haunts
Congenial scenes. While in the murky cells
Of old Ewenny, superstition's slave

Starts at the thunder of his lonely tread
Echoed along the vaults, and horrid shapes
Flash on his wilder'd eye; mournful I seek
The desert spot in village records mark'd,
Where oft the Fairies in fantastic dance
Circled the moonlight green. Ye gentle sprites!
Sweet visitants, who watchful o'er the rest
Of infant sleep, wav'd from your blissful wands
Enchanting visions: Ye, in youthful days,
Who led my willing steps from the pure fount
Of Castaly, and woods of Greece ador'd,
By fawn and dryad trod, to list the song
Breath'd by the native genius of the isle,
Sweet Fays! o'er your forsaken shrine I heave
A farewell sigh, as this memorial lay
Guides the lone stranger 'mid the dreary waste.

By the rent arch, that o'er yon billowy heap
Of sand, sad tow'rs, the melancholy wreck

Of old Fitzhammon's glory, where the brook
With slow pace winds along the matted weeds,
Three springs into a narrow circle pour
Their bubbling rills; the current once renown'd
Lur'd to the hallow'd fount the village swains:
Three fairies on the verdant margin sat,
And kindly mingled in the suff'rer's cup
The drops of health: The tender bud of spring
There earliest bloom'd, and autumn's ling'ring flow'r
There shed its latest sweets, while many a wreath
Hung votive o'er the consecrated fane:
Now nettles and rude thistles thicken round,
And not a wild flow'r peeps along the waste.
Much musing on the dreams that charm'd my youth,
Far from Neath's mart tumultuous, and the scenes
Where nature mourns, while from the molten ore
Sulphureous blasts, that dim the noon-day sun,
Load the infected gale, lur'd by the fall
Of the far flood, through pathless glens I roam,

Where Melincourt's loud echoing crags resound.
Not bolder views Salvator's pencil dash'd
In Alpine wilds romantic. Far descry'd
Through the deep windings of the gloomy way,
The hoar Cledaugh, swoln by autumnal storms,
Down the precipitous rock's declivity
Curves the hurl'd cataract, and on the stones
Rent from th'o'er-hanging mass prone rushing, flings
The shiver'd spray around. Here could I muse
The livelong day, and wand'ring down the dell,
Along the grassy margin trace the stream
Meand'ring; now confin'd from crag to crag,
Where bursts the headlong flood, or widely spread
Mid the broad channel, where th'undimpled wave
Bathing the wild flow'rs-bending o'er the brink
Glides silent by; and ever and anon
As gently, borne by interrupted gales,
Murmur'd the distant torrent, would I catch
The sounds that echo from her secret cave

Responsive breath'd. Vain the fond wish! Rent clouds
Drench the chill limbs, and the rack'd temples throb,
Pain'd with the raging torrent's ceaseless roar.
Reluctantly with ling'ring step I leave
Thy haunts, wild Melincourt! but memory long
Shall dwell upon thy charms, and long shall rush,
Cledaugh, thy water-fall on fancy's ear.

Bold on the summit of the mountain brow
Frowns many a hoary tow'r, where Cambria's chiefs
Waving the banner'd dragon dar'd to arms
The Norman host. Breathing his native strains,
There the descendant of the British bards,
Hoel, or lofty Taliessin, oft
At the dim twilight hour in pensive mood,
Amid the silent hall o'ergrown with bryars,
Recalls the festivals of old, when blaz'd
The giant oak, and chieftains crown'd with mead
The sculptur'd horn, while the high vaulted roof
Re-echo'd to the honour'd minstrel's harp.

O'er yonder crag, steep, lonely, wild, impends
The ruin'd fortress, like th'aërial shape
Of battlement or broken citadel,
That when at eve autumnal gales arise,
Crowns the grey fleeces of the floating clouds.
Stranger! beneath yon tow'r a vaulted path
Down the steep mountain leads; with flaming torch
Amid the windings of the cliff descend,
Where, in its deep recess, the hollow'd rock
Catches the gather'd damps, that drop by drop
Fall through the porous stone. Gilt by the blaze,
The radiant cave, the dews that gem the roof
Shedding around from long pellucid points
The mimic diamonds, veins of sparry ore,
That glittering down the arches' crystal sides
Their interlacing fret-work weave, renew
The visionary scenes to childhood dear,

Of subterranean palaces, the haunts
Of Genii brooding o'er their secret wealth.
Fantastic dreams! delight of Eastern bards,
Persic, or those of Araby! Oh haste,
Fly the enchanting fount! nor stoop to cool
Thy languid lip with the enticing draught
Of the chill wave; the unsun'd spring, more fell
Than cup Circean, shall infect thy blood:
Go where the gale with odoriferous breath,
Blows o'er the flow'rs that bloom on Towy's banks.
Where shall I guide thy foot, where fix thy gaze,
That wanders lost along the lengthening meads?
Not lovelier that muse-haunted vale renown'd
Thessalian Tempe. O'er the sunny lawns
The scatter'd groves of graceful foliage bloom,
Mingling with sweet variety: The hills
Sink softly melting to the plain beneath,
Lost gradual in its level, as the stream
That glides into the bosom of the sea:

High low'r the wilder steeps, darken'd with oaks
Majestic, as bold nature unconfin'd
Spreads in his forest range; and at the base
Of yon wood-waving cliff, where the proud wreck
Of ancient Dinevawr sublimely lifts
Its ivied battlements, swift Towy winds
Voluminous, in many a lucid fold
Wildly meand'ring; while beyond arise
The verdant heights that guard the shelter'd vale,
And fade away, dim'd by the distant clouds.

The Fissures in this mountain are supposed, by the superstition of the Roman Catholics, to have been caused by the convulsion of nature on the Crucifixion.

The Pen-y-vale, commonly from its shape called the Sugar-Loaf.

Caerfily Castle.

The Pont-y-prid, or the New Bridge, of one arch of stone, erected in 1750, by William Edwards, a common mason of Glamorganshire; it is a segment of a circle, the chord 140 feet in breadth, the height 34.

Caraigcennin, the remains of a British fortress.

BOOK THE SECOND.

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND BOOK.

Milford Haven.—Prison at Haverfordwest.—Encomium on Mr. Howard. —Description of the Country leading to St. David's.—The Cathedral.— The Maniac.—Pont-aberglaslyn.—Snowdon.—Carnarvan.—Mona.—Conclusion.

If life were but a transient dream, and man,
With active pow'rs endued, might unarraign'd
“Lose and neglect the creeping hours,” how pleas'd
The bard, by Shakespear's lay pathetic lull'd,
On Milford's flow'ry bank, in sweet neglect
Would lose the summer days! Lone as I wind
Along the flood's smooth margin, on the soul
A mild and soothing melancholy steals,

While memory saddens o'er thy tender plaint,
Meek Imogen! and the sweet dirge that mourn'd
Thy loss, melodious as the dove at night
Mourning her absent mate. Thee, to the shores
Of this unnotic'd stream, a nobler aim
Than barren sighs to heave o'er fancied woe
Impell'd, oh, virtuous Howard! on thou went'st
To yon dark fortress, by compassion led
To wipe the tear that meek repentance pour'd,
Pining in silence, or with angel hand
Touching the flinty bed of guilt, to still
The writhings of despair. From fields of blood,
And the wild havoc of ambition, fame
Has turn'd aside, and wond'ring at her course,
Pursued thy noiseless path, while tyrants quak'd
Before thee: To their awe-struck soul, thy step
Seem'd as of one commission'd from above,
To make just inquisition upon earth;

But in the prison to the child of woe
Thou cam'st like pity veil'd in human form,
Healing the heartfelt-wound; at thy approach,
Tears other than of grief were seen to flow,
At thy approach the fetters' torturing weight
Dropt; purer breath of genial air dispell'd
The spotted plague, and through the cells of death
Burst the new day.

Alas! thy earthly toil
Is finish'd. Now, even now, from Cherson, groans
Of deep regret by the embattled hosts
Re-echoed, Turk and Christian, foes no more,
While o'er thy tomb, thou patriot of the world!
They mix their common sorrows, strike the shore
Of Britain. Go! receive the prize on high
Destin'd for virtue! While thy country rears
Aloft thy sculptur'd tomb, and o'er the world
Her tuneful bards proclaim thy praise, beyond
The power of magic numbers, and the peal

Of fame the spirits of the good record
To list'ning heav'n thy deeds in secret done
That smite not earth's dull ear; and mercy bears
Up to the throne of God the silent pray'r
Breath'd from the grateful heart.

O thou who seek'st
Yon rude coast's verge extreme that o'er the flood
Projects its craggy brow, cautious explore
The solitary path; no print appears
Of human step, save where thy stranger mein
Scares the shy wildness of the lonely child,
Who with her lean flock creeps for warmth beneath
The wither'd hedge. She knows not to direct
Thy doubtful way, alone the narrow bound
Of her rude range she knows, nor dreams of worlds
Beyond the limits of the barren waste.

An old castle at Haverfordwest, converted into a prison.

O'er mournful solitudes, o'er desert heaths,
Where not a wild tree waves its leafy shade,
Chill'd by the desolating blast that sweeps

With whirlwind wings athwart the stony beach
Of Newegal, when sad and faint thou droop'st
At yon sequester'd shrine, away with dreams
Of this world and its pleasures! loudly roars
The billowy sea, and the bleak winds that rush
Through the rent arches of the aisle, invade
The stillness of the aweful fane, where once
The lonely Monk heard but the dropping bead
That clos'd his orison, save when the shriek
Of the wreck'd sailor dash'd against the rocks
Burst on the vigils of his midnight hour.
Yet these lone wastes, this horror-breathing gloom,
And the wide scene of desolation, suit
The tenor of my soul, while sad I join
The maids and village swains, who annual meet—
Lucy!—to scatter o'er thy funeral sod
Fresh flowers: I knew thee in thy happier days,

Ere melancholy love had wrought thee woe.
Oh! if the muse had taught my lip to breathe
Those sounds which hang upon the ear of time,
That magic melody which makes the past
Present, reanimates the dead, and gives
To immortality; thee, hapless maid!
Thee from oblivion, my memorial note
Of pity should preserve. His country forc'd
Her lover from her arms; in foreign lands
The soldier fell; but Lucy liv'd, if that
May life be deem'd, when madd'ning o'er its grief
Broods dark despair. Yet a mild beam of peace
Gleam'd transient on her soul, when unrestrain'd,
Amid the lov'd retreats where William dwelt,
Frequent she linger'd. Oft on Teivy's banks
At early dawn the lonely angler met
Poor Lucy, wreathing mid her locks fresh flow'rs;
And at the dusky close of eve, again
On the same spot, from her dishevel'd hair

Scatt'ring the faded blossoms in the stream:
There long she roam'd, and time had gradual shed
A lenient balm upon her closing wounds,
When mid the merry crowd who yearly throng'd
The village feast, the wand'rer chanc'd to stray
Unmindful of her woe, where his rude strain
An old blind minstrel sung, simple the tale,
Of a lone maid who on a sea-beat cliff
Wept o'er her lover's loss; artless the tune,
Yet it fell wond'rous forceful on the heart:
Swift rushing through the crowd, ‘'tis mine,’ 'tis mine,
‘To sing her woe,’ the raving Lucy cried,
And in deep notes of frenzy pour'd aloud
Her bleeding miseries. From that sad hour
No more, poor Maid! mid Teivy's sweeter scenes
Lay thy rude path; but oft wert thou beheld
Lone bending o'er the crag in deep despair,
While wint'ry storms from old Cilgarran drove
To the dark flood the shiver'd fragment; oft

On Aberystwith's solitary tow'r
To watch all mournful by the midnight lamp,
That flings its blaze along the troubled sea;
Or by the perilous bridge that overhangs
The black abyss, climbing the slippery crags
Worn by the cataract; thy daily food
The mountain berry, and thy bed at night
The cave, white with the foam of Monach's flood:
There floating down the stream thy breathless corse
The wand'ring shepherd found. Beneath this turf
At length thy sorrows rest. Poor Maid, farewell!

The Cathedral of St. David's.

Fled are the fairy views of hill and dale;
Sublimely thron'd on the steep mountain brow
Stern Nature frowns; her desolating rage
Driving the whirlwind, or swoln flood, or blast
Of fiery air imprison'd, from their base
Has wildly hurl'd th'uplifted rocks around
The gloomy pass, where Aberglaslyn's arch

Yawns o'er the torrent. The disjointed crags
O'er the steep precipice in fragments vast
Impending, to th'astonish'd mind recall
The fabled horrors by demoniac force
Of Lapland wizards wrought; who borne upon
The whirlwind's wing, what time the vext sea dash'd
Against Norwegia's cliffs, to solid mass
Turn'd the swoln billows, and th'o'erhanging waves
Fix'd ere they fell. With rapture wild I gaze
On the rude grandeur of the mountain view,
And as a pilgrim, penance hard enjoin'd,
O'er dreary climes with many a wearied step
Far wand'ring, when he first descries aloft
The holy cross upon the distant hill,
Carmel, or Sion, with impassion'd lip
Blesses the spot: thus ardent I behold,
Rais'd o'er the rocky scenery sublime,
Thee, Snowdon! king of Cambrian mountain hail!
With many a lengthen'd pause my ling'ring feet

Follow th'experienc'd guide; a Veteran maim'd
With glorious wounds, that late on Calpe's height
Bled in his country's cause; though time has mark'd
With graceful touch his silver hair, yet health,
The child of temperance, has fix'd the rose
Of youth upon his cheek; keen beams his eye
Beneath his hoary brow, and firm his foot
Springs upon the steepness of the rough ascent.
Proud of his native land the Veteran points
To every mountain, wood, and winding stream,
That by tradition sacred made records
His great forefathers' deeds: for not deriv'd
Of simple lineage the brave warrior boasts
Hereditary blood of British chiefs,
Cadwallader or Roderic's ancient stem.
Tremendous Snowdon! while I gradual climb
Thy craggy heights, tho' intermingled clouds
Various of wa'try grey, and sable hue,
Obscure th'uncertain prospect, from thy brow

His wildest views the mountain genius flings.
Now high and swift flits the thin rack along,
Skirted with rainbow dyes, now deep below
(While the fierce sun strikes the illumin'd top)
Slow sails the gloomy storm, and all beneath,
By vaporous exhalation hid, lies lost
In darkness; save at once where drifted mists,
Cut by strong gusts of eddying winds, expose
The transitory scenes. Here broken cliffs
Caught at long intervals, anon a sea
Of liquid light, dark woods, and cities gay
With gleaming spires, brown moors, and verdant vales,
In swift succession rush upon the sight.
Now swift on either side the gather'd clouds,
As by a sudden touch of magic, wide
Recede, and the fair face of heaven and earth
Appears. Amid the vast horizon's stretch,
In restless gaze the eye of wonder darts
O'er th'expanse; mountains on mountains pil'd,

And winding bays, and promontories huge,
Lakes and meand'ring rivers, from their source,
Trac'd to the distant ocean: scatter'd isles
Dark rising from the watery waste, and seas
Dividing kingdoms, and Iërne crown'd
By Wicklowe's lofty range. Thou who aspir'st
To imitate the soft aërial hue,
Flung o'er the living scenes of chaste Lorraine;
Here, when the breath of autumn blows along
The blue serene, gaze on th'harmonious glow
Wide spread around, when not a cloud disturbs
The mellow light, that with a golden tint
Gleams through the grey veil of thin haze, diffus'd
In trembling undulation o'er the scenes.

Ye that o'er Menaï's darken'd wave impend
Majestic battlements! Thou tow'r sublime,
From whose broad brows the slender turret springs
Light as the plumage from the warriors helm,

The pensive bard, of Edward's martial fame
Regardless, from your splendid ruin turns
Aside to mourn o'er sad Llewellyn's fate.
Heroic Prince! when o'er Caernarvon wav'd
The crimson flag of conquest, mid the pomp
Of festal sports when yon proud castle rung
To Edward's triumph, thy insulted head,
Gaze of vile crouds, stood on Augusta's tow'r
With ivy wreath and silver diadem
Adorn'd, in mockery of Brutus old
And Merlin's mystic verse.

O yet again,
Thou lov'd companion of my devious way,
Muse! deign with sounds of higher praise to swell
The reed, as wrapt in fearful awe I haste
To consecrated Mona. While the moon
Casts through the veil of clouds a sickly ray,
While solitude and midnight silence reign,

Mid rocky circles, the rais'd Carnedd's pile,
And the vast Cromlech's bulk, my lonely steps
Trace superstition's haunt: though mute the voice
Of Druid, nor an oak now rear aloft
Its head, beneath whose gloom the white-rob'd priest
Hymn'd his fierce gods, and with infernal rites
Pour'd forth the sacrifice of human blood
At dread Andraste's fane; yet sudden heard,
To viewless harps aerial murmurs sound,
Mourning the desolated shrines. The place
Is holy, inspiration breathes around;
Visions of old flash wild on fancy's eye:
Mid armed ranks to desperation wrought
The bards invoking vengeance from above
Lift their clasp'd hands to heaven, and thunder forth

Deep execrations on the foe; at once
With sudden light flash the wide caverns; clad
Like furies, with dishevel'd tresses loose,
Yelling in rage the frantic matrons toss
Athwart the gloom their sparkling brands: appall'd
The Roman warrior shudders as a child
Defenceless: Lo, th'avenging eagle sails
Along the lurid air, and fires the groves
Of Mona, while expiring on their shrines,
The Druids to th'infernal gods devote
The foe, and die triumphant. Cease the lay,
With Mona cease. And now beneath the cliff
That flings its shadow o'er the Menaï's flood,
Upon this Druid Sepulchre I hang
My reed; and oh! if ought its varied notes
Have not unaptly breath'd, of ruder strain,
Or softer sound, as changeful nature claim'd;
If those of gentle soul, and simple taste,
Whose friendship in my peaceful walk of life

Has flung unfading flow'rs; if chiefly thou,
Maria! with delight attend the song,
Blest be my reed, and blest the tuneful hours
When my lone foot o'er distant Cambria roam'd.

This is a faint attempt to imitate the masterly description of the invasion of Mona, by Tacitus. The admirers of Caractacus will recollect, towards the conclusion of that drama, an imitation of the above passage, equally spirited as judicious.