Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.