Poems Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition |
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EFFUSION X. CERRIG-ENION:
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EFFUSION X. CERRIG-ENION:
(Enion's Tomb) on Pen-Heol-Enion, in Brecknockshire. August, 1800.
WHY, on the mouldering tomb of other Times,
Sits my lorn wanderer, in the muffled robe,
Vailing her pensive brow, and to the winds
Giving, on such bleak height, the unshelter'd form
Of feminine softness! Broods her thoughtful mind
Some legendary fiction? or some tale
Of Tragic record, pregnant with the woes
Of virtue vainly brave? Or does she mourn
Time's changeful progress, thro' these desolate Realms
Too sadly mark'd?—where oft the enquiring eye
(Seeking the ancient site of rampir'd wall,
Or bourg, or populous city) meets, perchance,
Nought but the brambled fosse, some moss-grown heap
Of shapeless fragments, or some lonely hut,
Turf-built, and thatch'd with fern, or with the wrecks
Of prostrate palaces, now rudely heap'd,
Without cement, or order, to enroof
The toil-worn peasant, shivering in the blast
That winnows thro' the walls!—or worse, perchance,
Sees the rent fragments of those wretched hives
Forlorn, and tenantless; while all around
Stalks silent Desolation, unobserv'd,
Save by the felon Kite, who, pois'd aloof,
Watches his quarry'd prey, and makes the Air,
Like the scourg'd Earth, depopulate! Such scenes
Well might the wanderer mourn: and I, with her,
(Making thy tomb—Enion of Cambrian fame!
My thoughtful couch) full many a dreary hour
Could sit and moralize: but that my heart
(My heart, alas! like hers—for but two well
Fancy can paint her musings) sorrowing dwells
On pangs of home-felt sufferance—Woes that bend
Our hearts, united in one common grief,
Down to the earth they sprung from!—woes that blot
The half of Nature's glories (thro' the vail
Of sadness dimly seen) and dull the edge
Of curious observation. Hence while here,
With rude memorial, my unpractis'd hand
Traces the Time-worn fragment, that still marks
The Chieftain's grave, who, on this lonely height,
Slumbers (in death still emulous) her thoughts
Flee to the lowly vale, where, underneath
The turf, unhonour'd, save by frequent tears,
And ever-hovering memory, She, beloved!
Our lost Maria sleeps. Oh! loss supreme!
Never to be forgotten!—whether thus
We climb the dreary height, or trace the scenes
Of smooth fertility, where Culture spreads
Luxuriant, and the careful walks of Men
Chace the still Solitude!—Thee, budding flower!
Cropp'd in thy sweetest promise—Thee, the fields,
The groves, the wood-land wild, or dreary heath,
The peaky Mountain, and the shelter'd vale,
Alike shall mourn!—Alike, the village spire,
The fern-thatch'd cottage, and the crumbling heap
That stories ancient prowess shall renew
The sad remembrance, echoing to our sighs,
The mournful music of Maria's name.
Sits my lorn wanderer, in the muffled robe,
Vailing her pensive brow, and to the winds
Giving, on such bleak height, the unshelter'd form
Of feminine softness! Broods her thoughtful mind
Some legendary fiction? or some tale
Of Tragic record, pregnant with the woes
Of virtue vainly brave? Or does she mourn
Time's changeful progress, thro' these desolate Realms
Too sadly mark'd?—where oft the enquiring eye
(Seeking the ancient site of rampir'd wall,
162
Nought but the brambled fosse, some moss-grown heap
Of shapeless fragments, or some lonely hut,
Turf-built, and thatch'd with fern, or with the wrecks
Of prostrate palaces, now rudely heap'd,
Without cement, or order, to enroof
The toil-worn peasant, shivering in the blast
That winnows thro' the walls!—or worse, perchance,
Sees the rent fragments of those wretched hives
Forlorn, and tenantless; while all around
Stalks silent Desolation, unobserv'd,
Save by the felon Kite, who, pois'd aloof,
Watches his quarry'd prey, and makes the Air,
Like the scourg'd Earth, depopulate! Such scenes
Well might the wanderer mourn: and I, with her,
(Making thy tomb—Enion of Cambrian fame!
My thoughtful couch) full many a dreary hour
Could sit and moralize: but that my heart
(My heart, alas! like hers—for but two well
Fancy can paint her musings) sorrowing dwells
On pangs of home-felt sufferance—Woes that bend
Our hearts, united in one common grief,
Down to the earth they sprung from!—woes that blot
The half of Nature's glories (thro' the vail
Of sadness dimly seen) and dull the edge
Of curious observation. Hence while here,
With rude memorial, my unpractis'd hand
Traces the Time-worn fragment, that still marks
The Chieftain's grave, who, on this lonely height,
Slumbers (in death still emulous) her thoughts
163
The turf, unhonour'd, save by frequent tears,
And ever-hovering memory, She, beloved!
Our lost Maria sleeps. Oh! loss supreme!
Never to be forgotten!—whether thus
We climb the dreary height, or trace the scenes
Of smooth fertility, where Culture spreads
Luxuriant, and the careful walks of Men
Chace the still Solitude!—Thee, budding flower!
Cropp'd in thy sweetest promise—Thee, the fields,
The groves, the wood-land wild, or dreary heath,
The peaky Mountain, and the shelter'd vale,
Alike shall mourn!—Alike, the village spire,
The fern-thatch'd cottage, and the crumbling heap
That stories ancient prowess shall renew
The sad remembrance, echoing to our sighs,
The mournful music of Maria's name.
| Poems | |