The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

These records of thy wanderings awake
Dear memories of that bold romantic land,
That mingling of the beautiful and grand
By God in nature moulded; where the lake
Sleeps in gigantic shadows, and the tower
(Which, crumbling, yet outlives the human power
That raised it) of the past records a troublous hour.

Make holiday once more; thou hast not seen
Cloud-girdled Snowdon's majesty of mien,
With all his rock-realm, wonderful and wide,
Where stern Llanberris lifts on either side
Twin lakes, his storm-rent citadels of stone,
Dark, splintered, inaccessible, and lone!

Thou hast not travelled up the sinuous length
Of pastoral Conway; nor beheld the strength
And beauty of its waters, as they boom
And flash, down leaping, in their glens of gloom.

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Thou hast not fettered Fancy with a spell
In grey Carnarvon, stalwart in decay,
Which calmly looks upon the busy bay
With all its chambers desolate and cold,—
A gaunt “romance in stone,” which seems to tell
A wild, strange story of the days of old.

Thou hast not trod with pilgrim foot the ground
Where sleeps the canine martyr of distrust,
Poor Gelert, famed in song, as brave a hound
As ever guarded homestead, hut, or hall,
Or leapt exulting at the hunter's call;
As ever grateful man consigned to dust.

Enthusiast as thou art, thou hast not heard,
In fair Llangollen's wilderness of charms
(Aloof from city vices and alarms),
The bleat of many flocks; the voice of bird
Sweet issuing from the sylvan depths of green
Which clothe the quiet slopes of that secluded scene.

Thou hast not passed the threshold of those homes,
Peaceful and far apart, o'er vale and hill—
Where those of ancient tongue, a simple race,
Cherish such virtues as in lordly halls
Die of neglect, and with glad heart and face
Perform harsh duties with a strenuous will.

Thou hast not listened by their evening fires
To lore, descended unto sons from sires,
Of ghastly legend and of oral song
By Cadwallador and Taleisen made,
Recording deeds of struggle, storm, and wrong,
When from the Roman's red resistless blade

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They fled amazed, in peril's bloodiest hour,
And in their mountain land withstood the invader's power.

Would we could go together, and explore,
With ready means, and minds of kindred mood,
Each quiet place that slumbers by the shore,
And all the inner haunts of solitude;
The cloud-crowned mountain, and the cloven glen,
Through which the fretful river leaps and flows;
Swart moors far stretching from the homes of men
In sullen silence, savage in repose;
Remnants of feudal pride and monkish power,
By the tenacious ivy clothed and graced,
And shepherd-peopled hamlets, grey and wild,
By circling hills and crowding woods embraced,
Where clustering graves, and consecrated tower,
Mementoes of a hopeful creed and mild,
Stand solemnly apart, for feelings undefiled.

Lakes gathered in stern hollows of the land,
Swept by the winds in their sublimest might—
Our eyes should gaze upon, and we should stand
Wrapt in tumultuous, but mute delight,
In presence of fierce waters, drinking in,
Till sense and soul were filled, their grandeur and their din.

And we would wander pensively along
The yellow beach, communing with the ocean,
Or sit and listen to the fisher's song,
Our hearts expanding with a sweet emotion,
Till sunset's magical and mingling hues
Had burned and faded, one by one, away,
Leaving the tender twilight to diffuse
A silent softness, a transparent grey

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O'er sky and wave; till o'er the mountain's rim
The moon and her one vassal-star should swim,
In the deep ether, with a dreamy light,
And call forth other stars to beautify the night.
Then for an hour or two we would abide
By the snug hostel's ample chimney-side;
Exult o'er toils o'ercome, recount our pleasures,
And linger fondly over memory's treasures;
Old times, old rhymes, old bards, old books, old places,
New dreams, new hopes, new knowledge, and new faces.

And we would visit (curious to behold
The moods, the manners, and the homely life
Of Cambria's hardy children, fair and bold,
The sire, the son, the husband, and the wife)
Quaint towns on festival and market days,
See bargains made, see purse and pannier laden;
Admire the lusty dance, and in its maze
Take hands ourselves, with some blithe pleasant maiden;
Exchange the courteous cup, and join the song
(Well as we could in so uncouth a tongue),
Snatch joy from the occasion, and increase
Our love of social unity and peace;
Or, when the Sabbath bell with morning chime
Broke on the holy stillness of the time—
To village churches quietly repair,
And offer up the heart's best homage there,
Rejoicing to behold good seed take birth
In such remote recesses of the earth;
And we would linger by the graves to know
How lived, how died, the occupant below,
Learn how the living sorrowed at the loss,
Yet leaned for strength and comfort on the Cross.

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So would we move and meditate awhile
In this, the loveliest corner of our isle;
Deep in its glooms and glories would we roam,
Till duty and affection called us home.
Here to admiring listeners we would tell
Of mountain cleft, rough cataract, and dell,
That stayed us on our pilgrimage; of nooks
Peopled and peaceful—all untold in books;
Or, left to silence and our thoughts, recall
From out the dimness of our cottage wall,
Shapes of stern grandeur, looming into light
And spots of beauty, soothing to the sight,
Transmissions of the memory to drown
The commonplaces of our crowded town:
From such warm solace what warm soul can sever?
“A thing of Beauty is a Joy for ever!”