The Gaer, a Roman Station.—Brunless Castle.—The Hay.—Funeral Song, "Mary's Grave."—Clifford Castle.—Return by Hereford, Malvern Hills, Cheltenham, and Gloucester, to Uley.—Conclusion.
'Tis sweet to hear the soothing chime,And, by thanksgiving, measure time;When hard-wrought poverty awhileUpheaves the bending back to smile;When servants hail, with boundless glee,The sweets of love and liberty;For guiltless love will ne'er disownThe cheerful Sunday's market town,Clean, silent, when his power's confess'd,And trade's contention lull'd to rest.
Seldom has worship cheer'd my soulWith such invincible controul!It was a bright benignant hour,The song of praise was full of power;And, darting from the noon-day sky,Amidst the tide of harmony,O'er aisle and pillar glancing strong,Heav'ns radiant light inspir'd the song.The word of peace, that can disarmCare with its own peculiar charm,Here flow'd a double stream, to cheerThe Saxon[1] and the Mountaineer,[Footnote 1: Divine service is performed alternately in English and Welsh.That they still call us Saxons, need hardly be mentioned. I observed thearmy to be equally as accommodating as the church, for the posting-bills,for recruits, are printed in both languages.]Of various stock, of various name,Now join'd in rites, and join'd in fame.
YE who religion's duty teach,What constitutes a Sabbath breach?Is it, when joy the bosom fills,To wander o'er the breezy hills?Is it, to trace around your homeThe footsteps of imperial Rome?Then guilty, guilty let us plead,Who, on the cheerful rested steed,In thought absorb'd, explor'd, with care,The wild lanes round the silent GAER[1],[Footnote 1: A road must have led from Abergavenny, through the Vale ofthe Usk, north-west to the "Gaer," situated two miles north-west ofBrecon, on a gentle eminence, at the conflux of the rivers Esker and Usk.Mr. Wyndham traced parts of walls, which he describes as exactlyresembling those at Caerleon; and Mr. Lemon found several bricks, bearingthe inscription of LEG. II. AVG.—Coxe.In addition to the above, it may be acceptable to state, that Mr. Price, avery intelligent farmer on the spot, has in his possession several of theabove kind of bricks, bearing the same inscription, done, evidently, bystamping the clay, while moist, with an instrument. These have been turnedup by the plough, together with several small Roman lamps.]Where conqu'ring eagles took their stand;Where heathen altars stain'd the land;Where soldiers of AUGUSTUS pin'd,Perhaps, for pleasures left behind,And measur'd, from this lone abode,The new-form'd, stoney, forest road,Back to CAERLEON'S southern train,Their barks, their home, beyond the main;Still by the VANN reminded strongOf Alpine scenes, and mountain song,The olive groves, and cloudless sky,And golden vales of Italy.
[Illustration: VAN MOUNTAIN, near BRECKNOCK from the PRIORY WOODS.]
With us 'twas peace, we met no foes;With us far diff'rent feelings rose.Still onward inclination bade;The wilds of MONA'S Druid shade,SNOWDON'S sublime and stormy brow,His land of Britons stretch'd below,And PENMAN MAWR'S huge crags, that greetThe thund'ring ocean at his feet,Were all before us. Hard it prov'd,To quit a land so dearly lov'd;Forego each bold terrific boastOf northern Cambria's giant coast.Friends of the harp and song, forgiveThe deep regret that, whilst I live,Shall dwell upon my heart and tongue;Go, joys untasted, themes unsung,Another scene, another land,Hence shall the homeward verse demand.Yet fancy wove her flow'ry chain,Till "farewell BRECON" left a pain;A pain that travellers may endure,Change is their food, and change their cure.Yet, oh, how dream-like, far away,To recollect so bright a day!Dream-like those scenes the townsmen love,Their tumbling USK, their PRIORY GROVE,View'd while the moon cheer'd, calmly bright,The freshness of a summer's night.
HIGH o'er the town, in morning smiles,The blue VANN heav'd his deep defiles;And rang'd, like champions for the fight,Basking in sun-beams on our right,Rose the BLACK MOUNTAINS, that surroundThat far-fam'd spot of holy ground,LLANTHONY, dear to monkish tale,And still the pride of EWAIS VALE.No road-side cottage smoke was seen,Or rarely, on the village greenNo youths appear'd, in spring-tide dress,In ardent play, or idleness.Brown way'd the harvest, dale and slopeExulting bore a nation's hope;Sheaves rose as far as sight could range,And every mile was but a changeOf peasants lab'ring, lab'ring still,And climbing many a distant hill.Some talk'd, perhaps, of spring's bright hour,And how they pil'd, in BRUNLESS TOWER [1],[Footnote 1: The only remaining tower of Brunless Castle now makes anexcellent hay-loft; and almost every building on the spot is composed offragments.]The full-dried hay. Perhaps they toldTradition's tales, and taught how oldThe ruin'd castle! False or true,They guess it, just as others do.
Lone tower! though suffer'd yet to stand,Dilapidation's wasting handShall tear thy pond'rous walls, to guardThe slumb'ring steed, or fence the yard;Or wheels shall grind thy pride awayAlong the turnpike road to HAY,Where fierce GLENDOW'R'S rude mountaineersLeft war's attendants, blood and tears,And spread their terrors many a mile,And shouted round the flaming pile.May heav'n preserve our native landFrom blind ambition's murdering hand;From all the wrongs that can provokeA people's wrath, and urge the strokeThat shakes the proudest throne! Guard, heav'n.The sacred birth-right thou hast given;Bid justice curb, with strong controul,The desp'rate passions of the soul.
Here ivy'd fragments, lowering, throwBroad shadows on the poor below,Who, while they rest, and when they die,Sleep on the rock-built shores of WYE.
To tread o'er nameless mounds of earth,To muse upon departed worth,To credit still the poor distress'd,For feelings never half express'd,Their hopes, their faith, their tender love,Faith that sustain'd, and hope that strove,Is sacred joy; to heave a sigh,A debt to poor mortality.Funereal rites are clos'd; 'tis done;Ceas'd is the bell; the priest is gone;What then if bust or stone deniesTo catch the pensive loit'rer's eyes,What course can poverty pursue?What can thepoorpretend to do?O boast not, quarries, of your store;Boast not, O man, of wealth or lore,The flowers of nature here shall thrive,Affection keep those flowers alive;And they shall strike the melting heart,Beyond the utmost power of art;Planted on graves[1], their stems entwine,And every blossom is a line[Footnote 1: To the custom of scattering flowers over the graves ofdeparted friends, David ap Gwillym beautifully alludes in one of his odes."O whilst thy season of flowers, and thy tender sprays thick of leavesremain, I will pluck the roses from the brakes, the flowerets of themeads, and gems of the wood; the vivid trefoil, beauties of the ground,and the gaily-smiling bloom of the verdant herbs, to be offered to thememory of a chief of fairest fame. Humbly will I lay them on the grave ofIver."On a grave in the church-yard at Hay, or the Hay, as it is commonlyspoken, flowers had evidently beenplanted, but only one solitary sprigof sweet-briar had taken root.]Indelibly impress'd, that tends,In more than language comprehends,To teach us, in our solemn hours,That we ourselves are dying flowers.
What if a father buried hereHis earthly hope, his friend most dear,His only child? Shall his dim eye,At poverty's command, be dry?No, he shall muse, and think, and pray,And weep his tedious hours away;Or weave the song of woe to tell,How dear that child he lov'd so well.
No child have I left, I must wander alone,No light-hearted Mary to sing as I go,Nor loiter to gather bright flowers newly blown,She delighted, sweet maid, in these emblems of woe.
Then the stream glided by her, or playfully boil'dO'er its rock-bed unceasing, and still it goes free;But her infant life was arrested, unsoil'dAs the dew-drop when shook by the wing of the bee.
Sweet flowers were her treasures, and flowers shall be mine;I bring them from Radnor's green hills to her grave;Thus planted in anguish, oh let them entwineO'er a heart once as gentle as heav'n e'er gave.Oh, the glance of her eye, when at mansions of wealthI pointed, suspicious, and warn'd her of harm;She smil'd in content, 'midst the bloom of her health,And closer and closer still hung on my arm.
What boots it to tell of the sense she possess'd,The fair buds of promise that mem'ry endears?The mild dove, affection, was queen of her breast,And I had her love, and her truth, and her tears;She was mine. But she goes to the land of the good,A change which I must, and yet dare not deplore;I'll bear the rude shock like the oak of the wood,But the green hills of Radnor will charm me no more.
RUINS of greatness, all farewell;No Chepstows here, no Raglands tell,By mound, or foss, or mighty tower,Achievements high in hall or bower;Or give to fancy's vivid eye,The helms and plumes of chivalry.CLIFFORD has fall'n, howe'er sublime,Mere fragments wrestle still with time;Yet as they perish, sure and slow,And rolling dash the stream below,They raise tradition's glowing scene,The clue of silk, the wrathful queen,And link, in mem'ry's firmest bond,The love-lorn tale of Rosamond[1].[Footnote 1: Clifford Castle is supposed to have been the birth place ofFair Rosamond.]
How placid, how divinely sweet,The flow'r-grown brook that, by our feet,Winds on a summer's day; e'en whereIts name no classic honours share,Its springs untrac'd, its course unknown,Seaward for ever rambling down!Here, then, how sweet, pelucid, chaste;'Twas this bright current bade us tasteThe fulness of its joy. Glide still,Enchantress of PLYNLIMON HILL,Meandering WYE! Still let me dream,In raptures, o'er thy infant stream;For could th' immortal soul foregoIts cumbrous load of earthly woe,And clothe itself in fairy guise,Too small, too pure, for human eyes,Blithe would we seek thy utmost spring,Where mountain-larks first try the wing;There, at the crimson dawn of day,Launch a scoop'd leaf, and sail away,Stretch'd at our ease, or crouch below,Or climb the green transparent prow,Stooping where oft the blue bell sipsThe passing stream, and shakes and dips;And when the heifer came to drink,Quick from the gale our bark would shrink,And huddle down amidst the brawlOf many a five-inch waterfall,Till the expanse should fairly giveThe bow'ring hazel room to live;And as each swelling junction came,To form a riv'let worth a name,We'd dart beneath, or brush awayLong-beaded webs, that else might stayOur silent course; in haste retreat,Where whirlpools near the bull-rush meet;Wheel round the ox of monstrous size;And count below his shadowy flies;And sport amidst the throng; and whenWe met the barks of giant men,Avoid their oars, still undescried,And mock their overbearing pride;Then vanish by some magic spell,And shout, "Delicious WYE, farewell!"
'Twas noon, when o'er thy mountain stream,The carriage roll'd, each pow'rful gleamStruck on thy surface, where, below,Spread the deep heaven's azure glow;And water-flowers, a mingling croud,Wav'd in the dazzling silver cloud.Again farewell! The treat is o'er;For me shall Cambria smile no more;Yet truth shall still the song sustain,And touch the springs of joy again.
Hail! land of cyder, vales of health!Redundant fruitage, rural wealth;Here, didPomonastill retain,Her influence o'er a British plain,Might temples rise, spring blossoms fly,Round the capricious deity;Or autumn sacrifices bound,By myriads, o'er the hallow'd ground,And deep libations still renewThe fervours of her dancing crew.Land of delight! let mem'ry striveTo keep thy flying scenes alive;Thy grey-limb'd orchards, scattering wideTheir treasures by the highway side;Thy half-hid cottages, that showThe dark green moss, the resting bough,At broken panes, that taps and flies,Illumes and shades the maiden's eyesAt day-break, and, with whisper'd joy,Wakes the light-hearted shepherd boy:These, with thy noble woods and dells,The hazel copse, the village bells,Charm'd more the passing sultry hoursThan HEREFORD, with all her towers.
Sweet was the rest, with welcome cheer,But a far nobler scene was near;And when the morrow's noon had spread,O'er orchard stores, the deep'ning red,Behind us rose the billowy cloud,That dims the air to city croud.
And deem not that, where cyder reignsThe beverage of a thousand plains,Malt, and the liberal harvest horn,Are all unknown, or laugh'd to scorn;A spot that all delights might bring,A palace for an eastern king,CANFROME[A], shall from her vaults displayJohn Barleycorn's resistless sway.[Footnote A: The noble seat of—Hopton, Esq. which exhibits, in a strikingmanner, the real old English magnificence and hospitality of the lastage.]To make the odds of fortune even,Up bounc'd the cork of "seventy-seven,"And sent me back to school; for then,Ere yet I learn'd to wield the pen;The pen that should all crimes assail,The pen that leads to fame—or jail;Then steem'd the malt, whose spirit bearsThe frosts and suns of thirty years!
Through LEDBURY, at decline of day,The wheels that bore us, roll'd away,To cross the MALVERN HILLS. 'Twas night;Alternate met the weary sightEach steep, dark, undulating brow,And WORC'STER'S gloomy vale below:Gloomy no more, when eastward sprungThe light that gladdens heart and tongue;When morn glanc'd o'er the shepherd's bed,And cast her tints of lovely redWide o'er the vast expanding scene,And mix'd her hues with mountain green;Then, gazing from a height so fair,Through miles of unpolluted air,Where cultivation triumphs wide,O'er boundless views on every side,Thick planted towns, where toils ne'er cease,And far-spread silent village peace,As each succeeding pleasure came,The heart acknowledg'd MALVERN'S fame.
Oft glancing thence to Cambria still,Thou yet wert seen, my fav'rite hill,Delightful PEN-Y-VALE! Nor shallGreat MALVERN'S high imperious callWean me from thee, or turn asideMy earliest charm, my heart's strong pride.
Boast MALVERN, that thy springs reviveThe drooping patient, scarce alive;Where, as he gathers strength to toil,Not e'en thy heights his spirit foil,But nerve him on to bless, t'inhale,And triumph in the morning gale;Or noon's transcendent glories giveThe vigorous touch that bids him live.Perhaps e'en now he stops to breathe,Surveying the expanse beneath?Now climbs again, where keen winds blow.And holds his beaver to his brow;Waves to theWreckenhis white hand,And, borrowing Fancy's magic wand,Skims over WORC'STER'S spires away,Where sprung the blush of rising day;And eyes, with joy, sweetHagley Groves,That taste reveres and virtue loves;And stretch'd upon thy utmost ridge,Marks Severn's course, and UPTON-bridge,That leads to home, to friends, or wife,And all thy sweets, domestic life;He drops the tear, his bosom glows,That consecratedAvonflowsDown the blue distant vale, to yieldIts stores by TEWKESBURY'S deadly field,And feels whatever can inspire,From history's page or poet's fire.
Bright vale of Severn! shall the songThat wildly devious roves along,The charms of nature to explore,On history rest, or themes of yore?More joy the thoughts of home supply,Short be the glance at days gone by,Though gallant TEWKESBURY, clean and gay,Hath much to tempt the traveller's stay,Her noble abbey, with its dead,A powerful claim; a silent dread,Sacred as holy virtue springsWhere rests the dust of chiefs and kings;With his who by foul murder died,The fierce Lancastrian's hope and pride,When brothers brothers could destroyHeroic Margaret'sred-roseboy.[A][Footnote A: Prince Edward, son of Henry the Sixth, taken prisoner withhis mother, Margaret of Anjou, at the battle of Tewkesbury, and murderedby the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard the Third.]Muse, turn thee from the field of blood,Rest to the brave, peace to the good;Avon, with all thy charms, adieu!For CHELTENHAM mocks thy pilgrim crew;And like a girl in beauty's power,Flirts in the fairings of an hour.
Queen of the valley! soon behindGleam'd thy bright fanes, in sun and wind,Fair Glo'ster. Though thy fabric stands,The boast of Severn's winding sandsIf grandeur, beauty, grace, can stayThe traveller on his homeward way.There rests the Norman prince who roseIn zeal against the Christian's foes,Yet doom'd at home to pine and die,Of birthright rob'd, and liberty;Foil'd was the lance he well could fling,Robert[A], who should have been a king;[Footnote A: The eldest son of William the Conqueror was imprisonedeight-and-twenty years by his own brother!]His tide of wrongs he could not stem,His brothers filch'd his diadem.There sleeps the king who aim'd to spurnThe daring Scots, at Bannockburn,But turn'd him back, with humbled fame,AndBerkley's "shrieks"[B] declare his name.[Footnote B: "Shrieks of an agonizing king."]
Cease, cease the lay, the goal is won,But silent memory revels on;Fast clos'd the day, the last bright hour,The setting sun, on DURSLEY tower,Welcom'd us home, and forward bade,To ULEY valley's peaceful shade.
Who so unfeeling, who so bold,To judge that fictions, idly told,Deform the verse that only triesTo consecrate realities?If e'er th' unworthy thought should come,Let strong conviction strike them dumb.Go to the proof; your steed prepare,Drink nature's cup, the rapture share;If dull you find your devious course,Your tour is useless—sell your horse.
Ye who, ingulph'd in trade, endureWhat gold alone can never cure;The constant sigh for scenes of peace,From the world's trammels free release,Wait not, for reason's sake attend,Wait not in chains till times shall mend;Till the clear voice, grown hoarse and gruff,Cries, "Now I'll go, I'm rich enough;"Youth, and the prime of manhood, seize,Steal ten days absence, ten days ease;Bid ledgers from your minds depart;Let mem'ry's treasures cheer the heart;And when your children round you grow,With opening charms and manly brow,Talk of the WYE as some old dream,Call it the wild, the wizard stream;Sink in your broad arm-chair to rest,And youth shall smile to see you bless'd.
Artists, betimes your powers employ,And take the pilgrimage of joy;The eye of genius may beholdA thousand beauties here untold;Rock, that defies the winter's storm;Wood, in its most imposing form,That climbs the mountain, bows below,Where deep th' unsullied waters flow.HereGilpin'seye transported scan'dViews by no tricks of fancy plan'd;Grayhere, upon the stream reclin'd,Stor'd with delight his ardent mind.But let the vacant trifler strayFrom thy enchantments far away;For should, from fashion's rainbow train,The idle and the vicious vain,In sacrilege presume to moveThrough these dear scenes of peace and love,Thespirit of the streamwould riseIn wrathful mood, and tenfold size,And nobly guard his COLDWELL SPRING,And bid his inmost caverns ring;Loud thund'ring on the giddy crew,"My stream was never meant for you."But ye, to nobler feelings born,Who sense and nature dare not scorn.,Glide gaily on, and ye shall findThe blest serenity of mindThat springs from silence; or shall raiseThe hand, the eye, the voice of praise.Live then, sweet stream! and henceforth beThe darling of posterity;Lov'd for thyself, for ever dear,Like beauty's smile and virtue's tear,Till time his striding race give o'er,And verse itself shall charm no more.