Warm inspiration views the wizards hoar
That listen'd to the flood's prophetic roar;
And, as the wave its changeful * current roll'd,
The fate of nations, fall of kings foretold.
Bold lour at intervals the heights around,
Orb within orb, by Druid temples crown'd;
Half hid beneath the earth huge cromlechs bend,
And the tall carnedd's lessening piles ascend.
Dark on the mountain's tempest-beaten head
Rude British forts their massy bulwarks spread;
And oft when time has batter'd down the piles,
And peace on the forgotten station smiles,
Though long the summer sun and winter snow
Have mellow'd the deep soil that turfs their brow,
The rich grass spiring o'er the sheep-fed heath
Points out the level'd turrets sunk beneath.
Thus where of old the lightning's dreaded stroke
On the wide plain in curving flashes broke,
Year after year the verdant circles spring,
And shepherd boys retrace the fairy ring.

Pure Dee! swift welling forth from Raran hoar,
Where Arthur listen'd to the wizard's lore;
Regions, where Fancy wanders unconfined,
And visionary day-dreams soothe the mind;
From your loved haunts, triumphant Cambria leads
Along Eidernion's fairy-footed meads,

Topoint the mound that Gwynedd's camp enclosed,
And bless the soil where liberty reposed.
Fresh fall the dews on Corwen's ‡ fertile head,
And genial gales eternal verdure spread;

Drayton's Poly. Song x.

+ Faery Queen, book i. canto ix.

1 Corwen is celebrated in the Welsh annals for the victory gained by Owen Gwynedd, in 1165, over the forces of Henry II.

There down the steep the watchful warrior bold
In fated hour the storm of battle roll'd;
And, while the mountain deluges afar

Flooded the vales and swept the ranks of war,
Before pale Henry's van rush'd flight and fear,
And pestilence and famine dogg'd his rear.

Onward, with frequent pause, with fond delay, To Corwen's height oft bending back my way, Along the mazes of the neighbouring glades*, Through deserts rude, and unfrequented shades, I trace the caves and deep recesses hoar

That roof'd the war worn head of wild Glendore.
Mid yon dark cliffs, whose woods romantic wreathe
Athwart the wave that winds their roots beneath,
When War's keen bloodhounds prest their wearied
Couch'd in his lair awhile the chieftain lay; [prey,
Alone the mountain berry gave him food,
And his sole drink chill Deva's troubled flood.

Warrior! I trace thee not by victory crown'd,
When regal honours beam'd thy brows around;
The songs of other days thy fame record,
And British minstrels dwell on Cambria's lord.
Touch'd by the strain, at twilight's haunted hour,
Oft as I stray'd beneath thy ruin'd tower,
Methought the Druid harp, the haunts among,
To many a note of echoing triumph rung,
While, from the slumber of their long repose,
Forms of old kings and British warriors rose.
Lo! where her phantoms wizard Fancy led,
Untrodden heaths and silent deserts spread.

Glyn dwrdwy, or the Valley of the Dee, the patrimony of the famous Owen Glendore. Not a vestige of his mansion remains. In the latter part of his life, it is related that he was forced to shelter himself in caves and desert places from the fury of his enemies.

In vain I seek where luxury's festal pyre
Flash'd on the rocks around a gleaming fire;
When the lost wanderer, mid the storms of night,
Look'd up, and bless'd the hospitable light.
No scatter'd ruins o'er the waste extend,
O'er their rent base no tumbling turrets bend;
No broken bastion lies with moss o'ergrown;
No fragment of a gray and mouldering stone.
Sorrowing I turn,and through the birchen shades,
That sweep o'er Llandysilio's shelter'd glades,
Seek the deserted fane, when daylight smiles
Through the rent roof and dim-discover'd aisles.
Vale of the cross*! let other bards explore
Thy silvan scenes, green heights, and mountains
hoar;

The rill's soft lapse thy sloping turf that laves,
The wood's wild growth that o'er thy abbey waves:
Let others gaze upon the solemn hues

Time's mellowing touches on the stone diffuse, And unsunn'd damps that, mouldering where they fall,

Stream in rich stains, and picture o'er the wall. I pause-to voluntary woes resign'd,

And lenient grief that leaves a balm behind.

Half of the destined days of life are o'er, Gone like a dream of night, to rise no more! Like a lone pilgrim, by sad penance led, From Po's green banks or Arno's flowery bed, Far off, o'er northern solitudes to roam, Who, midway, musing on the toils to come, Upon the Alpine boundary's lofty crest Lingers awhile his wearied limbs to rest;

The abbey of Valle Crucis was a honse of Cistertians, founded in the year 1200.

There as on either side the realms extend, [end, Whence first he wander'd, where his wanderings Bends wistful to the regions left behind,

And loud exclaims, in agony of mind- [blows, 'Land! where each gale like vernal fragrance Where winter's sun on ripening plenty glows; Where, ever as I pass'd, the path around

Bloom'd with fresh flowers, and pendent fruitage. [beam'd;

crown'd;

Hills, whose lone tops with lighted chantries Vales,in whose nightly gloom the convents gleam'd; Retreats, beneath whose shelter peace reposed, And the tranced eye in blissful visions closed; Farewell! down yon rude tract forlorn I go, O'er pathless solitudes, o'er wastes of snow. Heaven wills-fond, hopeless wish, no more rebel; Be with this tear forgotten; so, farewell!'

Thus, from this midway bourn, my pausing eye. Beholds beneath life's varying journeys lie: O'er the fair retrospect, thus memory cast, Turns lingering to the dreams of pleasure past. Pilgrim! thou once again mayst haunt the bower. Where fond affection nursed thy infant hour, And lay thee down in age within the glade Where innocence and thoughtless childhood play'd; But never, once pass'd o'er, shall man be found To sport again on youth's enchanted ground. Then, oh! thou morn of life, man's vernal prime, Light Joys that wave the downy wings of time; Health, whose bright glow on roseate vigour bloom'd;

Pure Innocence, whose smile each look illumed; Gay Sprightliness, from vivid wonder sprung; Fancy, that sparkled life's new scenes among;

Dreams of delight, where rapt illusion wrought
A golden age, more fair than poets taught;
Pensive I bid your fleeting charms farewell,
And breathe a sigh o'er the dissolving spell.
Though youth, at times, not unchastised by woe,
Has wander'd in the gloomy vale below;
Yet, back returning still, its journey lay
Through life's illumined path and flowery way.
Bright on each year the sun of Hope arose,
And meek Content smiled peaceful at its close.
Then, while I pause upon the awful doom
That waits me, bending downward to the tomb,
Check'd be the thought, that, not without a crime,
Saddens o'er boded misery ere its time.
Still be firm faith and meek submission mine,
To bear the lot of man at life's decline:

So shall I not, when Nature claims her debt,
Mourn o'er past youth with vain and weak regret;
Nor perish my unprofitable birth,

Like a fleet shadow passing o'er the earth.

SOTHEBY.

COOMBE ELLEN *.

HERE Melancholy, on the pale crags laid,
Might muse herself to sleep; or Fancy come,
Witching the mind with tender cozenage,
And shaping things that are not; here all day
Might Meditation listen to the lapse

Of the white waters, flashing through the cleft,

And, gazing on the many shadowing trees,

Mingle a pensive moral as she gazed

Coombe Ellen (in Welsh, Cwn Elan) is situated among

the most romantic mountains of Radnorshire, about five miles from Rhayd❜r.