LINES WRITTEN AT VALLE CRUCIS.
Monastic Valle Crucis! while I linger in thy shade,
The spirits of the olden time seem moving in the glade;
Rebuilt appear thy ruined walls, and thou art strong again,
As when the organ through those aisles poured forth its solemn strain.Here reigneth peace and solitude, as if some holy spell
Still charmed the blessed region where religion loved to dwell;
No music, save the streamlet’s voice, disturbs the deep serene,
And breezy sounds sweet murmuring throughout the woodlands green.Oh fallen Valle Crucis! full six hundred years are gone
Since the warlike lord of Dinas Bean laid thy foundation stone;
And mighty didst thou flourish, till that fell destroyer came,
Than mouldering time more ruthless, and of sacrilegious name.Then, holy Valle Crucis! was thy sacred roof thrown down,
Thy peaceful inmates scattered, rent the sacerdotal gown;
The mournful ivy clustered o’er thy grey and ruined walls,
And ash trees sprang, where torches blazed, within thy sainted halls.Hushed are the lips of all who dwelt within that cloistered fane;
And holy feet will never press the polished floors again,
At morning prayer and vesper hymn, which thrilled thy very stones—
Forgotten now those pious ones, and whitened are their bones!Yet ivy’d Valle Crucis! thou art fairer in decay
Than all the splendid structures which adorn our modern day;
In every mouldering fragment of thy consecrated pile
There’s a charm to all who view thy walls, or tread thy broken aisle.Peace dwell around thee ever! may no heedless hand molest
The solemn bird which builds in thee its ivy-mantled nest,
Whose breathings seem the deep-drawn sighs of bosoms fraught with pain,
Lamenting the departed, who will ne’er return again.
The porteress of this ancient building is Ann Dale, who has lived in this solitary but delightful spot for two years; and, although a Shropshire woman, has made herself, during that period, sufficiently acquainted with the Welsh language to discourse fluently with the country people, in their native tongue; and has moreover committed to memory everything interesting, relative to the spot where she resides. It is evidently her delight to point out to strangers the objects most worthy their attention; and her love of the venerable pile has induced her to take spade in hand, and clear away the rubbish that perhaps had for centuries been accumulating round the columns, leaving them clear to their foundations. Time has been over busy with her features; but her limbs are as active as those of a girl of sixteen, and her spirits are as light as her heels.
“Ah, sir!” said she, after enumerating the good offices she had received from the neighbouring gentry, and the friendly feelings of the more humble classes, “I’ve always made it a rule, throughout my life, to be civil to every body. Civility costs nothing, you know, and I’m always surprised to hear people, when they are asked a simple question, if they chance to have a better coat on their backs than the person who addresses them, give an answer as if they were speaking to cattle, or worse brutes, when you know, sir, (approaching the cottage at the head of the pond) we are all the same flesh and blood, (pausing on the second step.) I don’t say but there ought to be distinctions, for we can’t be all gentlefolks, (entering.) But then, where’s the difference, when we are as them that lie in the abbey there? or like these poor bones that I have in a box here, (opening it and displaying some human relics.) They all comed out of the abbey ground, Sir. Why these might be a bishop’s, or a great warrior’s, for aught we know to the contrary. Well, sir, after all, there’s nothing like good common sense. Solomon prayed for good sense, and he had it; and, thank God, I have it, too. Now, sir, come this way (leading back to the margin of the monks’ pond) and I’ll show you something that shows what a thing Providence is. You see that stone jar there, sir—just there in the water; well, sir, you know there are no flies in the winter; so the poor fish would be sorely put about for food, but for Providence. Well, upon that jar I’ve seen thousands and thousands of things like shells and patches of grey moss; and I’ve seen the trout cluster about it, and feed upon ’em often. And, whenever I thinks of that, sir, it brings to my mind the 104th Psalm.”
“What is the name of that mountain, my good lady, to S.E. of the abbey?” I inquired.
“Why that, sir, is called Fron Fawr. It is 1328 feet above the level of the sea, sir.”
I thanked her for her information; and, prompted by an incontrollable appetite, ventured to ask if she could supply us with anything eatable.
“Why, I’m afraid,” said she “that I have nothing that you’ll like, sir; for I’m a poor lone woman, and what suits me, wouldn’t perhaps sit upon your honour’s stomach. But there were a party here this morning, and they left behind ’em a pork-pie, because the dish got broke, and a piece of apple tart; and I have gotten a piece of oatcake, and a piece of cheese; if you could manage to put up with that, sir, you’re quite welcome.”
Talk of Christmas times, of roast beef and plum pudding! Give me June, with cold pork-pie, apple tart, and cheese, in a summer-house overlooking a monk’s pond, and surrounded by waving woods and lofty trees, in view of the ruined abbey,
“Where monks of old
As I’ve been told
Quaffed the merry, merry nut brown ale.”
By the time my travelling friend had returned from his bath, the table was furnished with fare calculated to satisfy his appetite, at the expense of pork-pie, tart, etc. Mixing the contents of our united flasks with the pure cool waters of the refreshing spring, inhaling the perfume of Havannah, and making a sofa out of two wooden chairs, we amused ourselves with a retrospective view of the scenes we had passed through since we met. It was now twelve o’clock, and, as it was my intention to reach Bala by nightfall, we rose to depart; and with many thanks and kind wishes from the old porteress of Valle Crucis, quitted that interesting ruin, and proceeded to