I.
The winds are hush’d: the woods are still;
And clouds around yon towering hill,
In silent volumes roll:—
While o’er the vale, the moon serene
Throws yellow on the living green;
And wakes a harmony between
The body and the soul.
II.
Deceitful calm! yon volumes soon,
Though gilded by the golden moon,
Will send the thunder’s roar:
Gloom will succeed the glowing ray;
The storm will rage with giant sway;
And lightnings will illume its way
Along the billowy shore.
III.
’Tis thus in life, from youth to age,
Through manhood’s weary pilgrimage,
What flattering charms infest!
We little think beneath a smile,
How many a war, how many a wile,
The rich, confiding, heart beguile,
And rob it of its rest.
IV.
Then let me near this fountain lie;
And let old Time in silence fly,
Stealing my youth away!
Far from the riot of the mean,
Oh! let me o’er this fountain lean;
Till Death has drawn the darksome skreen,
That hides eternal day.
Mr. Bingley ascended this mountain from the Blue Lion, kept by Jones, before mentioned, who acts as guide: from this spot Mr. Bingley declares himself capable of attaining the summit in two hours, from which he describes the views to be more varied, if not so extensive, as from Snowdon.
“In descending,” he says, “I took a direction eastward of that in which I had gone up, and proceeded along that part of the mountain called Mynydd Moel. The path in this direction is sufficiently sloping to allow a person to ride even to the summit. A gentleman, mounted on a little Welsh poney, had done this a few days before I was here.”