“The winding of the precipice,” says Gilpin, “is the magical secret by which all these enchanting scenes are produced.” At one point, both above and below, as far as the eye can reach, rolls in majestic windings the river Wye: at another, the Severn, hastening to meet “its sister river,” is discovered, till at last they are both lost in the Bristol Channel: at another, these scenes are concealed, and thick woods, apparently coeval with time itself, and a long range of rock, burst upon “the wanderer” with irresistible beauty and attraction. The occasional recurrence also of the rude beach, overshadowed by some umbrageous tree, and concealed from the steep precipice below by thick underwood, allow only glimpses of the surrounding scenery.
I have thus brought my tour to a conclusion; a tour, which has been productive of much amusement, and, I hope, not entirely devoid of advantage. It only remains, therefore, for me to add, that the two friends, having completed a pedestrian circuit of near eight hundred miles, parted with mutual regret, jointly exclaiming,
“Cambria, as thy romantic vales we leave,
And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
Where fond attention seems to linger still,
Tracing the broad bright landscape; much we grieve
That mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
We may return thy varied views to mark.”
SONNETS.
SONNET I. TO FRIENDSHIP.
ADDRESSED TO THE COMPANION OF MY TOUR.
O balmy comfort through this varied maze
Of life! thou best physician to the breast,
With deep affliction’s venom’d sting opprest,
A thousand arts, a thousand winning ways
Are thine, to smooth the rugged brow of care,
And mitigate misfortune’s keenest hour:
Yes, A. . . ., partner of my Cambrian Tour,
Friend of my heart, how gladly do I share
Thy confidence; whate’er my part may be
Hereafter, on this shifting stage of life,
This busy theatre of jarring strife,
May health and happiness attend both thee
And thine!—on One, thy heavenly Guardian, trust,
Nor doubt protection—all His ways are just.
SONNET II.
THE CONTRAST OF YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN ON THE SUMMIT OF SNOWDON.
How gay was yesterday!—no storm was heard
To mutter round thy steep—yon sun arose
With golden splendour, and in still repose
Nature majestic through her works appear’d.
To-day how changed—loud howls the hollow blast!
The thin mists undulate! thy towering height
Is veil’d in tempest and eternal night!
So ’tis with man! contrasting prospects past
With dreams of future happiness—to-day
In gallant trim his little bark may glide
On the smooth current of the tranquil tide:
To-morrow comes!—the gathering storms display
A sad vicissitude—the whirlwind’s sweep
Grasps at its prey, and whelms it in the deep.