But no sooner had he uttered the word, than the charm was broken, and poor Mick sank senseless to the earth. When sufficiently recovered, he recounted the marvellous tale, and declared that all appeared to him as a dream. But the circle remains, round the edge of the hollow, where the fairies disappeared, which the peasants assert to be the fairy’s foot mark to this day. [107]
We now proceeded on our ascent, which became more difficult, as we approached the summit, and after a little toil we stood by the side of the well, whose pure waters gave joy to the inhabitants of this ancient fortress many hundred years ago, and still offer a welcome draught to the pilgrim who has sufficient enterprise and perseverance to seek it.
The view from the summit of this mountain is beautiful in the extreme; commanding the vale from east to west, with the widely spreading plains beyond its eastern extremity, and the grand and picturesque mountain scenery which forms the western boundary. Chirk Castle, Wynstay, Valle Crucis and Glyndwrdwy are distinctly visible from this elevation, while the romantic Dee is seen winding beneath, in light and shadow beautifully varied by the hills, and the woods that droop over its banks.
Standing amid the ruins of this ancient British fortress, I observed it was surely impossible that a spot so romantic could be without its legends.
“You are right,” said my companion, “and I will relate one of a young lady, who once resided within these walls. That she did live here, and was esteemed very beautiful, there is little reason to doubt, since the Welsh bards have handed her down to posterity.”
MY FAWNY VYCHAN,
AND THE MINSTREL FAY.
My Fawny Vychan was a celebrated beauty of the fourteenth century, and was the inspirer of many a bard’s most admired effusions. She was of the house of Tudor Trevor, and her father Ednyfed Vychan then held the castle, under the noble Earl of Arundel, in the reign of the unfortunate Richard II. Among her numerous admirers was Evan, a youthful bard of great beauty, but of mysterious birth; but her heart was given to a valiant knight, named Howell Einion, the son of Gwalchmai, the son of Meilir, the Lord of Tre Veilir in Anglesea, who was esteemed the greatest ornament of chivalry. He was daring, young and handsome, three qualifications that find grace in the eyes of all ladies, at all periods; but added to these he was a celebrated bard and a fine musician. Evan was gentle, delicate and retiring, and she could only yield him her esteem. Yet nightly did he hover near her casement, and, with the voice of love, pour forth his soul in melody beneath it. One evening, at the close of autumn, she listened, while tears of pity fell from her bright eyes, to the well known voice of Evan.
The breeze had left the Berwyn hills,
The dew was on the flower,
The bee had sought his honeycomb,
The bird was in his bower;
When swifter than the mountain gale,
And fresh as sparkling dew,
My bee, I sought thy honey-home,
My bird, to thee I flew!My Alban steed is white with foam,
And droops his arched neck;
The flood, the mountain, moor, and glen,
He cross’d without a check!
Oh listen, while my harp I strike,
And rouse its sweetest tone,
And hear the language of a heart,
Which beats for thee alone!Oh, dearest of the mortal race!
How peerless must thou be,
When spirits quit their happy homes,
To love, and gaze on thee!
Arise, bright star of beauty, rise!
And when from thee I roam,
Send forth the lustre of thine eyes,
To light me to my home!
Evan, after this touching appeal, remained for some time beneath the window, gazing upwards, in the hope that she would grant him one farewell; but disappointed, he turned sorrowfully to depart, when his progress was arrested, by the sudden grasp of an armed hand, and Einion stood before him. Howell had often observed, that the eyes of the young minstrel filled with tears as he gazed upon the beautiful face of his mistress, and was not pleased with the discovery. His fine eyes, now flashed with anger upon Evan, who returned the glance as haughtily, and, but for the delicate frame of the minstrel, the knight would have revenged himself upon the object of his jealousy. Evan’s eyes were black as jet, his face was femininely fair, and his transparent skin was tinged with that beautiful, but fatal hue, which brightens the cheeks of those already doomed to the consumptive fiend, who flatters while he destroys.