Though vast the prospect here became,
Intensely as the love of fame
Glow'd the strong hope, that strange desire,
That deathless wish of climbing higher,
Where heather clothes his graceful sides,
Which many a scatter'd rock divides,
Bleach'd by more years than hist'ry knows,
Mov'd by no power but melting snows,
Or gushing springs, that wash away
Th' embedded earth that forms their stay.
The heart distends, the whole frame feelsr
Where, inaccessible to wheels,
The utmost storm-worn summit spreads
Its rocks grotesque, its downy beds;
Here no false feeling sense belies,
Man lifts the weary foot, and sighs;
Laughter is dumb; hilarity
Forsakes at once th' astonish'd eye;
E'en the clos'd lip, half useless grown,
Drops but a word, "Look down; look down."
GOOD Heav'ns! must scenes like these expand,
Scenes so magnificently grand,
And millions breathe, and pass away,
Unbless'd, throughout their little day,
With one short glimpse? By place confin'd,
Shall many an anxious ardent mind,
Sworn to the Muses, cow'r its pride,
Doom'd but to sing with pinions tied?
SPIRIT of BURNS! the daring child
Of glorious freedom, rough and wild,
How have I wept o'er all thy ills,
How blest thy Caledonian hills!
How almost worshipp'd in my dreams
Thy mountain haunts,—thy classic streams!
How burnt with hopeless, aimless fire,
To mark thy giant strength aspire
In patriot themes! and tun'd the while
Thy "Bonny Doon," or "Balloch Mile."
Spirit of BURNS! accept the tear
That rapture gives thy mem'ry here
On the bleak mountain top. Here thou
Thyself had rais'd the gallant brow
Of conscious intellect, to twine
Th'imperishable verse of thine,
That charm'st the world. Or can it be,
That scenes like these were nought to thee?
That Scottish hills so far excel,
That so deep sinks the Scottish dell,
That boasted PEN-Y-VALE had been[1],
For thy loud northern lyre too mean;
[Footnote 1: The respective heights of these mountains above the mouth of
the Gavany, was taken barometrically by General Roy.
Feet
The summit of the Sugar-Loaf……….1852
Of the Blorenge…………………..1720
Of the Skyrid…………………….1498]
Broad-shoulder'd BLORENGE a mere knoll,
And SKYRID, let him smile or scowl,
A dwarfish bully, vainly proud
Because he breaks the passing cloud?
If even so, thou bard of fame,
The consequences rest the same:
For, grant that to thy infant sight
Rose mountains of stupendous height;
Or grant that Cambrian minstrels taught
'Mid scenes that mock the lowland thought;
Grant that old TALLIESIN flung
His thousand raptures, as he sung
From huge PLYNLIMON'S awful brow,
Or CADER IDRIS, capt with snow;
Such Alpine scenes with them or thee
Well suited.—These are Alps to me.
LONG did we, noble BLORENGE, gaze
On thee, and mark the eddying haze
That strove to reach thy level crown,
From the rich stream, and smoking town;
And oft, old SKYRID, hail'd thy name,
Nor dar'd deride thy holy fame[1].
[Footnote 1: There still remains, on the summit of the Skyrid, or St.
Michael's Mount, the foundation of an ancient chapel, to which the
inhabitants formerly ascended on Michaelmas Eve, in a kind of pilgrimage.
A prodigious cleft, or separation in the hill, tradition says, was caused
by the earthquake at the crucifixion, it was therefore termed the Holy
Mountain.]
Long follow'd with untiring eye
Th' illumin'd clouds, that o'er the sky
Drew their thin veil, and slowly sped,
Dipping to every mountain's head,
Dark-mingling, fading, wild, and thence,
Till admiration, in suspense,
Hung on the verge of sight. Then sprung,
By thousands known, by thousands sung,
Feelings that earth and time defy,
That cleave to immortality.
A light gray haze enclos'd us round;
Some momentary drops were found,
Borne on the breeze; soon all dispell'd;
Once more the glorious prospect swell'd
Interminably fair[1]. Again
[Footnote 1: This hill commands a view of the counties of Radnor, Salop,
Brecknock, Glamorgan, Hereford, Worcester, Gloucester, Somerset, and
Wilts.]
Stretch'd the BLACK MOUNTAIN'S dreary chain!
When eastward turn'd the straining eye,
Great MALVERN met the cloudless sky:
Southward arose th'embattled shores,
Where Ocean in his fury roars,
And rolls abrupt his fearful tides,
Far still from MENDIP'S fern-clad sides;
From whose vast range of mingling blue,
The weary, wand'ring sight withdrew,
O'er fair GLAMORGAN'S woods and downs,
O'er glitt'ring streams, and farms, and towns,
Back to the TABLE ROCK, that lours
O'er old CRICKHOWEL'S ruin'd towers.
Here perfect stillness reign'd. The breath
A moment hush'd, 'twas mimic death.
The ear, from all assaults releas'd,
As motion, sound, and life, had ceas'd.
The beetle rarely murmur'd by,
No sheep-dog sent his voice so high,
Save when, by chance, far down the steep,
Crept a live speck, a straggling sheep;
Yet one lone object, plainly seen,
Curv'd slowly, in a line of green,
On the brown heath: no demon fell,
No wizard foe, with magic spell,
To chain the senses, chill the heart,
No wizard guided POWEL'S cart;
He of our nectar had the care,
All our ambrosia rested there.
At leisure, but reluctant still,
We join'd him by a mountain rill;
And there, on springing turf, all seated,
Jove's guests were never half so treated;
Journies they had, and feastings many,
But never came to ABERGANY;
Lucky escape:—the wrangling crew,
Mischief to cherish, or to brew,
Was all their sport: and when, in rage,
They chose 'midst warriors to engage,
"Our chariots of fire," they cried,
And dash'd the gates of heav'n aside,
Whirl'd through the air, and foremost stood
'Midst mortal passions, mortal blood,
Celestial power with earthly mix'd;
Gods by the arrow's point transfix'd!
Beneath us frown'd no deadly war,
And POWEL'S wheels were safer far;
As on them, without flame or shield,
Or bow to twang, or lance to wield,
We left the heights of inspiration,
And relish'd a mere mortal station;
Our object, not to fire a town,
Or aid a chief, or knock him down;
But safe to sleep from war and sorrow,
And drive to BRECKNOCK on the morrow.
HEAVY and low'ring, crouds on crouds,
Drove adverse hosts of dark'ning clouds
Low o'er the vale, and far away,
Deep gloom o'erspread the rising day;
No morning beauties caught the eye,
O'er mountain top, or stream, or sky,
As round the castle's ruin'd tower,
We mus'd for many a solemn hour;
And, half-dejected, half in spleen,
Computed idly, o'er the scene,
How many murders there had dy'd
Chiefs and their minions, slaves of pride;
When perjury, in every breath,
Pluck'd the huge falchion from its sheath,
And prompted deeds of ghastly fame,
That hist'ry's self might blush to name[1].
[Footnote 1: In Jones's History of Brecknockshire, the castle of
Abergavenny is noticed as having been the scene of the most shocking
enormities.]
At length, through each retreating shower,
Burst, with a renovating power,
Light, life, and gladness; instant fled
All contemplations on the dead.
Who hath not mark'd, with inward joy,
The efforts of the diving boy;
And, waiting while he disappear'd,
Exulted, trembled, hop'd, and fear'd?
Then felt his heart, 'midst cheering cries,
Bound with delight to see him rise?
Who hath not burnt with rage, to see
Falshood's vile cant, and supple knee;
Then hail'd, on some courageous brow,
The power that works her overthrow;
That, swift as lightning, seals her doom,
With, "Miscreant vanish!—truth is come?"
So PEN-Y-VALE upheav'd his brow,
And left the world of fog below;
So SKYRID, smiling, broke his way
To glories of the conqu'ring day;
With matchless grace, and giant pride.
So BLORENGE turn'd the clouds aside,
And warn'd us, not a whit too soon,
To chase the flying car of noon,
Where herds and flocks unnumber'd fed,
Where USK her wand'ring mazes led.
Here on the mind, with powerful sway,
Press'd the bright joys of yesterday;
For still, though doom'd no more t'inhale
The mountain air of PEN-Y-VALE,
His broad dark-skirting woods o'erhung
Cottage and farm, where careless sung
The labourer, where the gazing steer
Low'd to the mountains, deep and clear.