The Banks of Wye Part 3

Then CHEPSTOW'S ruin'd fortress caught The mind's collected store of thought, And seem'd, with mild but jealous frown, To promise peace, and warn us down.

Twas well; for he has much to boast, Much still that tells of glories lost, Though rolling years have form'd the sod, Where once the bright-helm'd warrior trod From tower to tower, and gaz'd around, While all beneath him slept profound.

E'en on the walls where pac'd the brave, High o'er his crumbling turrets wave The rampant seedlings--Not a breath Past through their leaves; when, still as death, We stopp'd to watch the clouds--for night Grew splendid with encreasing light, Till, as time loudly told the hour, Gleam'd the broad front of MARTEN'S TOWER[1], [Footnote 1: Henry Marten, whose signature appears upon the death-warrant of Charles the First, finished his days here in prison. Marten lived to the advanced age of seventy-eight, and died by a stroke of apoplexy, which seized him while he was at dinner, in the twentieth year of his confinement. He was buried in the chancel of the parish church at Chepstow. Over his ashes was placed a stone with an inscription, which remained there until one of the succeeding vicars declaring his abhorrence that the monument of a rebel should stand so near the altar, removed the stone into the body of the church!]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Marten's Tower, Chepstow Castle.]

Bright silver'd by the moon.--Then rose The wild notes sacred to repose; Then the lone owl awoke from rest, Stretch'd his keen talons, plum'd his crest, And from his high embattl'd station, Hooted a trembling salutation.

Rocks caught the "halloo" from his tongue, And PERSFIELD back the echoes flung Triumphant o'er th' ill.u.s.trious dead, Their history lost, their glories fled.

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

BOOK III.

CONTENTS OF BOOK III.

Departure for Ragland.--Ragland Castle.--Abergavenny.--Expedition up the "Pen-y-Vale," or Sugar-Loaf Hill.--Invocation to the Spirit of Burns.-- View from the Mountain.--Castle of Abergaveuny.--Departure for Brecon.-- Pembrokes of Crickbowel--Tre-Tower Castle.--Jane Edwards.

THE BANKS OF WYE.

BOOK III.

PEACE to your white-wall'd cots, ye vales, Untainted fly your summer gales; Health, thou from cities lov'st to roam, O make the Monmouth hills your home!

Great spirits of her bards of yore, While harvests triumph, torrents roar, Train her young shepherds, train them high To sing of mountain liberty: Give them the harp and modest maid; Give them the sacred village shade.

Long be Llandenny, and Llansoy, Names that import a rural joy; Known to our fathers, when May-day Brush'd a whole twelvemonth's cares away.

Oft on the lisping infant's tongue Reluctant information hung, Till, from a belt of woods full grown, Arose immense thy turrets brown, Majestic RAGLAND! Harvests wave Where thund'ring hosts their watch-word gave, When cavaliers, with downcast eye, Struck the last flag of loyalty[1]: [Footnote 1: This castle, with a garrison commanded by the Marquis of Worcester, was the last place of strength which held out for the unfortunate Charles the First.]

Then, left by gallant WORC'STER'S band, To devastation's cruel hand The beauteous fabric bow'd, fled all The splendid hours of festival.

No smoke ascends; the busy hum Is heard no more; no rolling drum, No high-ton'd clarion sounds alarms, No banner wakes the pride of arms[A]; [Footnote A: "These magnificent ruins, including the citadel, occupy a tract of ground not less than one-third of a mile in circ.u.mference."

"In addition to the injury the castle sustained from the parliamentary army, considerable dilapidations have been occasioned by the numerous tenants in the vicinity, who conveyed away the stone and other materials for the construction of farm-houses, barns, and other buildings. No less than twenty-three staircases were taken down by these devastators; but the present Duke of Beanfort no sooner succeeded to his estate, than he instantly gave orders that not a stone should be moved from its situation, and thus preserved these n.o.ble ruins from destruction."

_History of Monmouths.h.i.+re, page 148._]

But ivy, creeping year by year, Of growth enormous, triumphs here.

Each dark festoon with pride upheaves Its glossy wilderness of leaves On st.u.r.dy limbs, that, clasping, bow Broad o'er the turrets utmost brow, Encompa.s.sing, by strength alone, In tret-work bars, the sliding stone, That tells how years and storms prevail, And spreads its dust upon the gale.

The man who could unmov'd survey What ruin, piecemeal, sweeps away; Works of the pow'rful and the brave, All sleeping in the silent grave; Unmov'd reflect that here were sung Carols of joy, by beauty's tongue, Is fit, where'er he deigns to roam, And hardly fit--to stay at home.

Spent here in peace one solemn hour, 'Midst legends of the YELLOW TOWER, Truth and tradition's mingled stream, Fear's start, and superst.i.tion's dream[1]

[Footnote 1: A village woman, who very officiously pointed out all that she knew respecting the former state of the castle, desired us to remark the descent to a vault, apparently of large dimensions, in which she had heard that no candle would continue burning; "and," added she, "they say it is because of the damps; but for my part, I think the devil is there."]

Is pregnant with a thousand joys, That distance, place, nor time destroys; That with exhaustless stores supply Food for reflection till we die.

ONWARD the rested steeds pursu'd The cheerful route, with strength renew'd, For onward lay the gallant town, Whose name old custom hath clipp'd down, With more of music left than many, So handily to ABERGANY.

And as the sidelong, sober light Left valleys darken'd, hills less bright, Great BLORENGE rose to tell his tale; And the dun peak of PEN-Y-VALE Stood like a centinel, whose brow Scowl'd on the sleeping world below; Yet even sleep itself outspread The mountain paths we meant to tread, 'Midst fresh'ning gales all unconfin'd, Where USK'S broad valley shrinks behind.

Joyous the crimson morning rose, As joyous from the night's repose Sprung the light heart, the glancing eye Beheld, amidst the dappl'd sky, Exulting PEN-Y-VALE. But how Could females climb his gleaming brow, Rude toil encount'ring? how defy The wintry torrent's course, when dry, A rough-scoop'd bed of stones? or meet The powerful force of August heat?

Wheels might a.s.sist, could wheels be found Adapted to the rugged ground: 'Twas done; for prudence bade us start With three Welch ponies, and a cart; A red-cheek'd mountaineer[A], a wit, Full of rough shafts, that sometimes. .h.i.t, [Footnote A: The driver, Powell, I believe, occupied a cottage, or small farm, which we past during the ascent, and where goats milk was offered for refreshment.]

Trudg'd by their side, and twirl'd his thong, And cheer'd his scrambling team along.

At ease to mark a scene so fair, And treat their steeds with mountain air, Some rode apart, or led before, Rock after rock the wheels upbore; The careful driver slowly sped, To many a bough we duck'd the head, And heard the wild inviting calls Of summer's tinkling waterfalls, In wooded glens below; and still, At every step the sister hill, BLORENGE, grew greater, half unseen At times from out our bowers of green.

That telescopic landscapes made, From the arch'd windows of its shade; For woodland tracts begirt us round; The vale beyond was fairy ground, That verse can never paint. Above Gleam'd something like the mount of Jove, (But how much let the learned say Who take Olympus in their way) Gleam'd the fair, sunny, cloudless peak That simple strangers ever seek.

And are they simple? Hang the dunce Who would not doff his cap at once In extasy, when, bold and new, Bursts on his sight a mountain-view.

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 gus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.s 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 wors.h.i.+pp'd in my dreams Thy mountain haunts,--thy cla.s.sic 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 pa.s.sing 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, n.o.ble 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 sh.o.r.es, 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 a.s.saults 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 pa.s.sions, mortal blood, Celestial power with earthly mix'd; G.o.ds 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 s.h.i.+eld, Or bow to tw.a.n.g, 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 Brecknocks.h.i.+re, 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 vanis.h.!.+--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.

SLOW less'ning BLORENGE, left behind, Reluctantly his claims resign'd, And stretch'd his glowing front entire, As forward peep'd CRICKHOWEL spire; But no proud castle turrets gleam'd; No warrior Earl's gay banner stream'd; E'en of thy palace, grief to tell!