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Wales and the French Revolution Series
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(English Poems) A Tour Through Parts of South and North Wales (extract)by William SothebyLocation: English-Language Poetry from Wales 1789-1806, rhif / no. 2 From Book One… Now the soft murmurs, faint and fainter heard, Die, while in contrast harsh from yon lone isle, Loudly, with ceaseless revolution whirl’d, Bursts the cogg’d wheel, and on the anvil blows, Falling at measur’d intervals, and oft More mark’d by casual interruptions, fling Heavily forth their weight of sound. Soft falls Upon the dewy earth descending eve, And onward as I wander, wavering mists Shadow the face of Nature, and diffuse The thin blue veil, that half concealing adds To the dim scene imaginary charms. ’Tis now the time, when from the narrow world Withdrawn, and its close fett’ring care, the mind, Swift as a prisoner from long bondage scap’d, Exulting in its liberty, at will Arrays its wild creation; yet the bard That roams at eventide, through pathless woods, His secret way, shapes not ideal scenes More suited to the pensive range of thought, Than yonder Castle,* ’mid the ruins vast * Caerfily Castle Lifting its hoary brow. The mellow tints That time’s slow pencil lays from year to year Upon the ancient tow’rs, spread o’er the wreck A grateful gloom, and the thick clouds that sweep Along the darken’d battlements, extend The melancholy grandeur of the scene. Hail, solemn wreck! Thou silent hour, belov’d Of fancy, hail! and thou, that o’er yon hill, Mild orb, slow rising, with soft radiance gleam’st Upon the Castle, while each varied shape Of turret, and nich’d battlement that fronts The light’s full stream, its shadowy image casts On the retiring walls. … Bold on the summit of the mountain brow Frowns many a hoary tow’r, where Cambria’s chiefs Waving the banner’d dragon dar’d to arms The Norman host. Breathing his native strains, There the descendant of the British bards, Hoel, or lofty Taliessin, oft At the dim twilight hour in pensive mood, Amid the silent hall o’ergrown with bryars, Recalls the festivals of old, when blaz’d The giant oak, and chieftains crown’d with mead The sculptur’d horn, while the high vaulted roof Re-echo’d to the honour’d minstrel’s harp. O’er yonder crag, steep, lonely, wild, impends The ruin’d fortress,* like th’ aerial shape * Caraigcennin, the remains of a British fortress. Of battlement or broken citadel, That when at eve autumnal gales arise, Crowns the grey fleeces of the floating clouds. Stranger! beneath yon tow’r a vaulted path Down the steep mountain leads; with flaming torch Amid the windings of the cliff descend, Where, in its deep recess, the hollow’d rock Catches the gather’d damps, that drop by drop Fall through the porous stone. Gilt by the blaze, The radiant cave, the dews that gem the roof Shedding around from long pellucid points The mimic diamonds, veins of sparry ore, That glittering down the arches’ crystal sides Their interlacing fret-work weave, renew The visionary scenes to childhood dear, Of subterranean palaces, the haunts Of Genii brooding o’er their secret wealth. … O’er the sunny lawns The scatter’d groves of graceful foliage bloom, Mingling with sweet variety: The hills Sink softly melting to the plain beneath, Lost gradual in its level, as the stream That glides into the bosom of the sea: High low’r the wilder steeps, darken’d with oaks Majestic, as bold nature unconfin’d Spreads in his forest range; and at the base Of yon wood-waving cliff, where the proud wreck Of ancient Dinevawr sublimely lifts Its ivied battlements, swift Towy winds Voluminous, in many a lucid fold Wildly meand’ring; while beyond arise The verdant heights that guard the shelter’d vale And fade away, dim’d by the distant clouds.
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