The Banks of Wye | Page 9

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 assist, 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 hit,?[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 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