Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band!
Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand.
Though myriads flashing in the eye of day
Stream’d o’er the smiling land in long array,
Though tyrant Asia pour’d unnumber’d foes,
Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose;--
For every state in sacred union stood,
Strong to repel invasion’s whelming flood;
Each heart was glowing in the general cause,
Each hand prepared to guard their hallow’d laws;
Athenian valour join’d Laconia’s might,
And but contended to be first in fight;
From rank to rank the warm contagion ran,
And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van.
Then Persia’s monarch mourn’d his glories lost,
As wild confusion wing’d his flying host;
Then Attic bards the hymn of victory sung,
The Grecian harp to notes exulting rung!
Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record
The high achievements of the conquering sword.
Thus, brave Castilians! thus may bright renown
And fair success your valiant efforts crown!

Genius of chivalry! whose early days
Tradition still recounts in artless lays;
Whose faded splendours fancy oft recalls--
The floating banners and the lofty halls,
The gallant feats thy festivals display’d,
The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade;
Whose ancient pride Romance delights to hail,
In fabling numbers, or heroic tale:
Those times are fled, when stern thy castles frown’d,
Their stately towers with feudal grandeur crown’d;
Those times are fled, when fair Iberia’s clime
Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime;
And all thy glories, all thy deeds of yore,
Live but in legends wild, and poet’s lore.
Lo! where thy silent harp neglected lies,
Light o’er its chords the murmuring zephyr sighs;
Thy solemn courts, where once the minstrel sung,
The choral voice of mirth and music rung;
Now, with the ivy clad, forsaken, lone,
Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan:
Thy lonely towers deserted fall away,
Thy broken shield is mouldering in decay.
Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone,
Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown;
Genius of chivalry! thy noble train,
Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain!
Fair truth, array’d in robes of spotless white,
Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light;
Warm emulation, with aspiring aim,
Still darting forward to the wreath of fame;
And purest love, that waves his torch divine,
At awful honour’s consecrated shrine;
Ardour, with eagle-wing and fiery glance;
And generous courage, resting on his lance;
And loyalty, by perils unsubdued;
Untainted faith, unshaken fortitude;
And patriot energy, with heart of flame--
These, in Iberia’s sons are yet the same!
These from remotest days their souls have fired,
“Nerved every arm,” and every breast inspired!
When Moorish bands their suffering land possess’d,
And fierce oppression rear’d her giant crest,
The wealthy caliphs on Cordova’s throne
In eastern gems and purple splendour shone;
Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied
With stately Bagdat’s oriental pride;
Theirs were the courts in regal pomp array’d,
Where arts and luxury their charms display’d;
’Twas theirs to rear the Zehrar’s costly towers,
Its fairy-palace and enchanted bowers;
There all Arabian fiction e’er could tell
Of potent genii or of wizard spell--
All that a poet’s dream could picture bright,
One sweet Elysium, charm’d the wondering sight!
Too fair, too rich, for work of mortal hand,
It seem’d an Eden from Armida’s wand!

Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radiant state,
When freedom waved on high the sword of fate!
When brave Ramiro bade the despots fear,
Stem retribution frowning on his spear;
And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight,
O’erwhelm’d with shame, confess’d the Christian’s might.

In later times the gallant Cid arose,
Burning with zeal against his country’s foes;
His victor-arm Alphonso’s throne maintain’d,
His laureate brows the wreath of conquest gain’d!
And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse,
Inspiring theme of patriotic verse!
High in the temple of recording fame,
Iberia points to great Gonsalvo’s name!
Victorious chief! whose valour still defied
The arms of Gaul, and bow’d her crested pride;
With splendid trophies graced his sovereign’s throne,
And bade Granada’s realms his prowess own.
Nor were his deeds thy only boast, O Spain!
In mighty Ferdinand’s illustrious reign;
’Twas then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail,
Unfurl’d his flag before the eastern gale;
Bold, sanguine, fearless, ventured to explore
Seas unexplored, and worlds unknown before.
Fair science guided o’er the liquid realm,
Sweet hope, exulting, steer’d the daring helm;
While on the mast, with ardour-flashing eye,
Courageous enterprise still hover’d nigh:
The hoary genius of th’ Atlantic main
Saw man invade his wide majestic reign--
His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued,
The throne, the world of awful solitude.
And e’en when shipwreck seem’d to rear his form,
And dark destruction menaced in the storm;
In every shape when giant-peril rose,
To daunt his spirit and his course oppose;
O’er ev’ry heart when terror sway’d alone,
And hope forsook each bosom but his own:
Moved by no dangers, by no fears repell’d,
His glorious track the gallant sailor held;
Attentive still to mark the sea-birds lave,
Or high in air their snowy pinions wave.
Thus princely Jason, launching from the steep,
With dauntless prow explored th’ untravell’d deep;
Thus, at the helm, Ulysses’ watchful sight
View’d ev’ry star and planetary light.
Sublime Columbus! when, at length descried,
The long-sought land arose above the tide,
How every heart with exultation glow’d,
How from each eye the tear of transport flow’d!
Not wilder joy the sons of Israel knew
When Canaan’s fertile plains appear’d in view.
Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze,
Then martial music floated o’er the seas;
Their waving streamers to the sun display’d,
In all the pride of warlike pomp array’d.
Advancing nearer still, the ardent band
Hail’d the glad shore, and bless’d the stranger land;
Admired its palmy groves and prospects fair,
With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air:
Then crowded round its free and simple race,
Amazement pictured wild on every face;
Who deem’d that beings of celestial birth,
Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth.
Then first another world, another sky,
Beheld Iberia’s banner blaze on high!

Still prouder glories beam on history’s page,
Imperial Charles! to mark thy prosperous age
Those golden days of arts and fancy bright,
When Science pour’d her mild, refulgent light;
When Painting bade the glowing canvass breathe
Creative Sculpture claim’d the living wreath;
When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers,
Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers;
When angel-truth dispersed, with beam divine,
The clouds that veil’d religion’s hallow’d shrine
Those golden days beheld Iberia tower
High on the pyramid of fame and power;
Vain all the efforts of her numerous foes,
Her might, superior still, triumphant rose.
Thus on proud Lebanon’s exalted brow,
The cedar, frowning o’er the plains below,
Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend,
Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e’er to bend!

When Gallia pour’d to Pavia’s trophied plain,
Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train;
When, after many a toil and danger past,
The fatal morn of conflict rose at last;
That morning saw her glittering host combine,
And form in close array the threat’ning line;
Fire in each eye, and force in ev’ry arm,
With hope exulting, and with ardour warm;
Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play,
Their armour flashing to the beam of day;
Their gen’rous chargers panting, spurn the ground,
Roused by the trumpet’s animating sound;
And heard in air their warlike music float,
The martial pipe, the drum’s inspiring note!

Pale set the sun--the shades of evening fell,
The mournful night-wind rung their funeral knell;
And the same day beheld their warriors dead,
Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled!
Fled, like the lightning’s evanescent fire,
Bright, blazing, dreadful--only to expire!
Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess’d her might,
Iberia’s planet shed meridian light!
Nor less, on famed St Quintin’s deathful day,
Castilian spirit bore the prize away--
Laurels that still their verdure shall retain,
And trophies beaming high in glory’s fane!
And lo! her heroes, warm with kindred flame,
Still proudly emulate their fathers’ fame;
Still with the soul of patriot-valour glow,
Still rush impetuous to repel the foe;
Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear,
And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear!
Be theirs, be theirs unfading honour’s crown,
The living amaranths of bright renown!
Be theirs th’ inspiring tribute of applause,
Due to the champions of their country’s cause!
Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves,
The joy when conscience whispers and approves!
When every heart is fired, each pulse beats high,
To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty;
When every hand is dauntless and prepared
The sacred charter of mankind to guard;
When Britain’s valiant sons their aid unite,
Fervent and glowing still for freedom’s right,
Bid ancient enmities for ever cease,
And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace.
When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band,
Can venal slaves their conquering arms withstand?
Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless?
Can victory fail to crown them with success?
Look down, O Heaven! the righteous cause maintain,
Defend the injured, and avenge the slain!
Despot of France! destroyer of mankind!
What spectre-cares must haunt thy sleepless mind!
Oh! if at midnight round thy regal bed,
When soothing visions fly thine aching head;
When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm,
And lull thy senses in his opiate balm;
Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise,
And murder’d victims bleed before thine eyes;
Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear,
“Tyrant! the hour, th’ avenging hour is near!”
It is, it is! thy star withdraws its ray--
Soon will its parting lustre fade away;
Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light,
And veil thy splendours in eternal night!
Oh! when accusing conscience wakes thy soul
With awful terrors and with dread control,
Bids threat’ning forms, appalling, round thee stand,
And summons all her visionary band;
Calls up the parted shadows of the dead,
And whispers, peace and happiness are fled;
E’en at the time of silence and of rest,
Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast;
Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale?
Then dost thou tremble, does thy spirit fail?
And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke
The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke?
Bereave a nation of its rights revered,
Of all to morals sacred and endear’d?
And shall they tamely liberty resign,
The soul of life, the source of bliss divine?
Canst thou, supreme destroyer! hope to bind,
In chains of adamant, the noble mind?
Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear--
Go, stay the lightning in its wing’d career!
No, tyrant! no! thy utmost force is vain
The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain.
Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine,
Then bid thy legions all their power combine!
Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command,
Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand,
E’en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn,
E’en then, with kindling fire, with indignation burn!

Ye sons of Albion! first in danger’s field,
The sword of Britain and of truth to wield!
Still prompt the injured to defend and save,
Appal the despot, and assist the brave;
Who now intrepid lift the generous blade,
The cause of Justice and Castile to aid!
Ye sons of Albion! by your country’s name,
Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame;
Oh! by the shades of Cressy’s martial dead,
By warrior-bands at Agincourt who bled;
By honours gain’d on Blenheim’s fatal plain,
By those in Victory’s arms at Minden slain;
By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won,
Undaunted spirit! valour’s favourite son!
By Albion’s thousand, thousand deeds sublime,
Renown’d from zone to zone, from clime to clime;
Ye British heroes! may your trophies raise
A deathless monument to future days!
Oh! may your courage still triumphant rise,
Exalt the “lion banner” to the skies!
Transcend the fairest names in history’s page,
The brightest actions of a former age;
The reign of Freedom let your arms restore,
And bid oppression fall--to rise no more!
Then soon returning to your native isle,
May love and beauty hail you with their smile;
For you may conquest weave th’ undying wreath,
And fame and glory’s voice the song of rapture breathe!

Ah! when shall mad ambition cease to rage?
Ah! when shall war his demon-wrath assuage?
When, when, supplanting discord’s iron reign,
Shall mercy wave her olive-wand again?
Not till the despot’s dread career is closed,
And might restrain’d and tyranny deposed!

Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign!
Fair blue-eyed seraph! balmy power divine!
Descend once more! thy hallow’d blessings bring,
Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy wing!
Luxuriant plenty, laughing in thy train,
Shall crown with glowing stores the desert-plain:
Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way,
Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray.
Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky!
Cheer every heart, and brighten every eye;
Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send,
Thy myrtle-sceptre o’er the globe extend:
Thy cherub-look again shall soothe mankind,
Thy cherub-hand the wounds of discord bind;
Thy smile of heaven shall every muse inspire,
To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre.
Descend once more! to bid the world rejoice--
Let nations hail thee with exulting voice,
Around thy shrine with purest incense throng,
Weave the fresh palm, and swell the choral song!
Then shall the shepherd’s flute, the woodland reed,
The martial clarion and the drum succeed;
Again shall bloom Arcadia’s fairest flowers,
And music warble in Idalian bowers.
Where war and carnage blew the blast of death,
The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath;
And golden Ceres bless the festive swain,
Where the wild combat redden’d o’er the plain.
These are thy blessings, fair benignant maid!
Return, return, in vest of light array’d!
Let angel-forms and floating sylphids bear
Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air:
With accents milder than Æolian lays,
When o’er the harp the fanning zephyr plays,
Be thine to charm the raging world to rest,
Diffusing round the heaven that glows within thy breast!

O Thou! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep!
Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep!
Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind’s force,
And stays the thunder in its vengeful course;
Fountain of life! Omnipotent Supreme!
Robed in perfection! crown’d with glory’s beam!
Oh! send on earth thy consecrated dove,
To bear the sacred olive from above;
Restore again the blest, the halcyon time,
The festal harmony of nature’s prime!
Bid truth and justice once again appear,
And spread their sunshine o’er this mundane sphere;
Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom,
Transcendant light their hallow’d fane illume;
Bid war and anarchy for ever cease,
And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of Peace;
Brothers once more, let men her empire own,
And realms and monarchs bend before the throne,
While circling rays of angel-mercy shed
Eternal haloes round her sainted head!

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, AND OTHER POEMS.

[In 1812, another and much smaller volume, entitled _The Domestic Affections, and other Poems_, was given to the world--the last that was to appear with the name of Felicia Browne; for, in the summer of the same year, its author exchanged that appellation for the one under which she has become so much more generally known. Captain Hemans had returned to Wales in the preceding year, when the acquaintance was renewed which had begun so long before at Gwrych; and as the sentiments then mutually awakened continued unaltered, no further opposition was made to a union, on which (however little in accordance with the dictates of worldly prudence) the happiness of both parties seemed so entirely to depend.--_Memoir_, p. 24.]

THE SILVER LOCKS.

ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND.

Though youth may boast the curls that flow
In sunny waves of auburn glow;
_As_ graceful on thy hoary head
Has Time the robe of honour spread,
And there, oh! softly, _softly_ shed
His wreath of snow!

As frost-work on the trees display’d
When weeping Flora leaves the shade,
E’en more than Flora, charms the sight;
E’en so thy locks of purest white
Survive, in age’s frost-work bright,
Youth’s vernal rose decay’d!

To grace the nymph whose tresses play
Light on the sportive breeze of May,
Let other bards the garland twine,
Where sweets of every hue combine;
Those locks revered, that silvery shine,
Invite my lay!

Less white the summer-cloud sublime,
Less white the winter’s fringing rime;
Nor do Belinda’s lovelier seem
(A Poet’s blest immortal theme)
Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam
Of reverend Time!

Long may the graceful honours smile,
Like moss on some declining pile;
O much revered! may filial care
Around thee, duteous, long repair,
Thy joys with tender bliss to share,
Thy pains beguile!

Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave!
Long, long, your much-loved beauty save!
May bliss your latest evening crown,
Disarm life’s winter of its frown,
And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down
In gladness to the grave!

And as the parting beams of day
On mountain-snows reflected play,
And tints of roseate lustre shed;
Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head,
May joy, with evening planet, shed
His mildest ray!

August 18, 1809.

TO MY MOTHER.

If e’er from human bliss or woe
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e’er my heart has learn’d to know
The generous wish or prayer;
Who sow’d the germ with tender hand?
Who mark’d its infant leaves expand?--
My mother’s fostering care.
And if _one_ flower of charms refined
May grace the garden of my mind,
’Twas she who nursed it there:
She loved to cherish and adorn
Each blossom of the soil;
To banish every weed and thorn
That oft opposed her toil!

And oh! if e’er I sigh’d to claim
The palm, the living palm of fame,
The glowing wreath of praise;
If e’er I wish’d the glittering stores
That Fortune on her favourite pours;
’Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round _thee_ with streaming rays might shine,
And gild thy sun-bright days!

Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power
Might then irradiate every hour;
For these, my mother! well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;--
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, _unconfined_,
And fall as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light
Than all the diamond’s crystal rays,
Than all the emerald’s lucid blaze;
And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
One tear, one sorrow cease!

Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless,
Bestow the power to cheer distress;
Make _thee_ its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom’d to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with liberal hand, dispense
The sunshine of beneficence!
But ah! if Fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life’s remote and wintry vale;
Then, as the wild Æolian lyre
Complains with soft entrancing number,
When the lone storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E’en then shall teach thee to rejoice;
E’en _then_ shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow’s tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune’s gales destroy,
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!

TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER,

ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE, AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.

Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours,
Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way;
Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers,
Whose fragrance shall never decay!

And lo! to embrace thee, my Brother! she flies,
With artless delight, that no words can bespeak;
With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes,
With a smile and a glow on her cheek!

From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield,
From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest;
Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field,
To the vale of retirement and rest.

Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice,
Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain;
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice
To meet thee, my Brother! again.
When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true,
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown’d,
How often would fancy present to my view
The horrors that waited thee round!

How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer,
That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm;
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care,
In the heat of the combat’s alarm!

How sad and how often descended the tear,
(Ah, long shall remembrance the image retain!)
How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear
I might never behold thee again!

But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o’er,
And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose;
Thy dangers, our tears, have endear’d thee the more,
And my bosom with tenderness glows.

And oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth,
Bright and transient, have fled like the rainbow away;
My affection for thee, still unfading in truth,
Shall never, oh! never decay!

No time can impair it, no change can destroy,
Whate’er be the lot I am destined to share;
It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy,
And beam through the cloud of despair!

TO MY ELDEST BROTHER.

(WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IN PORTUGAL.)

How many a day, in various hues array’d,
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade,
How many an hour, on silent wing is past,
O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last!
Since _then_ has childhood ripen’d into youth,
And fancy’s dreams have fled from sober truth;
Her splendid fabrics melting into air,
As sage experience waved the wand of care!
Yet _still_ thine absence wakes the tender sigh,
And the tear trembles in affection’s eye!
When shall we meet again?--with glowing ray
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day;
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear,
And sings benignly still--_that_ day is near!
She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice,
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice;
Tells that the hour approaches, to restore
Our cherish’d wanderer to his home once more;
Where sacred ties his manly worth endear,
To faith still true, affection still sincere!
Then the past woes, the future’s dubious lot,
In that blest meeting shall be all forgot!
And joy’s full radiance gild that sun-bright hour,
Though all around th’ impending storm should lower.

Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host,
Albion’s firm sons, on Lusitania’s coast,
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried,
Where glory’s pole-star beams their constant guide,)
Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray
To Cambria’s vales and mountains far away?
Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam,
And paint the greeting that awaits at home?
Does memory’s pencil oft, in mellowing hue,
Dear social scenes, departed joys renew;
In softer tints delighting to retrace
Each tender image and each well-known face?
Yes, wanderer! yes! thy spirit flies to those
Whose love, unalter’d, warm and faithful glows.

Oh! could that love, through life’s eventful hours,
Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers!
Perennial joy should harmonise thy breast,
No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest!
But though our tenderness can but bestow
The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe,
Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame,
In storms, in sunshine, far and near--the same!
Still dwell enthroned within th’ unvarying heart,
And, firm and _vital_, but with life depart!

Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH.

O thou! whose pure, exalted mind,
Lives in this record, fair and bright;
O thou! whose blameless life combined
Soft female charms, and grace refined,
With science and with light!
Celestial maid! whose spirit soar’d
Beyond this vale of tears--
Whose clear, enlighten’d eye explored
The lore of years!

Daughter of Heaven! if here, e’en _here_,
The wing of towering thought was thine;
If, on this dim and mundane sphere,
Fair truth illumed thy bright career,
With morning-star divine;
How must thy bless’d ethereal soul
_Now_ kindle in her noontide ray,
And hail, unfetter’d by control,
The Fount of Day!

E’en _now_, perhaps, thy seraph eyes,
Undimm’d by doubt, nor veil’d by fear,
Behold a chain of wonders rise--
Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies,
Transcendant, pure, and clear!
E’en _now_, the fair, the good, the true,
From mortal sight conceal’d,
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view,
In light reveal’d!

If _here_ the lore of distant time,
And learning’s flowers, were all thine own;
How must thy mind ascend sublime,
Matured in heaven’s empyreal clime,
To light’s unclouded throne!
Perhaps e’en _now_ thy kindling glance
Each orb of living fire explores,
Darts o’er creation’s wide expanse,
Admires--adores!

Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys
This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze,
So dim, so pale, so vain!
How, like a faint and shadowy dream,
Must quiver learning’s brightest ray;
While on thine eyes, with lucid stream,
The sun of glory pours his beam,
Perfection’s day!

[The reader may contrast these early lines of Mrs Hemans with the maturer ones on the same subject by Professor Wilson.--_Poems_, vol. ii. p. 140-9.]

THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.

Sweets of the wild! that breathe and bloom
On this lone tower, this ivied wall,
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall.
Though doom’d, remote from careless eye,
To smile, to flourish, and to die
In solitude sublime,
Oh! ever may the spring renew,
Your balmy scent and glowing hue,
To deck the robe of time!

Breathe, fragrance! breathe! enrich the air,
Though wasted on its wing unknown!
Blow, flowerets! blow! though vainly fair,
Neglected and alone!
These flowers that long withstood the blast,
These mossy towers, are mouldering fast,
While Flora’s children stay--
To mantle o’er the lonely pile,
To gild Destruction with a smile,
And beautify Decay!

Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing,
Neglected in luxuriance glowing;
From the dark ruins frowning near,
Your charms in brighter tints appear,
And richer blush assume;
You smile with softer beauty crown’d,
Whilst all is desolate around,
Like sunshine on a tomb!

Thou hoary pile, majestic still,
Memento of departed fame!
While roving o’er the moss-clad hill,
I ponder on thine ancient name!

Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep,
That here, so oft, have shone supreme;
While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep
That vanish’d is the golden dream!

Where are the banners, waving proud,
To kiss the summer-gale of even--
All purple as the morning-cloud,
All streaming to the winds of heaven?

Where is the harp, by rapture strung
To melting song or martial story?
Where are the lays the minstrel sung
To loveliness or glory?

Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls,
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music through the desert halls,
Awakes thee to rejoice!
How still thy sleep! as death profound--
As if, within this lonely round,
A step--a note--_a whisper’d sound_
Had ne’er aroused thy voice!

Thou hear’st the zephyr murmuring, dying,
Thou hear’st the foliage waving, sighing;
But ne’er again shall harp or song,
These dark deserted courts along,
Disturb thy calm repose.
The harp is broke, the song is fled,
The voice is hush’d, the bard is dead;
And never shall thy tones repeat
Or lofty strain or carol sweet
With plaintive close!

Proud Castle! though the days are flown
When once thy towers in glory shone;
When music through thy turrets rung,
When banners o’er thy ramparts hung,
Though ’midst thine arches, frowning lone,
Stern Desolation rear his throne;
And Silence, deep and awful, reign
Where echo’d once the choral strain;
Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here,
The Muse will hail thee with a tear;
Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams,
And through the fringing ivy streams,
And softens every shade sublime,
And mellows every tint of Time--
Oh! here shall Contemplation love,
Unseen and undisturb’d, to rove;
And bending o’er some mossy tomb,
Where Valour sleeps or Beauties bloom,
Shall weep for Glory’s transient day
And Grandeur’s evanescent ray;
And listening to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the Spirit of the Past--
Call up the forms of ages fled,
Of warriors and of minstrels dead,
Who sought the field, who struck the lyre,
With all Ambition’s kindling fire!

Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe
Soft odours on this desert air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
And fringe these towers with garlands fair!

Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom
Unheeded on this ivied wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall!

Thus round Misfortune’s holy head,
Would Pity wreaths of honour spread;
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile,
She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile!

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Fair Gratitude! in strain sublime,
Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal;
And, hailing this auspicious time,
Kneel, Adoration! kneel!

CHORUS.

For lo! the day, th’ immortal day,
When Mercy’s full, benignant ray
Chased every gathering cloud away,
And pour’d the noon of light!
Rapture! be kindling, mounting, glowing,
While from thine eye the tear is flowing,
Pure, warm, and bright!

’Twas on this day--oh, love divine!--
The Orient Star’s effulgence rose;
Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign
Shall never, never close!

CHORUS.

Messiah! be thy name adored,
Eternal, high, redeeming Lord!
By grateful worlds be anthems pour’d--
Emanuel! Prince of Peace!
This day, from heaven’s empyreal dwelling,
Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling,
Bade discord cease!

Wake the loud pæan, tune the voice,
Children of heaven and sons of earth!
Seraphs and men! exult, rejoice,
To bless the Saviour’s birth!

CHORUS.

Devotion! light thy purest fire!
Transport! on cherub wing aspire!
Praise! wake to Him thy golden lyre,
Strike every thrilling chord!
While, at the Ark of Mercy kneeling,
We own thy grace, reviving, healing,
Redeemer! Lord!

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given,
To light the wilderness with beams of heaven?
To soothe our cares, and through the cloud diffuse
Their temper’d sunshine and celestial hues?
Those pure delights, ordain’d on life to throw
Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know?
Say, do they grace Ambition’s regal throne,
When kneeling myriads call the world his own?
Or dwell with Luxury, in th’ enchanted bowers
Where taste and wealth exert _creative_ powers?

Favour’d of heaven! O Genius! are they thine,
When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine;
While rapture gazes on thy radiant way,
Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day?
No! sacred joys! ’tis yours to dwell enshrined,
Most fondly cherish’d, in the purest mind;
To twine with flowers those loved, endearing ties,
On earth so sweet--so perfect in the skies!

Nursed in the lap of solitude and shade,
The violet smiles, embosom’d in the glade
There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale,
Gem of seclusion! treasure of the vale!
Thus, far retired from life’s tumultuous road,
Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode
Where hallow’d Innocence and sweet Repose
May strew her shadowy path with many a rose.
As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky,
The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye,
And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear,
While viewless angels wave their pinions near;
Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll,
Borne on resistless wing from pole to pole,
While War’s red lightnings desolate the ball,
And thrones and empires in destruction fall;
Then calm as evening on the silvery wave,
When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave,
She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest,
_Her_ empire Home!--her throne, Affection’s breast!

For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms,
And softer sunshine every scene illumes.
When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze,
Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas;
When Summer, waving her creative wand,
Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand;
Or Autumn’s pencil sheds, with magic trace,
O’er fading lowliness, a moonlight grace;
Oh! still for her, through Nature’s boundless reign,
No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain;
While mental peace, o’er every prospect bright,
Throws mellowing tints and harmonising light!
Lo! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime,
Stern Winter, bursting from the polar clime,
Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high,
The blood-red meteor of the northern sky!
And high through darkness rears his giant-form,
His throne the billow, and his flag the storm!
Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more,
And the wild surges foam along the shore,
Domestic Bliss, _thy_ heaven is still serene,
Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green!
Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade--
Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade!
Clear through the day, her light around thee glows,
And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose!
--Hail, sacred Home! where soft Affection’s hand
With flowers of Eden twines her magic band!
Where pure and bright the social ardours rise,
Concentring all their holiest energies!--
When wasting toil has dimm’d the vital flame,
And every power deserts the sinking frame,
Exhausted nature still from sleep implores
The charm that lulls, the manna that restores!
Thus, when oppress’d with rude, tumultuous cares,
To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs;
Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies,
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies!

Bower of repose! when, torn from all we love,
Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove;
To _thee_ we turn, still faithful, from afar--
Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star!
And from the martial field, the troubled sea,
Unfetter’d thought still roves to bliss and thee!

When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die,
No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh;
Wide o’er the world when Peace and Midnight reign,
And the moon trembles on the sleeping main;
At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep,
Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep!
No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound,
All heaven--and sea--and solitude--around!
Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm,
From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm,
Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined,
Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind,
Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career,
To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear!

Lo! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave,
And Danger frowns--the monarch of the wave!
Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel,
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell!

Child of the ocean! is thy bier the surge,
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge?
Yes! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o’er,
No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more!
Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife,
The struggling agony for death or life,
E’en _then_ thy mind, embittering every pain,
Retraced the image so beloved--in vain!
Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true,
Life’s parting sigh--the murmur of adieu!

Can war’s dread scenes the hallow’d ties efface,
Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase?
Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy
The loved impression of domestic joy?

Ye daylight dreams! that cheer the soldier’s breast,
In hostile climes, with spells benign and blest,
Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray
O’er the long march through Desolation’s way;
Oh! still ye bear him from th’ ensanguined plain,
Armour’s bright flash, and Victory’s choral strain,
To that loved Home where pure affection glows,
That shrine of bliss! asylum of repose!
When all is hush’d--the rage of combat past,
And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast;
When the warm throb of many a heart is o’er,
And many an eye is closed to wake no more;
Lull’d by the night-wind, pillow’d on the ground,
(The dewy deathbed of his comrades, round!)
While o’er the slain the tears of midnight weep,
Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep!
E’en then, soft visions, hovering round, portray
The cherish’d forms that o’er his bosom sway;
He sees fond transport light each beaming face,
Meets the warm tear-drop and the long embrace!
While the sweet welcome vibrates through his heart,
“Hail, weary soldier!--never more to part!”

And lo! at last, released from every toil,
He comes!--the wanderer views his native soil!
Then the bright raptures words can never speak
Flash in his eye and mantle o’er his cheek!
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer
Implored for him each guardian-spirit’s care;
Who, for his fate, through sorrow’s lingering year,
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear;
In that blest moment, all the past forget--
Hours of suspense and vigils of regret!

And oh! for him, the child of rude alarms,
Rear’d by stern danger in the school of arms!
How sweet to change the war-song’s pealing note
For woodland-sounds in summer air that float!
Through vales of peace, o’er mountain wilds to roam,
And breathe his native gales, that whisper--‘Home!’

Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties,
Charms of existence! angel sympathies!
Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen!
And guide her votaries through a fairy scene,
Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours
With mirth and music in Arcadian bowers;
Though gazing nations hail the fiery car
That bears the Son of Conquest from afar,
While Fame’s loud pæan bids his heart rejoice,
And every life-pulse vibrates to her voice;--
Yet from your source _alone_, in mazes bright,
Flows the full current of serene delight!

On Freedom’s wing, that every wild explores,
Through realms of space, th’ aspiring eagle soars!
Darts o’er the clouds, exulting to admire,
Meridian glory--on her throne of fire!
Bird of the Sun! his keen unwearied gaze
Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze;
But soon, descending from his height sublime.
Day’s burning fount, and light’s empyreal clime,
Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest,
Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest!

Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career
Through the wide regions of the mental sphere,
And proudly waving in his gifted hand,
O’er Fancy’s worlds, Invention’s plastic wand,
Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys
The clearest heaven of intellectual rays!
Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend,
And kindling raptures aid him to ascend,
(While in his mind, with high-born grandeur fraught,
Dilate the noblest energies of thought;)
Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined,
Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind,
At length he flies, to that serene retreat,
Where calm and pure the mild affections meet;
Embosom’d there, to feel and to impart
The softer pleasures of the social heart!

Ah! weep for those, deserted and forlorn,
From every tie by fate relentless torn;
See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle,
Mark’d with no step, uncheer’d by human smile,
Heart-sick and faint the ship-wreck’d wanderer stand,
Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand!
Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main,
And weep--and pray--and linger--but in vain!

Thence, roving wild through many a depth of shade,
Where voice ne’er echo’d, footstep never stray’d,
He fondly seeks, o’er cliffs and deserts rude,
Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude!
And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone
The wood’s deep sigh, the surge’s distant moan!
All else is hush’d! so silent, so profound,
As if some viewless power, presiding round,
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath,
Had spread for ages the repose of death!
Ah! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep,
Lives but to watch--and watches but to weep!
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise,
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies!
Far from his cherish’d friends, his native shore,
Banish’d from being--to return no more;
There must he die!--within that circling wave,
That lonely isle--his prison and his grave!

Lo! through the waste, the wilderness of snows,
With fainting step, Siberia’s exile goes!
Homeless and sad, o’er many a polar wild,
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled;
Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign,
And bind existence in eternal chain!
Child of the desert! pilgrim of the gloom!
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb!
While on thy faded cheek the arctic air
Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair!
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day
In that stern clime to shed its parting ray;
Not that fair nature’s loveliness and light
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight;
Ah! not for _this_--far, far beyond relief,
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief;
But that no friend of kindred heart is there,
Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share;
That no mild soother fondly shall assuage
The stormy trials of thy lingering age;
No smile of tenderness, with angel power,
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution’s hour;
For this alone, despair, a withering guest,
Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast!
Yes! there, e’en there, in that tremendous clime,
Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime;
Where winter triumphs, through the polar night,
In all his wild magnificence of might;
E’en _there_, affection’s hallow’d spell might pour
The light of heaven around th’ inclement shore!
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced,
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced,
Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow,
E’en ’midst the world of solitude and snow!
The halcyon’s charm, thus dreaming fictions feign,
With mystic power could tranquillise the main;
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep,
And peace and silence brood upon the deep!

And thus, Affection, can _thy_ voice compose
The stormy tide of passions and of woes;
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease,
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace!

Oh! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien,
Wan, yet resign’d, and hopeless, yet serene!
Long ere victorious time had sought to chase
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face,
That faded eye was dimm’d with many a care,
Those waving locks were silver’d by despair!
Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm,
Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm!
He, a sad emigrant! condemn’d to roam
In life’s pale autumn from his ruin’d home,
Has borne the shock of Peril’s darkest wave,
Where joy--and hope--and fortune--found a grave!
’Twas his to see Destruction’s fiercest band
Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land,
And roll triumphant on their blasted way,
In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay!
Unequal combat raged on many a plain,
And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain!
Ah! gallant exile! nobly, long, he bled,
Long braved the tempest gathering o’er his head!
Till all was lost! and horror’s darken’d eye
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die!

Ah! gallant exile! in the storm that roll’d
Far o’er his country, rushing uncontroll’d,
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom,
Torn by the blast, were scatter’d on the tomb!
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife,
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life,
Yet one was spared! and she, whose filial smile
Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile,
E’en _then_ could temper, with divine relief,
The wild delirium of unbounded grief;
And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art
Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart!
And now, though time, subduing every trace,
Has _mellow’d_ all, he _never_ can _erase_;
Oft will the wanderer’s tears in silence flow,
Still sadly faithful to remember’d woe!
Then she, who feels a father’s pang alone,
(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,)
With anxious tenderness is ever nigh,
To chase the image that awakes the sigh!
Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise
To brighter visions of celestial days!
And speak of realms, where Virtue’s wing shall soar
On eagle-plume--to wonder and adore;
And friends, divided here, shall meet at last,
Unite their kindred souls--and smile on all the past!

Yes! we may hope that nature’s deathless ties,
Renew’d, refined, shall triumph in the skies!
Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers
With seraph-dreams can gild reflection’s hours,
Oh! still be near, and brightening through the gloom,
Beam and ascend! the day-star of the tomb!
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved,
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved.

Lo! by the couch where pain and chill disease
In every vein the ebbing life-blood freeze;
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay,
Life’s closing lesson--in its dawning day;
Where beauty’s rose is withering ere its prime,
Unchanged by sorrow and unsoil’d by time;
There, bending still, with fix’d and sleepless eye,
There, from her child, the mother learns to die;
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace
Of lingering sickness in the faded face;
Through the sad night, when every hope is fled,
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer’s bed;
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare
The spoiler’s hand--the blight of death is there!
He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame,
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame;
From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray--
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away!
Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling heart;
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part!

’Tis past! the struggle and the pang are o’er,
And life shall throb with agony no more;
While o’er the wasted form, the features pale,
Death’s awful shadows throw their silvery veil.
Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere
Though poignant suffering mark’d thy short career,
Still could maternal love beguile thy woes,
And hush thy sighs--an angel of repose!

But who may charm _her_ sleepless pang to rest,
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast?
And, while she bends in silence o’er thy bier,
Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear?
Visions of hope in loveliest hues array’d,
Fair scenes of bliss by fancy’s hand portray’d!
And were ye doom’d with false, illusive smile,
With flattering promise, to enchant awhile?
And are ye vanish’d, never to return,
Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn?
Will no bright hour departed joys restore?
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more?
Behold no more the soul-illumined face,
The expressive smile, the animated grace!
Must the fair blossom, wither’d in the tomb,
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom?
Descend, blest faith! dispel the hopeless care,
And chase the gathering phantoms of despair;
Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn,
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn;
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews,
The full perfection of immortal hues;
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies,
By death released, the parent spirit flies;
There shall the child, in anguish mourn’d so long,
With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng,
And guide her pinion on exulting flight,
Through glory’s boundless realms, and worlds of living light.

Ye gentle spirits of departed friends!
If e’er on earth your buoyant wing descends;
If, with benignant care, ye linger near,
To guard the objects in existence dear;
If, hovering o’er, ethereal band! ye view
The tender sorrows, to _your_ memory true;
Oh! in the musing hour, at midnight deep,
While for your loss affection wakes to weep;
While every sound in hallow’d stillness lies,
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs;
Oh! then, amidst that holy calm be near,
Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear;
With secret spells her wounded mind compose,
And chase the faithful tear--for you that flows:
Be near--when moonlight spreads the charm you loved
O’er scenes where once your _earthly_ footstep roved.
Then, while she wanders o’er the sparkling dew,
Through glens and wood-paths, once endear’d by you,
And fondly lingers in your favourite bowers,
And pauses oft, recalling former hours;
Then wave your pinion o’er each well-known vale,
Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale;
Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell,
Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell;
And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her soul
With soft enchantments and divine control!
Be near, sweet guardians! watch her sacred rest,
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest;
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise,
Return’d in dreams, to bless her mental eyes;
Efface the memory of your last farewell--
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell;
The sweet communion of the past renew,
Reviving former scenes, array’d in softer hue.

Be near when death, in virtue’s brightest hour,
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power;
Oh! then, transcending Fancy’s loveliest dream,
Then let your forms unveil’d around her beam;
Then waft the vision of unclouded light,
A burst of glory, on her closing sight;
Wake from the harp of heaven th’ immortal strain,
To hush the final agonies of pain;
With rapture’s flame the parting soul illume,
And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom!
Oh! still be near, when, darting into day,
Th’ exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay;
Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high
O’er many a world, ascending to the sky;
There let your presence, once her earthly joy,
Though dimm’d with tears and clouded with alloy,
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore
Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more.

Yes! in the noon of that Elysian clime,
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time;
Where mind’s bright eye, with renovated fire,
Shall beam on glories never to expire;
Oh! there th’ illumined soul may fondly trust,
More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust,
Those mild affections, whose consoling light
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night,
Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow,
Exalting rapture--not assuaging woe!

TO MR EDWARDS, THE HARPER OF CONWAY.

[Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed were during occasional visits to some friends at Conway, where the charms of the scenery, combining all that is most beautiful in wood, water, and ruin, are sufficient to inspire the most prosaic temperament with a certain degree of enthusiasm; and it may therefore well be supposed how fervently a soul constituted like hers would worship Nature at so fitting a shrine. With that happy versatility which was at all times a leading characteristic of her mind, she would now enter with child-like playfulness into the enjoyments of a mountain scramble, or a pic-nic water party, the gayest of the merry band, of whom some are now, like herself, laid low, some far away in foreign lands, some changed by sorrow, and all by time; and then, in graver mood, dream away hours of pensive contemplation amidst the gray ruins of that noblest of Welsh castles, standing, as it then did, in solitary grandeur, unapproached by bridge or causeway, flinging its broad shadow across the tributary waves which washed its regal walls. These lovely scenes never ceased to retain their hold over the imagination of her whose youthful muse had so often celebrated their praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs Joanna Baillie’s play of _Ethwald_ was always pleasingly associated with the recollection of her having first read it amidst the ruins of Conway Castle. At Conway, too, she first made acquaintance with the lively and graphic Chronicles of the chivalrous Froissart, whose inspiring pages never lost their place in her favour. Her own little poem, “The Ruin and its Flowers,” which will be found amongst the earlier pieces in the present collection, was written on an excursion to the old fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated on a bold promontory near the entrance of the river Conway; and whose ivied walls, now fast mouldering into oblivion, once bore their part bravely in the defence of Wales; and are further endeared to the lovers of song and tradition as having echoed the complaints of the captive Elphin, and resounded to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate representative of that gifted bard[3] had, at the time now alluded to, his appropriate dwelling-place at Conway; but his strains have long been silenced, and there now remain few, indeed, on whom the Druidical mantle has fallen so worthily. In the days when his playing was heard by one so fitted to enjoy its originality and beauty,

“The minstrel was infirm and old;”

but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him; and the following lines (written in 1811) will give an idea of the magic power he still knew how to exercise over the feelings of his auditors.]

Minstrel! whose gifted hand can bring
Life, rapture, soul, from every string;
And wake, like bards of former time,
The spirit of the harp sublime;--
Oh! still prolong the varying strain!
Oh! touch th’ enchanted chords again!

Thine is the charm, suspending care,
The heavenly swell, the dying close,
The cadence melting into air,
That lulls each passion to repose;
While transport, lost in silence near,
Breathes all her language in a tear.

Exult, O Cambria!--now no more
With sighs thy slaughter’d bards deplore:
What though Plinlimmon’s misty brow
And Mona’s woods be silent now,
Yet can thy Conway boast a strain
Unrivall’d in thy proudest reign.

For Genius, with divine control,
Wakes the bold chord neglected long,
And pours Expression’s glowing soul
O’er the wild Harp, renown’d in song;
And Inspiration, hovering round,
Swells the full energies of sound.

Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone,
Could rouse the warrior’s kindling fire,
And now, ’tis like the breeze’s moan,
That murmurs o’er th’ Eolian lyre:
As if some sylph, with viewless wing,
Were sighing o’er the magic string.

Long, long, fair Conway! boast the skill
That soothes, inspires, commands, at will!
And oh! while rapture hails the lay,
Far distant be the closing day,
When Genius, Taste, again shall weep,
And Cambria’s Harp lie hush’d in sleep!