SWEET maid, who culturest in thy vernal prime
Those plants that flourish 'mid the frosts of time,
Long, with assiduous care, proceed to store
A portion rich of wisdom's varied lore,
Borne from thy native England's classic fane,
Th' historian's record and the poet's strain;
The moral pages, tracing to their source
Each subtle passion on its erring course,
And those blest leaves, which can their force controul,
The sacred tome, that anchor of the soul!
Thus when no more exterior blossoms rise,
Nor love's gay torch shall kindle from those eyes, The fruits of knowledge, and its lights, will shame The fading florets, and th' uncertain flame; Attention, tenderness, respect ensure,
Which given to merit, shall thro' life endure.
TO THE SEAT OF LADY ELEANOR BUTLER,
IN LLANGOLLEN VALE, DENBIGHSHIRE.
O Cambrian Tempe ! oft with transport hail'd,
I leave thee now, as I did ever leave
Thee, and thy peerless mistresses, with heart
Where lively gratitude and fond regret
For mastery strive, and still the mastery gain
Alternate. Oft renew'd must be the strife
When, far from this loved region, and from all
That now its ancient witchery revives;
Revives, with spells more potent erst than knew
1. 8. Ancient Witchery---Since this poem was written, all the native romance of the river at this spot, has been destroyed by a detestable cotton-mill.
Your white-rob'd Druids on their Deva's bank
Aweful to frame; when the loud mystic song,
And louder clang of their unnumber'd harps,
Drown'd e'en the river's thunder, where she throws
All, all her waters in one rocky chasm,
Narrow, but fathomless, and goads them on
Roaring and foaming, while Llangollen's steeps
Rebellow to the noise. Ye, who now frame
Your talismans resistless, O! receive,
Ye mild Enchantresses, my warm adieu !
Time, that for me hath pass'd full many a year On broad and withering pinion, may have quench'd By the rude wafture of his dusky wing,
Fancy's clear fires;-Enthusiasm may waste
In her own fruitless energies, and pine,
Vainly may pine for the exhausted powers
Of bankrupt language, bankrupt of the skill
To please, with varied praise, the taste made coy
By riot of encomium; but yet
The benediction of increasing love,
Bless'd pair, receive with no ungracious ear!
When first your Eden in this hallow'd vale
Stole on these eyes; its solemn graces first
Imprest my senses, pliant to their wish,
The muse of landscape came, and to my hand
Her pallet, glowing in ideal hues,
With smiles extended. Straight my doubtful pen
Eager I dipt, and, not unfaithful, rose
Some features of the scene. Yet, even then,
In Friendship's primal hours, my soul perceiv'd
Feelings, that more defied expression's power
To speak them truly, than to paint the charms
Of those distinguish'd bowers;-their mountains
vast,
Here pale and barren, and there dark with woods;
Yon mural rocks, whose surface still defies
All change of seasons, though they deign to yield, At intervals, their grey and wannish hue
Purpling to orient suns, and catching oft
The occidental amber; sylvan glades,
Bright fields, and shadowy lawn, whose concave bound
No beam of noon can pierce. Far to the left, Beyond those walks which the tall branching trees O'er-arching, darken; past the sunny field
On whose warm breast they open, lo! the shed On mossy pillars propt, and its screen'd seat Beneath its slant, thatch'd roof: Ah! pause we there,
For there we wander to the latest verge
Of a lone clamouring brook, which down its slop'd And craggy channel struggles; for the stones, Pointed and huge, ceaseless impede and vex
Its passage to the base of the rude mound
That rises opposite this shelter'd seat,
Dark the mound and rude,
But not inflexible. Its rocky steep
No longer spurns, as it had often spurn'd,
The mountain shrubs and trees, when infant roots,
O'er balanced by exterior boughs, possest
No strength to penetrate that rocky steep,
And wind its darkling fissures; till at length,
Art, with unwearied hand, had form'd a shield
Against the brook, that undermines when calm,
When violent, tears; 'gainst the repellant cliff,
And force it to receive in its rude breast
Each stranger-scion;—so, with lucky skill,
The guardian sisters wove their net-work firm
With tough, yet pliant withy, from the base
To flood-mark rising; upright and transverse
Bars, crossing each the other, forming each
Their vacant inch dividual. Therefore now
Nor waters mine the root, nor tear the branch;
Nor cliff, so late impenetrable, checks
Th' insinuating fibres on their course,
Their thousand arms diverging far and wide,
And to the centre piercing; while the boughs
Bend their green heads o'er the chaf'd brawling
Around the huge stones eddying; fearless now,
Conscious of deep-struck root, e'en when thick rain,
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