Part 11

some most noble rocks, “nature’s proud bastions,” opened upon us, to the left, grander than any we had hitherto admired, and which, we had previously determined, were inconceivably fine, and surpassed any idea we had formed of the channel of this romantic river: to add to the magnificence of the whole, the setting sun tinged the rocks with the most resplendent colours, and the dewy freshness of the evening improved the charm of the scene; the one enchanting the sense, the other refreshing it. The lofty Wine Cliff, to the right, and Piercefield, with the curious projecting rocks, called the Twelve Apostles, and Peter’s Thumb, heighten, to the very extent of beauty, this noble scene, gratifying, beyond measure, to the admirer of nature. Another reach brought us in sight of Chepstow Castle, on a prominent rock, of which it seemed to form a part; noble in situation, and grand in appearance. The singular constructed bridge, the rocks, and the scarce visible town, here made a most charming picture: this we enjoyed exceedingly, but regretted a few more minutes would set us on shore, and conclude our excursion on the Wye; an excursion which, the farther we proceeded, the more we were interested; and so much so, as to determine a renewal of this pleasing tour, another summer. The wooden bridge thrown over the Wye, at this place, is of very singular construction; the boards forming the flooring are all designedly loose, but prevented, by pegs fattened at the extremity of them, from being carried away by the tide, and by that ingenious contrivance gradually rise and fall with it, which is here frequently known to rise to the extraordinary height of seventy feet.

Not having visited the church, in consequence of the bad weather, at the commencement of our tour, we determined now to inspect it. The entrance, through the western door, is an elegant specimen of Saxon architecture, richly wrought, with three arches; in the inside is the monument of Sir Henry Martin, one of the twelve judges, who presided at the condemnation of Charles I. and was confined in the castle seven and twenty years.

A curious carved one to the Marquis of Worcester and Lady, though not buried here; and another, of the date 1620, to the memory of Mrs. Clayton and her two husbands, both kneeling.

This church originally belonged to the alien Benedictine priory of Strigule, but converted, at the reformation, into the parish church of Chepstow.

Admittance to the celebrated walks of Piercefield can only be obtained on Tuesdays and Fridays. To survey these with that attention which they deserve, occupy several hours; the liveliest description cannot do justice to the rich and bold scenery, with all its accompaniments; the eye can alone receive the impression, for,

“How long so e’er the wanderer roves, each step Shall wake fresh beauties, each short point presents A different picture; new, and yet the same.”

“The winding of the precipice, (says Gilpin) is the magical secret, by which all these enchanting scenes are produced.” At one point, both above and below, as far as the eye can reach, rolls in majestic windings, the river Wye; at another, the Severn, hastening to meet “its sister river,” is discovered, till at last they are both lost in the Bristol Channel; at another, these scenes are concealed, and thick woods, apparently coeval with time itself, and a long range of rock, burst upon “the wanderer,” with irresistible beauty and attraction. The occasional recurrence also of the rude bench, overshadowed by some umbrageous tree, and concealed from the steep precipice below, by thick underwood, allow only glimpses of the surrounding scenery.

The house has received great repairs, and elegantly furnished by the present possessor, Colonel Wood. Every apartment, indeed, has its appropriate embellishments.

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I have thus brought my Tour to a conclusion; a Tour, which has been productive of much amusement, and, I hope, not entirely devoid of advantage: it only remains, therefore, for me to add, that the Two Friends, having completed a pedestrian circuit of near eight hundred miles, parted with mutual regret, jointly exclaiming,

“_Cambria_, as thy romantic vales _we_ leave, And bid farewell to each retiring hill, Where fond attention seems to linger still, Tracing the broad bright landscape; much _we_ grieve, That, mingled with the toiling croud, no more _We may_ return thy varied views to mark,”

ADDENDA.

_Page_ 44. The church of Tenby is a large, handsome, and antique edifice, and several monuments, bearing an ancient date, worthy of notice.

On the left of the altar, is one to William Rifam, with the following inscription:

Two hundred pounds and 50 more He gave this towne to help the poore.

The use of one on cloth and coles bestowe For twelve decrepid mean and lowe.

Let 50 pounds to five be yearly lent The other’s use on Burges’ sonne’s be spent.

On the same side, is a monument to the memory of John Moore, Esq. who, at the age of fifty-eight, and having by his first wife six sons and ten daughters, fell desperately in love, which not being returned, he died of a consumption, at Tenby: the following epitaph is very allusive to his unfortunate catastrophe:

He that from home for love was hither brought, Is now brought home, this God for him hath wrought.

Another monument to Morgan Williams:

Igne probatur En animus rurfus clare in corpore Morgan Williams descended from the heiress of Robert Ferrar, Bishop of St. Davids Burnt alive by bigots under Q. Mary; was lately chief of Gargam and senior in council at Madras. Where Oct. 27, 1690, aged 49 years He resign’d the President’s chair and his breath together. An employment of full 30 years chronicles the continual approbation of his conduct particularly as chief commissioner of the circuit.

SONNETS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

_THE following_ SONNETS, _the joint production of two Friends_, _were sent to the Author_, _as considered applicable to his Tour_; _it is therefore hoped_, _they may not be unacceptable to the Reader_.

SONNET I.

TO FRIENDSHIP. _Addressed to the Companion of my Tour_.

O BALMY comfort thro’ this varied maze Of life! thou best physician to the breast, With deep affliction’s venom’d sting opprest, A thousand arts, a thousand winning ways Are thine, to smooth the rugged brow of care, And mitigate misfortune’s keenest hour: Yes, A—, partner of my Cambrian Tour, Friend of my heart, how gladly do I share Thy confidence; whate’er my part may be Hereafter on this shifting stage of life, This busy theatre of jarring strife, May health and happiness attend both thee And thine!—on ONE, thy Heav’nly Guardian trust, Nor doubt protection—all HIS ways are just.

SONNET II.

_The Contrast of Yesterday_, _and To-day_; _supposed to be written on the Summit of_ SNOWDON.

HOW gay was yesterday!—no storm was heard To mutter round thy steep! yon sun arose With golden splendour, and in still repose Nature majestic thro’ her works appear’d. To-day, how chang’d!—loud howls the hollow blast! The thin mists undulate! thy tow’ring height Is veil’d in tempest, and eternal night! So ’tis with man! contrasting prospects past With dreams of future happiness—to-day In gallant trim his little bark may glide, On the smooth current of the tranquil tide: To-morrow comes!—the gathering storms display A sad vicissitude—the whirlwind’s sweep, Grasps at his prey, and whelms it in the deep.

SONNET III.

_On leaving_ WALES.

WHY bursts the tear, as Cambria, now I leave Thy wild variety of hill and dale, Where fancy, fond intruder, lingers still? Why do these parting sighs my bosom heave? ’Tis, that alas! I ne’er may view again Those haunts, those solitary scenes I love; But thro’ this vale of tears forsaken rove, And taste the sad vicissitude of pain? ’Tis, that I sadly breathe a warm adieu, To long-lost scenes of mutual amity; ’Tis, that I turn, my absent friend, to thee, “Think on past pleasures, and solicit new!” For thee my fervent pray’rs to Heav’n ascend, And may we meet again as friend to friend.

SONNET IV.

_To the Welsh Harp_.

LOV’D instrument! again repeat those sounds, Those plaintive airs, that thro’ my senses steal, With melancholy sweet. Their pow’r I feel Soothing my sadness, healing sorrow’s wounds. Gently thou lull’st my sufferings to repose, Inclin’st my heart to ev’ry virtuous deed, Removing from my mind each dark’ning shade That clouds my days, increasing all my woes. Now swelling with the breeze, along thy vales, Romantic Cambria! the strain I hear, Then dying soft away, comes o’er my ear In whispers soft, still wafted by thy gales! Lov’d instrument! again repeat those sounds, Soothing my sadness, healing sorrow’s wounds.

SONNET V.

_Supposed to be written by Moon-light_, _on the Sea-shore_, _at_ TENBIGH.

I LOVE to mark the silver-curling spray, Just kiss the pebbled shore; the zephyr blows, And ocean slumbers in serene repose; While the moon’s beams in quiv’ring radiance play Upon its surface: yet ere long, that tide May heave its foaming billows to the shore, And the sea boil in one tempestuous roar. See here thy picture, man! reason, thy guide, Can lull each gust of passion into rest; Her aid divine, her energy once lost, In what a sea of angry tumults tost, Raves the mad whirlwind of thy troubled breast! Blind passion then can reason’s aid refute, And degradate the man to worse than brute.

SONNET VI.

_On seeing_ LLANGOLLEN VALE.

O THOU, too captious of each airy scheme, Fancy! thou dear delusive traitor, say, Are not thy charms the phantoms of a day, That mock possession, like a fleeting dream? Here could I spend, if such had been my lot, Quiet my life; nor should the shiv’ring poor Depart unfed, unaided, from my door. “Content is wealth,” the emblem of my cot. Here, by the brook, that gently babbles by, Should stand my garden; there the blushing rose And woodbine should their sweetest scent disclose. But ah! farewell these dreams;—my big full eye Swells with the bursting tear—I think, how few The road to real happiness pursue!

SONNET VII.

_Prospect of Sun-rise from_ SNOWDON.

HOW grand the scene from this stupendous height! How awfully sublime! the king of day Flames in the east; old ocean’s waves display One globe of fire! one boundless flood of light! With what unclouded lustre blaze the skies! While {209} Mona’s flats, ting’d with a golden hue, Burst with transcendent beauty on the view; And, Man, thy scarce seen mountains proudly rise. Nature, beneath, seems prostrate! and my sight Can hardly grasp the vast immensity! Can then the muse attempt to sing of thee, Nature’s great God! Father of life and light! Who bade the sun his annual circle roll, Who guides, directs, and animates the whole.

SONNET VIII.

_To my Dog_.

YES, thou hast been companion of my Tour, And partner of my toils! hast rov’d with me, Thro’ Cambria’s rude and wild variety, And often sooth’d the solitary hour With thy caresses; yet false man can claim Superior reason, claim a mind endued With love, with faithfulness, and gratitude; Love, a mere sound, and gratitude, a name. Yes, faithful creature! and when thou art gone, With fond attention shall thy bones be laid, And a small tribute to thy mem’ry paid, In these few words, engraven on thy stone: “Here let in peace the faithful Sylvio lie, The truest picture of fidelity!”

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_FINIS_.

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CHART.