TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P. 121

visited these celebrated ladies who had retired, as one may say, into notice in this vale. Their cottage lay directly in the road between London and Dublin, and they were of course visited by their Irish friends as well as innumerable strangers. They took much delight in passing jokes on our friend Jones's plumpness, ruddy cheeks and smiling countenance, as little suited to a hermit living in the Vale of Meditation. We all thought there was ample room for retort on his part, so curious was the appearance of these ladies, so elaborately sentimental about themselves and their Caro Albergo as they named it in an inscription on a tree that stood opposite, the endearing epithet being preceded by the word Ecco! calling upon the saunterer to look about him. So oddly was one of these ladies attired that we took her, at a little distance, for a Roman Catholic priest, with a crucifix and relics hung at his neck. They were without caps, their hair bushy and white as snow, which contributed to the mistake.]

A STREAM, to mingle with your favourite Dee,
Along the VALE OF MEDITATION* flows;

So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see
In Nature's face the expression of repose;

Or haply there some pious hermit chose
To live and die, the peace of heaven his aim;
To whom the wild sequestered region owes,
At this late day, its sanctifying name.
GLYN CAFAILLGAROCH, in the Cambrian tongue,
In ours, the VALE OF FRIENDSHIP, let this spot

attachment; and, having an extreme love of independence, they withdrew from society, and settled in this remote and secluded cottage. Lady Butler died in 1829, aged ninety, and Miss Ponsonby in 1831, aged seventysix, their faithful servant, Mary Caroll, having predeceased them. The three are buried in the same grave in Llangollen Churchyard, and an inscription to the memory of each is carved on a triangular pillar beside their tomb.

In a letter to Sir George Beaumont from Hindwell, Radnorshire, Wordsworth gives an account of this tour in North Wales . . . "We turned from the high road three or four miles to visit the Valley of Meditation,' (Glyn Mavyr) where Mr Jones has, at present, a curacy with a comfortable parsonage. We slept at Corwen, and went down the Dee to Llangollen, which you and dear Lady B. know well. Called upon the celebrated Recluses, who hoped that you and Lady B. had not forgotten them. . . . Next day I sent them the following sonnet from Ruthin, which was conceived, and in a great measure composed, in their grounds."—ED. (ilyn Myrvr.-W.W.

122

TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE.

Be named; where, faithful to a low-roofed Cot,
On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long;
Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb,

Even on this earth, above the reach of Time!

TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE,* NORTH WALES, 1824.

How art thou named? In search of what strange land
From what huge height, descending?

Of waters issue from a British source,†

Can such force

Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the band.
Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand
Desperate as thine? Or come the incessant shocks
From that young Stream,§ that smites the throbbing rocks

* The Devil's Bridge in North Wales is at Hafod, near Aberystwith, in Cardiganshire. Like the Teufelsbrücke, on the road from Göschenen to Airolo, over the St Gothard in Switzerland, which spans the Reuss, the Devil's Bridge in Wales is double; i.e., an upper and an under bridge span the river Mynach. This Pont-y-Mynach was built either by the monks of Strata Florida, or by the Knights Hospitallers.

In the letter to Sir George Beaumont, referred to in a previous note, Wordsworth writes: "We went up the Rhydiol to the Devil's Bridge, where we passed the following day in exploring these two rivers, and Hafod in the neighbourhood. I had seen these things long ago, but either my memory or my powers of observation had not done them justice. It rained heavily in the night, and we saw the waterfalls in perfection. While Dora was attempting to make a sketch from the chasm in the rain, I composed by her side the following address to the torrent,

'How art thou named? &c.""

-Ed.

+ There are several consecutive falls on the river Mynach, at the Devil's Bridge, the longest being one of 114 feet, and the whole taken together amounting to 314 feet.-ED.

The lofty ridge of mountains in northern Greece between Thessaly and Epirus, which, like the Appennines in Italy, form the back bone of the country.-ED.

The Rhine. The Via Mala is the gorge between Thusis and Zillis, near the source of the Rhine. Compare Descriptive Sketches—

"Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine
The indignant waters of the infant Rhine."-

(Vol. I., p. 40.)—Ed.

COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE. 123

Of Viamala?

There I seem to stand,

As in life's morn; permitted to behold,

From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods,
In pomp that fades not; everlasting snows;
And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose;
Such power possess the family of floods
Over the minds of Poets, young or old!

COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE

IN NORTH WALES.

Comp. 1827.

Pub. 1827.

THROUGH shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls,
Wandering with timid footsteps1 oft betrayed,
The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid
Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls
Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid
His lenient touches, soft as light that falls,
From the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls,
Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade.
Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars,
To winds abandoned and the prying stars,
Time loves Thee! at his call the Seasons twine.
Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar;
And, though past pomp no changes can restore,
A soothing recompence, his gift, is thine!*

*

Compare the White Doe of Rylstone, Canto I. (Vol. IV., p. 108)—

"Nature, softening and concealing,

And busy with a hand of healing."

This was doubtless Carnarvon Castle, which Wordsworth visited in September 1824, at the close of his three weeks' ramble in North Wales, of which he wrote to Sir George Beaumont. "We employed several hours in exploring the interior of the noble castle, and looking at it from different points of view in the neighbourhood.”—ED.

124

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

(ADDRESSED TO SIR G. H. B. UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER-IN-LAW.)

[On Mrs Fermor. This lady had been a widow long before I knew her. Her husband was of the family of the lady celebrated in the "Rape of the Lock," and was, I believe, a Roman Catholic. The sorrow which his death caused her was fearful in its character as described in this poem, but was subdued in course of time by the strength of her religious faith. I have been for many weeks at a time, an inmate with her at Coleorton Hall, as were also Mrs Wordsworth and my sister. The truth in the sketch of her character here given was acknowledged with gratitude by her nearest relatives. She was eloquent in conversation, energetic upon public matters, open in respect to those, but slow to communicate her personal feelings; upon these she never touched in her intercourse with me, so that I could not regard myself as her confidential friend, and was accordingly surprised when I learnt she had left me a legacy of £100, as a token of her esteem. See in further illustration the second stanza inscribed upon her cenotaph in Coleorton church.]

O FOR a dirge! But why complain?
Ask rather a triumphal strain
When FERMOR's race is run;

A garland of immortal boughs

To twine around the Christian's brows,
Whose glorious work is done.

We pay a high and holy debt;
No tears of passionate regret
Shall stain this votive lay;

Ill-worthy, Beaumont! were the grief
That flings itself on wild relief

When Saints have passed away.

Elegiac Stanzas, 1824.

To bind

1827.

1827.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel,

For ever covetous to feel,

And impotent to bear!

Such once was hers-to think and think

On severed love, and only sink

From anguish to despair!

But nature to its inmost part

Faith had refined; and to her heart

A peaceful cradle given:

Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest

Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast

Till it exhales to Heaven.

Was ever Spirit that could bend
So graciously? 2-that could descend,
Another's need to suit.

So promptly from her lofty throne ?—
In works of love, in these alone,

How restless, how minute!

Pale was her hue; yet mortal cheek 3

Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak

When aught had suffered wrong,

When aught that breathes had felt a wound;
Such look the Oppressor might confound,
However proud and strong.

125

1827.

MS. copy sent to Coleorton.

3

1824.

Pale was her hue, but mortal cheek

MS. copy, Mrs Wordsworth to Lady

Beaumont.