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The castle where Richard * his grandeur laid down,
And betray'd his own life by surrend'ring the crown:
Now the well + we survey, where a virgin of old
To all flame but religion's was lifeless and cold;
When in vain princely Cradoc had offer'd his bed,
The merciless heathen e'en chopp'd off her head :
Hence the stones are diftain'd with the colour of blood,
And each cripple is cur'd who will bathe in the flood.
Thus the rankest absurdity brain can conceive,
Superstition imposes, and crowds will believe !
Turn from legends and nonsense to see a gay fight,
Where the meadows of Clewyn § the senses delight,
And excuse that I aim not to point out the place,
Left my numbers too lowly the landscape disgrace.
At Rhyland we dine, and a castle we view,
Whose founder I'd name if the founder I knew ;
But our hoft gives the word, and we hurry away,
Left the length of the journey out-run the short day;
Now ascend Penmenrose, oh! beware as you rise,
What a prospect of horror, what dreadful surprize!
See that height more fublime, which no footsteps e'er try'd!
There the ocean roars loudly; how awful his pride!
How narrow the path ! observe where you tread,
Nor stumble the feet, nor grow dizzy the head ;
If you lip, not mankind can avert your fad doom,
Dash against the rough rocks, and the sea for your tomb!
The danger is past, and now Conway's broad beach,
Fatigu'd and dismay'd, with great gladness we reach ;
In a leaky old boat we were wafted safe o'er
(Tho' two drunkards our steersmen) to th' opposite shore.
* It was at this place that Richard was prevailed upon to resign the crown. + Holywell. | St. Winifred, patroness of Wales, . The vale of Çlewyn.
Here the town and the river are both of a name,
And boast the First Edward, who rais'd her to fame :
There a supper was order'd, which no one could touch,
This too little was boild, and that roasted too much ;
To his chamber full hungry each pilgrim retreats,
And forgets his loft meal 'twixt a pair of Welch sheets.
A castle hard by I with pleasure behold,
Which kings had long dwelt in, or giants of old ;
But the daw, and each night-bird, now builds up her neft,
And with clamours and shrieks the old mansion infeft.
We waken'd' at four, and our host left us here,
As the worst ways were påst, so but small was our fear ;
We follow'd our route, and cross'd Penmenmaur's fide,
Where the prudent will walk, but the bolder will ride.
Still above us old rocks seem to threaten a fall,
And present to fpectators the form of a wall.
Now Bangor, we reach-oh! if e'er thou hadft fame,
Tho' lawn sleeves thou bestow'ft, on my life, 'tis a shame b.
There we cross, o'er an arm of the sea, and carouse
On the opposite shore at an excellent house;
Thro' Anglesea's island we rattle our chaise,
While the goats all 'in wonder feem on us to gaze ;
For be pleas'd to observe, and with diligence note,
That 'twas here first in Wales that I met with a goat.
O'er roads rough and craggy our journey we sped,
Nor baited again till we reach'd Holyhead.
The next day, at noon, in the Wyndham we sail,
And the packet danc'd brisk with a prosperous gale.
We at ten pass'd the Bar *; in the wherry confin'd,
Which fwims on no water, and fails with no wind,
Till near two we fat cursing; in vain they may row,
Not a snail is so fluggish, nor tortoise fo flow;
Till a boat took us in, and at length fet us down
At the quay of St George in St. Patrick's chief town :
Thence I wrote to my friend, nor believe what those fay,
Or too fond to find fault, or too wantonly gay,
Who with taunts contumelious this island o’erload,
As with bogs and with blunders and nonsense full ftow'd;
For, believe me, they live not unbless’d with good air,
And their daughters are beauteous, and fons debonair :
Here tho' Bacchus too often displays his red face,
Yet Minerva he holds in the strictest embrace ;
Nor the maiden is coy ev'ry charm to resign;
And the ivy and laurel peep forth from the vine.
Thus I've told you in verse the whole progress I took,
As true as if sworn in full court on the book :
Let me know how in London you measure your time;
'Twill be welcome in prose, but twice welcome in rhyme.
The tear which Pity taught to flow,
The eye shall then disown ;
The heart that melts for others woe,
Shall then scarce feel it's own.
The wounds which now each moment bloed,
Each moment then shall close; And tranquil days fhall ftill fucceed
To nights of calm repose.
O Fairy Elf! but grant me this,
This one kind comfort send; And so may never-fading bliss
Thy flow'ry paths attend !
So may the glow-worm's glimm'ring light
Thy tiny footsteps lead
To fome new region of delight,
Unknown to mortal tread!