And a Turk or Chinese is as well understood
By thefe Roifters, who boaft of Cadwalladar's blood,
As an Englishman here, who is certainly undone
If he thinks to make ufe of the language of London.
From Flint we depart with our landlord and guide,
Who fhew'd us that kindness which courts never try'd,
The caftle where* Richard his grandeur laid down,
And betray'd his own life by furrend'ring the crown:
Now the + well we furvey, 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 ftones are diftain'd with the colour of blood,
And each cripple is cur'd who will bathe in the flood,
Thus the rankeft abfurdity brain can conceive,
Superftition impofes, and crowds will believe!
Turn from legends and nonfenfe to see a gay fight,
Where the § meadows of Clewyn the fenfes delight,
And excufe that I aim not to point out the place,
Left my numbers too lowly the landschape disgrace;
At Rhyland we dine, and a castle we view,
Whofe 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 outrun the short day;
Now afcend Penmenrofe, oh! beware as you rife,
What a profpect of horror, what dreadful furprize!
*It was at this place that Richard was prevailed upon to refign the crown.
St. Winifred, patronefs of Wales.
The vale of Clewyn.
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 flip, not mankind can avert your fad doom,
Dash against the rough rocks, and the fea for your tomb!
The danger is past, and now Conway's broad beech,
Fatigu'd and difmay'd, with great gladness we reach ;
In a leaky old boat we were wafted safe o'er
(Tho' two drunkards our steerfmen) to th' oppofite shore.
Here the town and the river are both of a name,
And boaft the firft Edward, who rais'd her to fame :
There a supper was order'd, which no one could touch,
This too little was boil'd, and that roafted 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 nest,
And with clamours and fhrieks the old mansion infest.
We waken'd at four, and our host left us here,
As the worst ways were past, 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 feem 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 fleeves thou bestow'ft, on my life 'tis a fhame;
There we cross o'er an arm of the fea, and carouse
On the oppofite fhore at an excellent house;
M
Thro' Anglefea's ifland we rattle our chaife,
While the goats all in wonder seem on us to gaze;
For be pleas'd to obferve, 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 fped,
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 profperous gale.
We at ten past the *Bar; in the wherry confin'd,
Which swims on no water, and fails with no wind,
Till near two we fat curfing, in vain they may row,
Not a fnail is so sluggish, nor tortoise so slow,
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 say
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 nonfenfe full stow'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 difplays his red face,
Yet Minerva he holds in the ftricteft embrace;
Nor the maiden is coy ev'ry charm to refign,
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 profe, but twice welcome in rhyme.
HE fons of man, by various paffions led,
The paths of bus'nefs or of pleasure tread; The florist views his dear carnation rife,
And wonders who can doat on Flavia's eyes;
The lover fees, unmov'd, each gaudy ftreak,
And knows no bloom but that on Daphne's cheek:
While fome grow pale o'er Newton, Locke, or Boyle,
Mifs reads romances, and my lady Hoyle;
Thus inclination binds her fetters ftrong,
And, just as judgment marks, we're right or wrong.
Fair are those hills where facred laurels
grow,
Rul'd by the pow'r who draws the golden bow;
But fee how few attain the dang'rous road,
How few are born to feel th' inspiring god!
Yet all, to reach the arduous fummit try,
From foaring Pope to reptile Ogleby. ́
Among the reft, your friend attempts to climb,
But ah, how diff'rent poefy and rhyme!
The mid-night bard, reciting to his bell,
Who breaks our reft, and tolls the mufes knell,
Is juft a poet matchless and divine,
As he a Raphael, who, on ale-house fign,
Seats his bold George in attitude fo quaint,
That none can tell the dragon from a faint.
Reckon each fand in wide Newmarket plain,
Mount yon blue vault, and count the ftarry train;
But numbers ne'er can comprehend the throng
Of retail dealers in the art of fong.
Like fummer flies they blot the folar ray,
And, like their brother infects, live a day.
Am I not blafted by fome friendless star,
To know my wants, yet wage unequal war?
I own I am; and dabbling thus in rhyme,
"Tis folly's bell that rings the pleafing chyme;
Bit by the bard's tarantula I fwell,
Write off the raging fit, and all is well.
And yet, perhaps, to lofe my time this way
Is better far than fome mif-fpend the day.
The fatal dice-box never fill'd my hand,
By me no orphan weeps his ravish'd land;
What ward can tax me with a deed unjust?
What friend upbraids me with a broken trust?
(Some few except, whom pride and folly blind,
I found them chaff, and give them to the wind)
Like a poor bird, and one of meanest wing,
Around my cage I flutter, hop, and fing.
Unlike in this my brethren of the bays,
I fue for pardon, and they hope for praise;
And when for verse I find my genius warm,
Like infants fent to school, I keep from harm.
What time the dog-star with unbating flames
Cleaves the parch'd earth, and finks the filver Thames;
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