The Cambrian Balnea: Or Guide to the Watering Places of Wales, Marine and Inland

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John and H.I. Hunt, 1825

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Page 48 - Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar : Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! TO ROMANCE.
Page 48 - AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war ; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. Ah...
Page 68 - GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, Where far from cities I may spend my days ; And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, List to the...
Page 52 - Tis chiefly taste, or blunt, or gross, or fine, Makes life insipid, bestial, or divine. Better be born with taste to little rent, Than the dull monarch of a continent. Without this bounty which the Gods bestow, Can Fortune make one favourite happy ? — No. As well might. Fortune in her frolic vein, Proclaim an oyster sovereign of the main.
Page 62 - That sleep these mouldering stones among ! How many beads have here been told ! How many matins here been sung ! On this rude stone, by time long broke, I think I see some pilgrim kneel, think I see the censer smoke, I think I hear the solemn peal. But here no more soft music floats. No holy anthems chanted now ; All hush'd, except the ring-dove's notes Low murm'ring from yon beachen bough.
Page 68 - List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, I shall not want the world's delusive joys ; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
Page 62 - How many hearts have here grown cold, That sleep these mouldering stones among ; How many beads have here been told, . How many matins here been sung. " On this rude stone, by time long broke, I think I see some pilgrim kneel ; I think I see the censor smoke ; I think I hear the solemn peal.
Page 186 - tis unsafe to trust Deceitful ground : who knows but that once more This mount may journey, and his present site Forsaking, to thy...
Page 144 - It derived its name from Paternus, a distinguished saint in the British history, of whom Cressy and archbishop Usher give the following account : " The sanctity of St. Dubricius and St. David drew into Britain from foreign parts, St. Paternus, a devout young man, about the year 516, together with 847 monks, who accompanied him.
Page 163 - Ne'w Radnor was formerly the chief place in the county, and is at present the borough town, consisting of a few miserable houses, forming an irregular street, without a single object to attract the notice of a traveller, excepting an old building like a...

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