YON GIANT*, with the goggling eye,
Who strides in mock sublimity?

Giants identified may frown;

Nature and taste would knock them down:

Blocks that usurp some noble station,

As if to curb imagination,

Which, smiling at the chisel's power,
Makes better monsters every hour.
Beneath impenetrable green,

Down, 'midst the hazel stems, was seen
The turbid stream, with all that past;
The lime-white deck, the gliding mast;
Or skiff with gazers darting by,
Who raised their hands in ecstasy
Impending cliffs hung overhead;
The rock-path sounded to the tread,
Where twisted roots, in many a fold,
Through moss, disputed room for hold.

THE stranger who thus steals one hour
To trace thy walks from bower to bower,
Thy noble cliffs, thy wildwood joys,
Nature's own work that never cloys,
Who, while reflection bids him roam,
Calls not this paradise his home,
Can ne'er, with dull unconscious eye,
Leave them behind without a sigh.
Thy tale of truth then, Sorrow, tell,
Of him who bade this home farewell;
MORRIS of PERSFIELD.-Hark, the strains!
Hark! 'tis some hoary bard complains!
The deeds, the worth, he knew so well,
The force of nature bids him tell.

An immense giant of stone, who, to say the best of him, occupies a place where such personages are least wanted, or wished.

MORRIS OF PERSFIELD.

WHO was lord of yon beautiful seat;
Yon woods which are towering so high?
Who spread the rich board for the great,
Yet listen'd to pity's soft sigh?
Who gave with a spirit so free,

And fed the distress'd at his door?
Our MORRIS of PERSFIELD was he,
Who dwelt in the hearts of the poor.

But who e'en of wealth shall make sure,
Since wealth to misfortune has bow'd?
Long cherish'd untainted and pure,
The stream of his charity flow'd.
But all his resources gave way;

O what could his feelings control?
What shall curb, in the prosperous day,
Th' excess of a generous soul?

He bade an adieu to the town;

O, can I forget the sad day?

When I saw the poor widows kneel down, To bless him, to weep, and to pray. Though sorrow was mark'd in his eye, This trial he manfully bore;

Then pass'd o'er the bridge of the WYE, To return to his PERSFIELD no more.

'Twas true that another might feel;
That poverty still might be fed ;
Yet long we rung out the dumb peal,
For to us noble MORRIS was dead.
He had not lost sight of his home,
Yon domain that so lovely appears,

When he heard it, and sunk overcome;
He felt it-and burst into tears.

The lessons of prudence have charms,
And slighted, may lead to distress;
But the man whom benevolence warms
Is an angel who lives but to bless.
If ever man merited fame,

If ever man's failings went free,
Forgot at the sound of his name,

Our MORRIS of PERSFIELD was he.

CLEFT from the summit, who shall say
When WIND-CLIFF's other half gave way?
Or when the sea-waves, roaring strong,
First drove the rock-bound tide along?
To studious leisure be resign'd,

The task that leads the wilder'd mind,
From time's first birth throughout the range
Of nature's everlasting change.

Soon from his all-commanding brow,

Lay PERSFIELD's rocks and woods below.
BACK OVER MONMOUTH who could trace

The WYE's fantastic mountain race?
BEFORE US, sweeping far and wide,
Lay out-stretch'd SEVERN'S Ocean tide,
Through whose blue mists, all upward blown,
Broke the faint lines of heights unknown;
And still (though clouds would interpose)
The COTSWOLD promontories rose
In dark succession: STINCHCOMBE's brow,
With BERKELEY-CASTLE Crouch'd below;
And stranger spires on either hand,
From THORNBURY, on the Glo'ster strand,
With black-brow'd woods, and yellow fields,
(The boundless wealth that summer yields,)
Detain'd the eye, that glanced again
O'er KINGROAD anchorage to the main.

OR was the bounded view preferr'd, Far, far beneath, the spreading herd Low'd, as the cow-boy stroll'd along, And cheerly sung his last new song. But cow-boy, herd, and tide, and spire Sunk into gloom.-The tinge of fire, As westward roll'd the setting day Fled like a golden dream away. Then CHEPSTOW's ruin'd fortress caught The mind's collected store of thought; A dark, majestic, jealous frown Hung on his brow, and warn'd us down. 'Twas well; for he has much to boast, Much still that tells of glories lost, Though rolling years have form'd the sod, Where once the bright-helm'd warrior trod From tower to tower, and gazed around, While all beneath him slept profound. E'en on the walls where paced the brave, High o'er his crumbling turrets wave The rampant seedlings.-Not a breath Pass'd through their leaves; when, still as death, We stopp'd to watch the clouds-for night Grew splendid with increasing light,

Till, as time loudly told the hour,

Gleam'd the broad front of MARTEN'S TOWER

Bright silver'd by the moon.-Then rose

The wild notes sacred to repose;

Then the lone owl awoke from rest,

Stretch'd his keen talons, plumed his crest,

And, from his high embattled station,

Hooted a trembling salutation.

Rocks caught the "halloo" from his tongue,
And PERSFIELL back the echoes flung
Triumphant o'er th' illustrious dead,
Their history lost, their glories fled.

* Henry Marten, whose signature appears upon the deathwarrant of Charles the First, finished his days here in prison.

BOOK III.

Departure for Ragland-Ragland Castle-Abergavenny-Expedition up the "Pen-y-Vale," or Sugar-Loaf Hill-Invocation to the Spirit of Burns-View from the Mountain-Castle of Abergavenny - Departure for Brecon -Pembrokes of Crickhowel-Tre-Tower Castle-Jane Edwards.

PEACE to your white-wall'd cots, ye vales;
Untainted fly your summer gales:
Health, thou from cities lov'st to roam,
O make the Monmouth hills thy home!
Great spirits of her bards of yore,
While harvests triumph, torrents roar,
Train her young shepherds, train them high
To sing of mountain liberty:

Give them the harp and modest maid;

Give them the sacred village shade;

Long be Llandenny, and Llansoy,
Names that import a rural joy,
Known to our fathers, when May day

Brush'd a whole twelvemonth's care away.

Far diff'rent joys possess'd the mind, When Chepstow fading sunk behind, And, from a belt of woods full grown Arose immense thy turrets brown, Majestic RAGLAND!

Harvests wave

Where thund'ring hosts their watch-word gave,

When cavaliers, with downcast eye,

Struck the last flag of loyalty":

Then, left by gallant WORC'STER's band,

To devastation's cruel hand

The beauteous fabric bow'd, fled all

The splendid hours of festival.

This castle, with a garrison commanded by the Marquis of Worcester, was the last pace of strength which held out for the unfortunate Charles the First.