Penmaenmawr

These winds, these clouds, this chill November storm Bring back again thy tempest-beaten form To eyes that look upon yon dreary sky As late they looked on thy sublimity; When I, more troubled than thy restless sea, Found, in its waves, companionship with thee. 'Mid mists thou frownedst over Arvon's shore, 'Mid tears I watched thee over ocean's roar, And thy blue front, by thousand storms laid bare, Claimed kindred with a heart worn down by care. No smile had'st thou, o'er smiling fields aspiring, And none had I, from smiling fields retiring; Blackness, 'mid sunlight, tinged thy slaty brow, I, 'mid sweet music, looked as dark as thou; Old Scotland's song, o'er murmuring surges borne, Of "times departed,—never to return," Was echoed back in mournful tones from thee, And found an echo, quite as sad, in me; Waves, clouds, and shadows moved in restless change, Around, above, and on thy rocky range, But seldom saw that sovereign front of thine Changes more quick than those which passed o'er mine. And as wild winds and human hands, at length, Have turned to scattered stones the mighty strength Of that old fort, whose belt of boulders grey Roman or Saxon legions held at bay; So had, methought, the young, unshaken nerve— That, when will wished, no doubt could cause to swerve, That on its vigour ever placed reliance, That to its sorrows sometimes bade defiance— Now left my spirit, like thyself, old hill, With head defenceless against human ill; And, as thou long hast looked upon the wave That takes, but gives not, like a churchyard grave, I, like life's course, through ether's weary range, Never know rest from ceaseless strife and change.

But, Penmaenmawr! a better fate was thine, Through all its shades, than that which darkened mine; No quick thoughts thrilled through thy gigantic mass Of woe for what might be, or is, or was; Thou hadst no memory of the glorious hour When Britain rested on thy giant power; Thou hadst no feeling for the verdant slope That leant on thee as man's heart leads on hope; The pastures, chequered o'er with cot and tree, Though thou wert guardian, got no smile from thee; Old ocean's wrath their charms might overwhelm, But thou could'st still keep thy unshaken realm— While I felt flashes of an inward feeling As fierce as those thy craggy form revealing In nights of blinding gleams, when deafening roar Hurls back thy echo to old Mona's shore. I knew a flower, whose leaves were meant to bloom Till Death should snatch it to adorn a tomb, Now, blanching 'neath the blight of hopeless grief, With never blooming, and yet living leaf; A flower on which my mind would wish to shine, If but one beam could break from mind like mine. I had an ear which could on accents dwell That might as well say "perish!" as "farewell!" An eye which saw, far off, a tender form, Beaten, unsheltered, by affliction's storm; An arm—a lip—that trembled to embrace My angel's gentle breast and sorrowing face, A mind that clung to Ouse's fertile side While tossing—objectless—on Menai's tide!

Oh, Soul! that draw'st yon mighty hill and me Into communion of vague unity, Tell me, can I obtain the stony brow That fronts the storm, as much unbroken now As when it once upheld the fortress proud, Now gone, like its own morning cap of cloud? Its breast is stone. Can I have one of steel, To endure—inflict—defend—yet never feel? It stood as firm when haughty Edward's word Gave hill and dale to England's fire and sword, As when white sails and steam-smoke tracked the sea, And all the world breathed peace, but waves and me.

Let me, like it, arise o'er mortal care, All woes sustain, yet never know despair; Unshrinking face the grief I now deplore, And stand, through storm and shine, like moveless Penmaenmawr!