And waft thine honour over all the land,
To rival those whose names are evermore
Set high upon the eternal arch of fame!”
This might be mine! O God! but it was hard
To steel my soul against it; for I thought
Of those within that deep Calabrian vale,
Who tore me from the dear embrace of her
Whom I did gaze upon as doth the sea
Stretch forth his eager arms unto the moon,
Receiving such faint recompense of light
As smooths his turbid bosom into rest,
And wakes a plaintive music in his waves.
So gained I sweetness from her angel face.
She, looking on me as a stately queen,
Entranced me with effulgency of light;
Then, breaking from her throne in perfect love,
She drowned me with her kisses and her tears.
They stole her from me—look you, I was poor!—
And would have married her to some rich fool,
But she, poor thing, did one day strangely die,
And somehow cheated them of their design.
Now what a rare and sweet revenge were this!
To make their sordid hearts grow sick to think
What might have been had they but left my flower
Unto myself! Alas, the time was gone:
Revenge is for the young; my wrath had cooled.
“You pause?” he said, amazed.
You pause?” he said, amazed. “Well may I pause.
Too late the summons comes: the world no more
Enticeth me with subtlety as when
It taught my hand and heart and soul to seek
With perfect consonance one eager wish.
“You will not go?”
You will not go?” Again that fearful chill!
I thought of her—my darling now in Heaven—
And said I would not. Then he sighed and left.
But in the night, what time the silent moon
Gleamed like a spirit on my window pane,
I rose and seized my brushes, palette, all
That came ’twixt me and placid thoughts of her,
And with a sudden power I broke them there,
And cast them forth into the darkness. Then
I knelt and prayed to God for soft content;
That I might end my days without regret,
And wait with hope the coming of the dawn.
BEYOND GOWER’S LAND.
A wet day at the sea-side is never a pleasant thing, especially when you happen to be at a place where there is neither a public room, a library, nor a gossiping friend; yet, in spite of these wants, rain will come, and to-day we have it in good earnest, a grey, lowering sky, mists like billows creeping across the “borrows” or “bents,” and a seething sea tossing its white mane, wreathed with dark weeds brought up from the deep water by last night’s storm. It is an old and true saying that “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.” In the present case this wind, in blowing up the rain, gave me time to put some of my Welsh gatherings into a readable form, so, with my sketch-book before me, I sit down for a day’s work.
Pendine is one of the quietest little places upon the Welsh coast: those who have found it out, and like it well enough to return to, prefer its quiet to any philanthropical views toward the rest of mankind, and hold their tongue as to its advantages. It has hitherto escaped notice, and is just the kind of place to remain in this sort of twilight, as there are no resident influential gentry, no fishing trade, or indeed trade of any description; but now this is to be changed. A company are about to build an hotel, where good and cheap accommodation will supply a want long and often felt.
The village of Pendine lies about midway along Carmarthen bay, ten miles from Tenby, and six from a railway station: thus escaping the tourist tide, it has remained in the hands of the country folks, and retained more of the original characteristic courtesy and friendliness, peculiarly Cymric, than any place I have met with. Pendine does not know itself in print; once I had occasion to mention it in writing of the famous earth-stopper and bard of Morvybachen, and once it is mentioned in Mason’s “Tenby Guide,” not, however, in any compliment to its own charms, but simply in connection with the “Green Bridge of Wales,” which, being one of the sights appropriated by Tenby, necessitates a visit to the Inn at Pendine as a resting-place for the the horses. Few, however, of the fashionables of Tenby go as far as the “Green Bridge,” and consequently to Pendine, a circumstance which, in my opinion, is not a little to its advantage, inasmuch as the true lover of Nature can here enjoy some of her most perfect handiwork without the apprehension of running against the crinolined divinities of a watering-place, or hearing modern young-lady slang profane caverns where old Neptune has been chanting his hymns for ages; of this I speak feelingly, as full many a scene have I felt utterly marred by an ill-timed comparison or remark.
First impressions are always the most lasting, and carry with them a greater influence upon the memory in after days. My first impression of Pendine was favourable, and, I am happy to say, nothing has ever clouded it. I arrived here one October afternoon, just as the sun was dropping down behind Tenby, whose terraced cliffs, tower, and ruins stood out in strong relief against the western sky, all flooded as it was with warm blushing light. The hill-side near me, upon which stand several pretty cottages, was already buried in dark shades of night; but the beautiful beach, fringed with coarse bent grass, wore a pale golden hue, upon which the retreating tide was breaking in long rollers, every one of which was mirrored forth again in the wet sand. After a long look, I went back to my lodgings