His spirit walks each mountain and each glen, Sighs through the wood and mingles with the gale: Centuries have roll'd since last 'mid fellow-men He trod, but still they linger o'er his tale; Still when the Westering sun looks cold and pale, His name his fate-rise like a lonely tow'r On memory's waste; still in yon dim-seen vale His bugle echoes, and each haunted flow'r, Starts into fairy form at Eve's enchanted hour. The spectral vision fades-and on the wind, Rides the dark-bosom'd dæmon of the storm; Whirlwinds with meteor splendor crowd behind, And heav'n peals out the trumpet of alarm: From yon sulphureous cloud, with lightning warm, The wind-god hoarsely laughs, at his wild cry Pale shrinking twilight hides her vestal formHe comes-he comes, on thunder riding by, Hear ye his chariot wheels sweep echoing through the sky? Tis well-the hour accords with the wild scene- But clouds and storms, for aye should linger near, And dæmons in sepulchral garb bedight, Should quit for this their sombre hemisphere; While round each rock, obscured by doubtful light, The spectral robber stalks-encanopied in night.* The ghost of the noted robber, Twm John Catty, is still supposed to haunt the scenes of his former greatness in company with a spectral assemblage, consisting of his former band. Mr. Rees, in his account of Carmarthenshire, has spelt his name Twm Sion Catti; I have preferred however my own orthography, as it is more accessible to an English pronunci ation. LLANSADDON CHURCH YARD. "How beautiful are many of our country church yards, filled with humble graves, and covered with wild flowers. This is the case particularly in Wales. Some country burying grounds have a character of seclusion and peace, that almost reconciles us to the resignation of life. The mind of man must surely be in a state of aberration, when it is busying itself among the tumults of active life, and toiling amid boisterous crowds in dissatisfaction, or it would not contemplate tranquillity with such pleasure, even the tranquillity of the grave." Church Yard Wanderings. DEATH which wears so revolting an appearance amid the gaudy splendors of the metropolis, seems to lose his terrors in the peaceful retirement of the country. If in the one place he assume the guise of a spectre, whose influence chills the soul of youth and merriment; in the other, he appears as a sweet vision whispering the words of happiness and peace. In the pompous cemeteries of London, we rear columns to his honor, which are seen, admired, and forgotten. In the country we build him a temple in the human heart, where memory officiates as high priest, and offers up the incense of affection. The church yard of Llansaddon, amid whose shades these desultory reflections are written, is a fine practical homily on death. It stands in the bosom of one of the most peaceful landscapes I have ever witnessed, and sleeps in the sweet sunshine of heaven, like the infant God beneath the smiles of the Madona. Its situation speaks so eloquently of eternal repose; the breeze sighs so softly amid its grove of elms, as if fearing to awake the slumber of the departed, that it would alinost woo you to your long home. "If I wish," says Addison, "to indulge melancholy, or to be made wiser and better than I am, I wander among the tombs of Westminster Abbey." A walk through Llansaddon church yard will produce the same beneficial result. It has not, indeed, the external trappings of gloomy splendor-no storied arches, no emblazoned cornices, impose their grandeur on the eye; but the deep blue vault of heaven, the morning sunshine, and the mellow twilight lend it an interest ineffably magnificent. If the organ amid the choirs of the Abbey, appeals in solemn music to the heart; the summer breeze amid yon grove of elms awakes a deeper strain-an Hosanna to eternity, hymned upon the threshold of the grave. It is the sight of a church yard that inspires us with the most fitting ideas of mortality. Here we read the maxims of experience, and learn to set a proper value upon existence. Every worldly emotion-every headlong impulse that sways us in the court, the camp, or the dungeon, dies dies away within the hallowed precincts of the sepulchre. A sentiment pervades it: it is haunted by the guardian genius of the dead. No guilty affection can live within its charmed circle, for with all its foibles, human nature is generous, and makes the grave a mausoleum of revenge, wherein every harsher feeling is entombed. But the gloomy superstitions that weaken our national character, have prevented the full exercise of these cheerful and charitable sensibilities. The church yard is now considered as the resort of malign influences, and at the "witching hour of night," is rarely passed without emotion. Surely this is a mistake that verges on impiety. Is the grave, the only secure abode of gentleness and peace, to be selected as the scene of horror? Is the pleasing remembrance of our buried associates to be connected with a sentiment of apprehension? |