If ever man merited fame,

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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

* The author is equally indebted to Mr. Coxe's County History for this anecdote, as for the greater part of the notes subjoined throughout the Journal.

From time's first birth throughout the range

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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: STINCHCOMB's brow,

With BERKLEY 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,

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Detain'd the eye, that glanc'd 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,

And seem'd, with mild but jealous frown,
To promise peace, and warn us down.

'Twas well; for he has much to boast, Much still that tells of glories lost,

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Though rolling years have form'd the sod,
Where once the bright-helm'd warrior trod
From tower to tower, and gaz'd around,
While all beneath him slept profound.

E'en on the walls where pac'd the brave,

High o'er his crumbling turrets wave

The rampant seedlings.-Not a breath

Past through their leaves; when, still as death,

We stopp'd to watch the clouds-for night

Grew splendid with encreasing light,

Till, as time loudly told the hour,

Gleam'd the broad front of MARTEN'S TOWER *,

* Henry Marten, whose signature appears upon the death