Here on the mind, with powerful sway,
Press'd the bright joys of yesterday;
For still, though doom'd no more t'inhale
The mountain air of PEN-Y-VALE,
His broad dark-skirting woods o'erhung
Cottage and farm, where careless sung
The labourer, where the gazing steer
Low'd to the mountains, deep and clear.

SLOW less'ning BLORENGE, left behind,
Reluctantly his claims resign'd,
And stretch'd his glowing front entire,
As forward peep'd CRICKHOWEL spire;
But no proud castle turrets gleam'd;
No warrior Earl's gay banner stream'd;
E'en of thy palace, grief to tell!
A tower without a dinner bell;
An arch where jav'lin'd centries bow'd
Low to their chief, or fed the croud,
Are all that mark where once a train
Of _barons_ grac'd thy rich domain,
Illustrious PEMBROKE[1]! drain'd thy bowl,
[Footnote 1: Part of the original palace of the powerful Earls of Pembroke
is still undemolished by time.]
And caught the nobleness of soul
The harp-inspir'd, indignant blood
That prompts to arms and hardihood.

To muse upon the days gone by,
Where desolation meets the eye,