tarnish the clearness of her spirit, then may she rejoice in the view of
her approaching reward, and receive with an open heart the crown that
shall be bestowed upon her.

The extensive valley of Clwyd once boasted a considerable number of
inhabitants, distinguished for primeval innocence and pastoral
simplicity. Nature seemed to have prepared it for their reception with
all that luxuriant bounty, which characterises her most favoured spots.
The inclosure by which it was bounded, of ragged rocks and snow-topt
mountains, served but for a foil to the richness and fertility of this
happy plain. It was seated in the bosom of North Wales, the whole face
of which, with this one exception, was rugged and hilly. As far as the
eye could reach, you might see promontory rise above promontory. The
crags of Penmaenmawr were visible to the northwest, and the unequalled
steep of Snowden terminated the prospect to the south. In its farthest
extent the valley reached almost to the sea, and it was intersected,
from one end to the other, by the beautiful and translucent waters of
the river from which it receives its name.

In this valley all was rectitude and guileless truth. The hoarse din of
war had never reached its happy bosom; its river had never been
impurpled with the stain of human blood. Its willows had not wept over
the crimes of its inhabitants, nor had the iron hand of tyranny taught
care and apprehension to seat themselves upon the brow of its shepherds.
They were strangers to riches, and to ambition, for they all lived in a
happy equality. He was the richest man among them, that could boast of
the greatest store of yellow apples and mellow pears. And their only
objects of rivalship were the skill of the pipe and the favour of
beauty. From morn to eve they tended their fleecy possessions. Their
reward was the blazing hearth, the nut-brown beer, and the merry tale.