My Native Bay is calm and bright,
As ere it was of yore,
When, in the days of hope and love,
I stood upon its shore;
The sky is glowing, soft, and blue,
As once in youth it smiled,
When summer seas and summer skies
Were always bright and mild.
The sky—how oft hath darkness dwelt
Since then upon its breast;
The sea—how oft have tempests broke
Its gentle dream of rest!
So oft hath darker wo come o’er
Calm self-enjoying thought;
And passion’s storms a wilder scene
Within my bosom wrought.
Now, after years of absence, passed
In wretchedness and pain,
I come and find those seas and skies
All calm and bright again.
The darkness and the storm from both
Have trackless passed away;
And gentle as in youth, once more
Thou seem’st my Native Bay.
Oh that, like thee, when toil is over
And all my griefs are past,
This ravaged bosom might subside
To peace and joy at last!
And while it lay all calm like thee,
In pure unruffled sleep,
Oh! might a Heaven as bright as this
Be mirrored in its deep.
On the left is the New Harbour, to the right the Skerries Light-house,
before you St. George’s Channel. As you draw near the rocks you gain a
full and varied view of the scene. In wildness and grandeur of aspect no
place, assuredly, can surpass this portion of the Anglesey coast. Here
nature exhibits her rude outline in the most sublime and magnificent
scenery.
Let us go round,
And let the sail be slack, the course be slow,
That at our leisure, as we coast along,
We may contemplate, and from every scene
Receive its influence.
As you advance, the grand promontory, with its towering precipitous
cliffs—its crags, fretted by decay and storm—its magnificent caverned
rocks, and bleak indented sides, appear to the utmost advantage. The
effect, as you draw nearer and nearer within the verge of these
tremendous caverns, is truly appalling; at last, when you come under the
black shadows of the super-ambient rocks, and approach the dismal chasms,
and hear the wild plaintive cry of the sea-birds, wheeling above your
heads, it is impossible not to feel sensations equally unexpected and
solemn. Grand receding arches of different shapes, supported by gigantic
pillars of rock, formed by the incessant action of the waves, which, in
stormy weather, roll with terrific violence against this high rocky
coast, and exhibit a strange magnificence—a wild and savage beauty,
mingle with a dread repose which continues to haunt the imagination even
after quitting the scene. The singular and fantastic shapes and
positions of these rocky formations, either primitive or time-worn,
pinnacled or projecting, running off in bold escapement, or shelving into
sheet-like floors of granite—sometimes yawning in chasms too deep for the
light of summer’s sun to reach, or rounded into Amphitheatres that might
have formed the council hall of a race of giants, gleaming in the hues of
grey, green, and purple, lying in ribbon streaks, or mingled in rich
combination—all, all, lies immediately before you. The largest of these
caverns is peculiarly worth attention; it has received the vulgar
appellation of the _Parliament House_, from the frequent visits of water
parties to see this wonderful cavern; it being only accessible by boats,
and that at half ebb-tide. It is entered through a noble arch about 70
feet high, and consists of a series of receding arches, supported by
massive and lofty pillars of rock, displaying an interior of picturesque
and sublime grandeur. It is a magnificent instance of the effects of the
sea, in producing beautiful or fantastic forms from the soluble parts of
stratified rocks, more especially where calcareous substances are
prevalent in their composition. Not far from this cavern the face edges
to the sea slightly divided, resembling a facade of slender columns,
descending from an elevation of 250 feet perpendicular to the sea. The
whole promontory is chloride schist, in strata of about six feet. Seated
among these rocks, or whirling in circles above and around you, are
various sea-fowls which seek these solitary abodes. You cannot look upon
them without an interest seldom inspired by the tamer species; whether
curlews, gulls, razorbills, guillimots, cormorants, or herons, there is
something wild and eccentric in their habits and appearance, which
produces ideas of solitude and freedom; for we feel that they are not our
slaves, but commoners of nature. Occasionally may be seen on one of the
loftiest rocks a peregrine falcon, in high repute when falconry was in
fashion—one of those feudal warriors who has survived his fame, no longer
the companion of courts and courtly halls.
Indeed, there are few objects more interesting than the appearance of the
South Stack, when approaching it by water—the Light-house towering, 212
feet above the level of the sea—the sound of life and industry—mingled
with the lashing of the sea, and the cry of innumerable birds, are
altogether of so unwonted a character, that if you were transported to
the antipodes you would not feel more unfeigned surprise.
“The traveller,” (observes Dr. Stanley, late Bishop of Norwich) “by day,
in his passage up or down the Channel, near the eastern shores, must have
observed a white tower, posted like a sentinel, on the brow of a low
hammock, apparently forming a projecting ledge from the seaward base of
Caer Gybi, or the Mountain of Holyhead. On approaching still nearer, he
will perceive that this hammock, is, in fact, an island, torn from the
main mass, but connected therewith by a link, at a distance resembling
the gauze-work of a gossamer, which in its fall, had accidentally caught
upon the corresponding projections of the disjointed rocks. Let him look
a little longer, and he will now and then detect minute objects to and
fro, and come to the obvious conclusion that this aerial pathway is
neither more nor less than a connecting ladder of accommodation formed by
the hand of man. The speck by night, the white tower by day, with its
hammock and fairy bridge, comprise what is called South Stack, and, taken
together it forms a prominent feature in the bold, romantic scenery of
this iron-bound coast, and combines so many objects worthy of notice,
natural and artificial, that be the observer what he may, poet,
philosopher, or naturalist, he will find wherewithal to excite his
curiosity, and reward his labour, in visiting a _spot which has not many
rivals in its kind in the wide world_.”
The Tourist by this time will be convinced that the description given in
these pages is not over-coloured, not chimerical; for I am fully
persuaded, that no one can visit this magnificent scenery without wishing
for a vocabulary varied and rich as the Alpine aspect before him; but
language supplies no expressions that could paint the effect of the whole
assemblage upon his mind. A painter might here use his pencil with
effect, and a poet indulge himself in his sublimities. But what are high
and impending rocks—what are the giant heavings of an angry ocean—and
what the proudest summit of the Andes, when placed in the scale of such
interminable vastness as the creating, balancing, and peopling of
innumerable globes? In contemplating systems so infinite, who can
forbear exclaiming—What a mole-hill is our earth, and how insignificant
are we who creep so proudly on her surface.