O! let us away to yon heights,
Where the Roman encamp’d him of old;
With his train’d bowmen and Knights,
And his banner all burnish’d with gold.
Having reluctantly turned our backs upon the Telegraph, we now direct our
steps to the mountain apex. The road is not macadamized, but a romantic
walk of 30 minutes will scarcely be felt between the bracing effects of
the atmosphere and the excitement; and I feel assured that the
antiquities will amply repay the additional toil. From the summit there
is a commanding view of the Promontory, and you may mark its varying
breadth and inequalities, its storm indented figure, and its broken
fantastic cliffs, abrupt declivities, and deep gorges, as by some
earthquake cleft.
There is, indeed, a charm connected with this mount, before which the
pageant of pomp, and the heralds of emblazonry must bow down. That charm
is
The power of thought, the magic of the mind.
What thoughts crowd upon the mind while standing on this memorable
mountain! What triumphs and defeats have been experienced here. Hope
and despondency, pleasure and pain, have alternately swelled the breasts
of thousands mid these rocks, while watching every movement of an adverse
fleet, or the approach of distant armies. The transactions of bye-gone
centuries pass in review before our eyes—
Pen Caer Gybi stands renown’d,
Proud in song, and known in story;
Where proud Rome in triumph frown’d
O’er the Welsh, who died in glory.
These were the mighty fastnesses to which the ancient Britons had
recourse when overpowered by numbers and military tactics in the plain.
There is no wonder that these “sons of the mountain heroes” so long
successfully withstood the inroads of Roman legions, when such craggy and
adamantine rocks, were the “external circumstances” in their “formation
of character;” and nothing less than the refined expedient of powder and
ball could dislodge them from these rocky fastnesses and natural
barricades; bows and arrows, swords and spears, were only adapted for
milder game, or closer quarters. On this mountain our hardy ancestors
stood and nobly fought, when liberty made her last stand in this kingdom
against the strides of Roman power; their determination was
To leave the battle only on their biers,
“to conquer or to die,” and thousands fell
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
Here we tread
On sacred ground, and press the mingled dust of heroes;
Far, far beneath they sleep, nor does a stone
Or marble column rear its head to show
The spot where now they moulder.