<g>Monmouthshire.</g>
“<g>Stranger</g>! ponder here awhile;
Pause in <g>Raglan’s</g> ruined pile;
All that wealth and power, combined,
With skill to plan, and taste refined,
To rear a structure fit to be
The home of England’s <g>Chivalry</g>,
Was lavished here!--where, met in hall,
Mailed <g>Barons</g> kept their festival;
The night in lordly wassail spent--
The day in tilt and tournament:
Yet still, when England’s woes began,
Were first to arm and lead the van;
To shield the <g>Monarch</g> in his need,
In Freedom’s glorious cause to bleed;
To Loyalty surrendering all--
Then, with their falling <g>King</g> to fall!”
<g>The Castle of Raglan</g> is one of the most picturesque ruins in the
kingdom, and closely associated with a momentous period of our national
annals. Though roofless, tenantless, and dismantled, it still presents a
majestic and venerable aspect. No visitor of taste or sensibility will
ever traverse its spacious but long-deserted halls, without feeling a
deep interest in its eventful history.
It was on a bright autumnal evening that we quitted the comfortable
little inn, the “Beaufort Arms,” at Raglan, to make our first survey of
this baronial stronghold; and at that hour, and season of the year, it
was seen through its embowering trees in all its glory. Ascending the
gentle eminence on which it stands, we came to the outer gate, or
barbican, portions of which still remain, and crossing the _ballium_,
now covered with rich verdant pasture, we were received by the
intelligent Warden, who conducted us to the majestic gateway, and
pointed out to us, as we proceeded, the more imposing features of the
Castle, as they alternately met and receded from the eye.
[Illustration: _The Avenue._