soon, as dissolved in ether gray,
The woods, and the shores, and the Holms[136] steal away,
And the long blue hills of Gwent.

[132] This lyrical ballad is founded on a story connected with an old
Welsh melody. I have placed the circumstance in the time of the
Crusades.

[133] Archbishop of Canterbury, who preached the Crusade in Wales.

[134] Monmouthshire.

[135] The Welsh tune is called the "Remembrance of Gwenlhian," the name
of the woman.

[136] Islands in the Bristol Channel.

PART II.

High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown, 1
A hermit chapel stood;
It spoke the tale of seasons gone,
And half-revealed its ivied stone.
Amid the beechen wood.

Here often, when the mountain trees 2
A leafy murmur made,
Now still, now swaying to the breeze,
(Sounds that the musing fancy please),
The widowed mourner strayed.

And many a morn she climbed the steep, 3
From whence she might behold,
Where, 'neath the clouds, in shining sweep,
And mingling with the mighty deep,
The sea-broad Severn rolled.

Her little boy beside her played, 4
With sea-shells in his hand;
And sometimes, 'mid the bents delayed,
And sometimes running onward, said,
Oh, where is Holy Land!

My child, she cried, my prattler dear! 5
And kissed his light-brown hair;
Her eyelid glistened with a tear,
And none but God above could hear,
That hour, her secret prayer.

As thus she nursed her secret woes, 6
Oft to the wind and rain
She listened, at sad autumn's close,
Whilst many a thronging shadow rose,
Dark-glancing o'er her brain.

Now lonely to the cloudy height 7
Of the steep hill she strays;
Below, the raven wings his flight,
And often on the screaming kite
She sees the wild deer gaze.

The clouds were gathered on its brow, 8
The warring winds were high;
She heard a hollow voice, and now
She lifts to heaven a secret vow,
Whilst the king of the storm rides by.

Seated on a craggy rock, 9
What aged man appears!
There is no hind, no straggling