No less
than twenty-three staircases were taken down by these devastators; but the
present Duke of Beanfort no sooner succeeded to his estate, than he
instantly gave orders that not a stone should be moved from its situation,
and thus preserved these noble ruins from destruction."
_History of Monmouthshire, page 148._]
But ivy, creeping year by year,
Of growth enormous, triumphs here.
Each dark festoon with pride upheaves
Its glossy wilderness of leaves
On sturdy limbs, that, clasping, bow
Broad o'er the turrets utmost brow,
Encompassing, by strength alone,
In tret-work bars, the sliding stone,
That tells how years and storms prevail,
And spreads its dust upon the gale.
The man who could unmov'd survey
What ruin, piecemeal, sweeps away;
Works of the pow'rful and the brave,
All sleeping in the silent grave;
Unmov'd reflect that here were sung
Carols of joy, by beauty's tongue,
Is fit, where'er he deigns to roam,
And hardly fit--to stay at home.
Spent here in peace one solemn hour,
'Midst legends of the YELLOW TOWER,
Truth and tradition's mingled stream,
Fear's start, and superstition's dream[1]
[Footnote 1: A village woman, who very officiously pointed out all that
she knew respecting the former state of the castle, desired us to remark
the descent to a vault, apparently of large dimensions, in which she had
heard that no candle would continue burning; "and," added she, "they say
it is because of the damps; but for my part, I think the devil is there.
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