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AMWELL. MANY great men have signalized their love of the country by describing the beauties of the district in which they resided, and thus rendering it interesting to the sen. timevtal traveller. Amwell, a quiet village, two miles from Ware, in Hertfortshire, is principally celebrated for a beautiful estate called Amwell-Bury, laid out with much taste by a late Mr. Scott. Here he constructed a curious grotto, which 'he thus describes in his elegantly written poem, called " Amwell.”
Where China's willow bangs its foliage fair,
Amwell boasts also of having had amongst its inhabitants, Mr. Hoole, the translator of Tasso, and Ms. Walton, the angler; the scene of his “ Angler's Dialogues" is the vale of Lee, hetween Tottenham and Ware : he par. ticularly mentions Amwell Hill.
PONT Y CYSSLLTE, LLANGOLLEN.
ERTAINLY there is not in the dominions of Great Britain a lovelier spot than the one now before the reader,--the Bridge over the Dee, and Canal of Ellesmere, at Chirk, Llangollen. The town of Llangollen in itself is insignificant, being placed in a particularly small dale, and environed with huge moun.
tains. On one of them, a little above the town, are the remaivs of Castle Caer Dinas Brân, or Crow Castle, supposed to have been founded by Brennus, the Gaulic general: the mountain river Brân, runs at the foot of the hill.
The Dee, from the bridge at Llangollen, is a striking object, raging furionsly down the broad, solid rock, for å considerable space. From this place the prospect is really enchanting; the aqueduct of Chirk immediately in front; the peculiar richness of the valley, intersected on every side by water, in all its variety of forms, from the foaming torrent, to the silent and gentle flowing stream. A more bewitching or picturesque landscape cannot be conceived.
The famous Aqueduct, which was formed for conveying the water over the river Dee, and the vale of Llangollen, was built in the year 1795, at the expenee of the nobility and gentry of the adjacent counties. It is supported by columns of immense thickness; several of those which stand in the bed of the river, are more than one hundred feet in height. NO. XIII.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF MATURIN.
BY MR. S. L. BLANCHARD.
And no voice heard to wail! Shall no hand strew Leaves for his fame to sleep on, wearied of its way.
May not some arm be raised
Making chill reason stand amazed,
Warmed by the flame he could not quell,
The world must bold
The pictures he hath wrought,
All, all that he hath done
Is of the sea and sun!
And kuew the language of that law,
Ard laugh to scorn
[riven? And who that felt the tone, knew how the harp was
O cold neglect,
Because the earth be blind,
Is there no blue upon the brow
Mankind with wisdoin, to behold
But when man darted up to grasp
The fire of sceptred cherubim,
Day perished not,
And such the poet's lot-
And such was thine!
That with bruised and blighted pen,
The earth, made Edenless.
But thou ! O wheresoever
Almost a star!
Wheresoe'er thou twin'st thy root,
The lightning of our dust,
0, think that there are things,
The poet worshippers, that seal
Their knowledge of a 'dawn to bem
For these he held
For these be sported on the brink
The wide wood bowed its sable plumes,
And wrapped him from the following blast; And ocean found him stretched upon its tombs :
Where'er he passed,
Who looked not on his dazzling way,
They deemed not that his flame
Was damped by tears, and so it waved
Who could be wise,
But in the senate of the mind
It weighs the worth of age,
His was a cloak
And on the snaky storm
The giant and the worm,
The infant love of woman
The helmet and the cowl,
Of these he told,
And o'er his heart, as on a map,
The beart, now dumb and dead !
Three migbty ones lie low,