Owen Glendower's hill or mount at Sycharth, unlike the one bearing his name on the banks of the Dee, is not an artificial hill, but the work of nature, save and except that to a certain extent it has been modified by the hand of man. It is somewhat conical and consists of two steps or gradations, where two fosses scooped out of the hill go round it, one above the other, the lower one embracing considerably the most space. Both these fosses are about six feet deep, and at one time doubtless were bricked, as stout large, red bricks are yet to be seen, here and there, in their sides. The top of the mount is just twenty-five feet across. When I visited it it was covered with grass, but had once been subjected to the plough as various furrows indicated. The monticle stands not far from the western extremity of the valley, nearly midway between two hills which confront each other north and south, the one to the south being the hill which I had descended, and the other a beautiful wooded height which is called in the parlance of the country Llwyn Sycharth or the grove of Sycharth, from which comes the little gush of water which I had crossed, and which now turns the wheel of the factory and once turned that of Owen Glendower's mill, and filled his two moats, part of the water by some mechanical means having been forced up the eminence. On the top of this hill or monticle in a timber house dwelt the great Welshman Owen Glendower, with his wife, a comely, kindly woman, and his progeny, consisting of stout boys and blooming girls, and there, though wonderfully cramped for want of room, he feasted bards who requited his hospitality with alliterative odes very difficult to compose, and which at the present day only a few book-worms understand. There he dwelt for many years, the virtual if not the nominal king of North Wales, occasionally no doubt looking down with self-complaisance from the top of his fastness on the parks and fish-ponds of which he had several; his mill, his pigeon tower, his ploughed lands, and the cottages of a thousand retainers, huddled round the lower part of the hill, or strewn about the valley; and there he might have lived and died had not events caused him to draw the sword and engage in a war, at the termination of which Sycharth was a fire-scathed ruin, and himself a broken-hearted old man in anchorite's weeds, living in a cave on the estate of Sir John Scudamore, the great Herefordshire proprietor, who married his daughter Elen, his only surviving child.
After I had been a considerable time on the hill looking about me and asking questions of my guide, I took out a piece of silver and offered it to him, thanking him at the same time for the trouble he had taken in showing me the place. He refused it, saying that Iwas quite welcome.
I tried to force it upon him.
"I will not take it," said he; "but if you come to my house and have a cup of coffee, you may give sixpence to my old woman.""I will come," said I, "in a short time. In the meanwhile do you go; I wish to be alone.""What do you want to do?"
"To sit down and endeavour to recall Glendower, and the times that are past."The fine fellow looked puzzled; at last he said, "Very well,"shrugged his shoulders, and descended the hill.
When he was gone I sat down on the brow of the hill, and with my face turned to the east began slowly to chant a translation made by myself in the days of my boyhood of an ode to Sycharth composed by Iolo Goch when upwards of a hundred years old, shortly after his arrival at that place, to which he had been invited by Owen Glendower:-Twice have I pledg'd my word to thee To come thy noble face to see;His promises let every man Perform as far as e'er he can!
Full easy is the thing that's sweet, And sweet this journey is and meet;I've vowed to Owain's court to go, And I'm resolved to keep my vow;So thither straight I'll take my way With blithesome heart, and there I'll stay, Respect and honour, whilst I breathe, To find his honour'd roof beneath.
My chief of long lin'd ancestry Can harbour sons of poesy;I've heard, for so the muse has told, He's kind and gentle to the old;Yes, to his castle I will hie;
There's none to match it 'neath the sky:
It is a baron's stately court, Where bards for sumptuous fare resort;There dwells the lord of Powis land, Who granteth every just demand.
Its likeness now I'll limn you out:
'Tis water girdled wide about;
It shows a wide and stately door Reached by a bridge the water o'er;'Tis formed of buildings coupled fair, Coupled is every couple there;Within a quadrate structure tall Muster the merry pleasures all.
Conjointly are the angles bound -
No flaw in all the place is found.
Structures in contact meet the eye Upon the hillock's top on high;Into each other fastened they The form of a hard knot display.
There dwells the chief we all extol In timber house on lightsome knoll;Upon four wooden columns proud Mounteth his mansion to the cloud;Each column's thick and firmly bas'd, And upon each a loft is plac'd;In these four lofts, which coupled stand, Repose at night the minstrel band;Four lofts they were in pristine state, But now partitioned form they eight.
Tiled is the roof, on each house-top Rise smoke-ejecting chimneys up.
All of one form there are nine halls Each with nine wardrobes in its walls With linen white as well supplied As fairest shops of fam'd Cheapside.
Behold that church with cross uprais'd And with its windows neatly glaz'd;All houses are in this comprest -
An orchard's near it of the best, Also a park where void of fear Feed antler'd herds of fallow deer.
A warren wide my chief can boast, Of goodly steeds a countless host.
Meads where for hay the clover grows, Corn-fields which hedges trim inclose, A mill a rushing brook upon, And pigeon tower fram'd of stone;A fish-pond deep and dark to see, To cast nets in when need there be, Which never yet was known to lack A plenteous store of perch and jack.
Of various plumage birds abound;
Herons and peacocks haunt around, What luxury doth his hall adorn, Showing of cost a sovereign scorn;His ale from Shrewsbury town he brings;
His usquebaugh is drink for kings;
Bragget he keeps, bread white of look, And, bless the mark! a bustling cook.
His mansion is the minstrels' home, You'll find them there whene'er you come Of all her *** his wife's the best;The household through her care is blest She's scion of a knightly tree, She's dignified, she's kind and free.
His bairns approach me, pair by pair, O what a nest of chieftains fair!
Here difficult it is to catch A sight of either bolt or latch;The porter's place here none will fill;
Her largess shall be lavish'd still, And ne'er shall thirst or hunger rude In Sycharth venture to intrude.
A noble leader, Cambria's knight, The lake possesses, his by right, And midst that azure water plac'd, The castle, by each pleasure grac'd.
And when I had finished repeating these lines I said, "How much more happy, innocent, and holy, I was in the days of my boyhood when I translate Iolo's ode than I am at the present time!" Then covering my face with my hands I wept like a child.