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In the warmth of my Passion for Old Denbigh Castle, and in the warmth of my Regard for Hester Maria Thrale I wrote the following Verses—they contain original Thinking at least, and true, not fanciful Description.

They were sent to her last Week, and here is no Ans^r yet; I am very sorry: for all the World agrees that Sussex is unhealthy, & the Girls Letters received ten Days ago said Susan had a Cold,—but I shall fright myself to Death, tis better write out the Lines at once—Here then they are.

Locality! enchanting Pow’r !
    To Cambria’s Castles true;
This Tribute of a vacant hour
    Is thy undoubted Due.

Objects which most oppose Delight
    Take pleasing Tints from thee;
And strangely satisfy our Sight
    From mere Locality.

High Turrets struggling thro’ the Ruin,
    Their haughty Heads to heave;
Where Nature smiles at Art’s undoing,
    Their Charms from thee receive.

For whilst adown th’encumber’d Plains
    Tumbling, they curse the Soil;
Sublime the native Rock remains,
    And mocks Man’s mimic Toil.

Now, where soft Minstrels wont to sing
    Notes—tun’d to Love and Joy,
The Night Bird flaps her heavy Wing,
    And scares the climbing Boy.

If Sweets we find in Scenes like these
    To thee those Sweets belong,
What else can give Decay to please,
    Or charm our: Sense of Wrong ?

When thoughtless Beauty throws her Smile
    As Mirth and May inspire,
Round what was once the vaulted Aisle,
    Or Consecrated Choir.

Where pendant Ivy ill supplies
    With perishable Gloom,
Those Rays that rich in varying Dyes
    Gleam’d o’er some Martyrs Tomb.

Yet hence thro’ ruptur’d Clefts, the Clown
    His rustic Fair one shows,
How far beyond the distant Town
    Old Ocean faintly glows:

While view’d thro’ Horizontal Air
    The parting Sun Beams play:
For Light that loves to linger there
     Retards the Death of Day.

If then Locality can best
    Such pensive Joys impart,
And wake the Thought that oft has prest
    Unconscious on the Heart:

She, while this Verse perhaps is read,
    Maria’s Mind inclines;
And prompts a Wish these paths to tread,
    With her who trac’d the Lines.

Then—not in vain my Harp I strung
    Enchanting Pow’r! to thee;
When round the roofless Hall was sung
    Thy Praise Locality.