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"Over the rocks with a mighty leap,
Waking the waters where they sleep,
Down in the valley below."

THE romantic region of the

beautiful scenery in Wales.

Vale of Neath abounds with some of the most The river winding through the sylvan solitude adds that indescribable charm which water always affords to a landscape, and the cascades and waterfalls, occasioned by the abrupt inequalities of the ground, contribute to the pictorial attractions of the Valley.

The Cascade of Melincourt, a representation of which is given in the accompanying Illustration, is formed by the river Clydach, and from the peculiarity of the rocks over which it is precipitated, presents a singularly grand appearance. In gazing on the stream gliding rapidly towards the fall, and then rushing foward on its course, one is reminded of those lines of De Castro which Bryant has so exquisitely rendered.

"Far better 'twere to linger still

In this green vale these flowers to cherish,

And die in peace, an aged rill,

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish."

Exquisitely beautiful, also, is the language of Keble, the beauty of which— notwithstanding its being so well known, may excuse us for introducing it here.

"Go up and mark the new-born rill,

Just trickling from its mossy bed;

Streaking the heath-clad hill

With a bright emerald thread.

Canst thou her bold career foretell,

What rocks she shall o'erleap or rend,

How far in ocean's swell,

Her freshing billows send?

Perchance that little brook shall flow

The bulwarks of some mighty realm,

Bear navies to and fro,

With monarchs at their helm.

Or canst thou guess how far away

Some sister-nymph, beside her urn,
Reclaiming night and day,

'Mid reeds and mountain fern,



Nurses her store, with thine to blend,
When many a moor and glen are past;
Then in the wide sea end

Their sportless lives at last?

Even so the course of prayer who knows?
It springs in silence when it will—
Springs out of sight, and flows

At first a lonely rill.

But streams shall meet it by-and-by

From thousand sympathetic hearts—
Together swelling high,

Their chant of many parts.

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave

The lovely vale that lies around thee!

Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,

When but a fount the morning found thee?

But when the skies began to glow,

Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters,
No blossom bowed its stalk to show
Where stole thy still and scanty waters.
Now on thy stream the moonbeams look,
Usurping, as thou downward driftest,
Its crystal from the clearest brook,

Its rushing current from the swiftest.
Ah! what wild haste, and all to be
A river, and expire in ocean!
Each fountain's tribute hurries thee

To that vast grave with quicker motion.

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