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For this week's newsletter only story, here is a poem from 29 August 1838 about Cowbridge.

It is believed that the writer lived at Ash Hall, Ystradowen and that this poem was written before they left for distant lands.

It is signed 'W.V', thought to be William Verity. The poem was published in the Parish Magazine in 1977.

"Tho' other lands invite my care.

And tho' with thee I may not stay.

Still shall thy town and scenery fair

Retain my love when I'm away.

Away when distance drear and great

'Tween me and Cowbridge intervene,

I'll muse in memory o'er each sweet,

Each lovely spot and cherished scene.

How oft upon Llanblethian Hill

I've gazed into the vale below,

And listened to the chattering mill,

Or watched the river's winding flow.

While far beyond the enraptured eye,

In graceful sweep sees woods arise.

And Bewper in the distance lie

Where, round and round, the ring dove flies.

Llanblethian Church erects its head.

Upon the summit of the hill,

Standing as sentry o'er the dead

That lies cold, voiceless, dark and still.

Where erst Saint Quentin held his sway,

Turn we our footsteps to the ground

And let us muse while all around

Preaches a lesson on decay.

Now on to Cowbridge o'er the road,

And down old Constitution Hill,

Where smiles that cottage, the abode

Of one who owns the Cowbridge Mill.

Near is a well whose waters rare

Flow murmuring o'er its crystal brink,

Where yearly children gay repair,

Their watered sugar glad to drink.

The southern entrance of the town

Stands in some grey ruin like sage,

While ivy covers its dark frown

And clings like youth to parent age.

And near is learning's hallowed fame,

Where taught the lore of Rome and Greece,

And how, in our Redeemer's name,

To preach the word, good will and peace.

Beyond Llanellig's rural cot,

Where the fair bulbul (nightingale) sweetly sings.

Whose heavenly voice through cave and grot

With thrilling pathos nightly rings.

Above, the castle on the brow

Looks down majestic o'er the scene,

Where Thaw begins its gentle flow

O'er many a field of gold and green.

Oh, in the old Cowbridge I have known,

Full many an hour of rich delight

And many a year will perhaps be flown

'Ere I return to each fond sight.

But tho' I seek some distant shore.

With memory's eye I still shall see,

My heart will long be cold before

I cease to love and think of thee.