St Davids

Michael Drayton

SO Gresholme far doth stand:

Scalme, Stockholme, with Saint Bride, and Gatholme, nearer land

(Which with their veiny breasts entice the gods of sea,

That with the lusty isles do revel every day),

As crescent-like the land her breadth here inward bends,

From Milford, which she forth to old Menevia sends;

Since, holy David’s seat; which of especial grace

Doth lend that nobler name to this unnobler place.

Of all the holy men whose fame so fresh remains,

To whom the Britons built so many sumptuous fanes,

This saint before the rest their patron still they hold:

Whose birth their ancient bards to Cambria long foretold;

And seated here a see, his bishopric of yore,

Upon the farthest point of this unfruitful shore;

Selected by himself, that far from all resort

With contemplation seemed most fitly to comport;

That, void of all delight, cold, barren, bleak, and dry,

No pleasure might allure, nor steal the wandering eye:

Where Ramsey with those rocks, in rank that ordered stand

Upon the furthest point of David’s ancient land,

Do raise their rugged heads (the seaman’s noted marks),

Called, of their mitred tops, The Bishop and his Clarks;

Into that channel cast, whose raging current roars

Betwixt the British sands and the Hibernian shores:

Whose grim and horrid face doth pleased heaven neglect,

And bears bleak winter still in his more sad aspect.