"In one of our morning excursions in North Wales, we ascended the summit of _Arran Benllyn_, a celebrated mountain, inferior only to Snowdon and Cader Idris, a few miles from the lake of Bala. Here we were fortunate in beholding a scene of extraordinary sublimity, seldom witnessed in this climate. From the top of this mountain we looked down, about mid-day, on a deep valley eight or ten miles in length, and as many in breadth, the whole of which, for a considerable height from the surface of the ground, was filled with beautiful clouds, while the atmosphere around the summit on which we stood was perfectly clear, and the sky above us of a deep blue colour. The clouds in the valley were in irregular, gentle undulations, dense, compact, and continuous, of that kind which is denominated by Meteorologists _cirro-cumulus_, and by the vulgar, _woolpack_ clouds, such as are often seen in the higher regions on a fine summer's day. The sun shone with great brilliancy, and illumined their various forms with silver, grey and blue tints of exquisite beauty. As there was scarcely a breath of air stirring below the mountain, this aggregation of clouds, probably occasioned by some electrical agency, remained fixed and stationary, as if identified with the valley. The higher parts of most of the surrounding hills were enveloped in mist, above which the tops of _Snowdon_ and _Cader Idris_ towered distinctly visible, and appeared like small islands rising out of the sea. This scene altogether was one of inexpressible magnificence and grandeur, filling the mind with awe and rapture. We seemed to feel ourselves like beings of a higher order in a celestial region, looking down on the lower world with conscious superiority. "After sitting and ruminating on this sublime spectacle for two or three hours, we left the summit of the mountain with reluctance, and, slowly descending, rested at intervals, and often cast a longing, lingering look behind. "On reaching our comfortable inn at Bala, while waiting for dinner, Davy walked about the room, and, as if by inspiration, broke out in a beautiful impassioned apostrophe on the striking scene we had so recently witnessed. It was in a kind of unmeasured blank verse, highly animated and descriptive, at once poetical and philosophical. At the conclusion of this eloquent effusion, I endeavoured to recollect and commit it to writing, but I could not succeed, and Davy was too modest to assist my memory.