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Story! God bless you, I have none to tell, Sir."

Poetic Treasures,]

[Page 455.



Friend of humanity.

Needy knife-grinder, whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast;—your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches.

Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
-road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, " Knives and
Scissors to grind—O!"

Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives,
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?

Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit ?

Have you not read the Rights of Man by Tom Paine ?
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.


Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir :
Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice ;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-

-stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your honour's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;

But for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir.


Friend of humanity.

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee d . . . . d first! Wretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to venSordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded

Spiritless outcast!


CCLXXIII. HON. W. R. SPENCER, 1770-1834.


The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn;
And many a brach and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewelyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer,

"Come, Gelert, why art thou the last
Llewelyn's horn to hear?

O where does faithful Gelert roam,
The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave—a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase."

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board

The faithful Gelert fed;

He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentinelled his bed.

In sooth he was a peerles hound,

The gift of royal John;

But now no Gelert could be found,

And all the chase rode on.

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,

All Snowden's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries!

That day Llewelyn little loved

The chase of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased Llewelyn homeward hied.
When, near the portal seat,


His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But, when he gained his castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore;
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,

His favourite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched, and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewelyn passed,
And on went Gelert too;

And still where'er his eyes he cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,

With blood-stained covert rent ;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He called his child-no voice replied,
He searched with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.

"Hell-hound, my child's by thee devoured,"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,
No pity could impart;

But still his Gelert's dying yell

Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer waken'd nigh:
What words the parent's joy could tell
To hear his infant's cry.

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap

His hurried search had missed,

All glowing from his rosy sleep,

The cherub boy he kissed.

Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,

Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.

Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewelyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!

The frantic blow which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue."

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles storied with his praise
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
There never could the spearman pass,
Or forester unmoved:

There oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewelyn's sorrow proved.

And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there, as evening fell,

In fancy's ear he oft would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.

And, till great Snowden's rocks grow old,

And cease the storm to brave,

The consecrated spot shall hold

The name of Gelert's grave!



Go, youth beloved, in distant glades

New friends, new hopes, new joys to find! Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids, To think on her thou leav'st behind. Thy love, thy faith, dear youth, to share, Must never be my happy lot;

But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, Forget me not! forget me not!

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