CCLXXII. GEORGE CANNING, 1770-1827. THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. Friend of humanity. Needy knife-grinder, whither are you going? Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives, Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish? Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Have you not read the Rights of Man by Tom Paine ? Knife-grinder. Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir : Torn in a scuffle. Constables came up for to take me into -stocks for a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your honour's health in But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir. 456 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! [geance CCLXXIII. HON. W. R. SPENCER, 1770-1834. GELERT'S GRAVE. The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And still he blew a louder blast, "Come, Gelert, why art thou the last O where does faithful Gelert roam, 'Twas only at Llewelyn's board The faithful Gelert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, 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 All Snowden's craggy chaos yells That day Llewelyn little loved The chase of hart and hare; Unpleased Llewelyn homeward hied. 1 His truant Gelert he espied, But, when he gained his castle-door, The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore; Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise; His favourite checked his joyful guise, And still where'er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. With blood-stained covert rent ; "Hell-hound, my child's by thee devoured," He plunged in Gelert's side. His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, But still his Gelert's dying yell Passed heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, 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, Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain! Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe; The frantic blow which laid thee low, And now a gallant tomb they raise, There oft the tear-besprinkled grass And there he hung his horn and spear, In fancy's ear he oft would hear 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! CCLXXIV. AMELIA OPIE, 1771-1853. SONG. 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! |