I give thee sixpence! I will see thee d . . . . d first! Wretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to venSordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded
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!
CCLXXIV. AMELIA OPIE, 1771-1853.
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
Forget me not! forget me not!
Yet, should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,
Nor ever deign to think on me:
But oh, if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,
Forget me not! forget me not!
CCLXXV. JAMES MONTGOMERY, 1771-1854. 1. THE COMMON LOT.
Once in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man:-and who was he!
-Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown;
His name hath perish'd from the earth,
This truth survives alone :—
That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast;
His bliss and woe, -a smile, a tear!
-Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.
He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd, but his delights are fled;
Had friends, his friends are now no more;
And foes, his foes are dead.
He loved, but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
Oh, she was fair!—but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.
The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life and light,
To him exist in vain.
He saw whatever thou hast seen,
Encounter'd all that troubles thee;
He was-whatever thou hast been,
He is what thou shalt be.
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.
. The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,
Of HIM afford no other trace
Than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN.
2. NIGHT.
The moon is watching in the sky; the stars
Are swiftly wheeling on their golden cars;
Ocean outstretched with infinite expanse,
Serenely slumbers in a glorious trance;
The tide o'er which no troubling spirits breathe,
Reflects a cloudless firmament beneath;
Where, poised as in the centre of a sphere,
A ship above and ship below appear;
A double image, pictured on the deep,
The vessel o'er its shadow seems to sleep;
Yet, like the host of heaven, that never rest,
With evanescent motion to the west,
The pageant glides through loneliness and night.
And leaves behind a rippling wake of light.
CCLXXVI. SIR W. SCOTT, 1771–1832. 1. THE AGED MINSTREL.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy,
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry.
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
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