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century, old Welsh customs were preserved, and here they are still held in high esteem. While the Saxons passed round their wassail bowl and talked defiantly of the Welsh Britains, these sturdy sons of one soil passed round their hirlas, or drinking horn, and pledged each other in a loving cup. Thus sings the gifted poetess:

"Fill high the blue hirlas, that shines like the wave,
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea,
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave,
The dragons of battle, the sons of the free!
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight,
A beam like heaven's lightning flashed over the field;
To those who came rushing, as storms in their might;
Who have shivered the helmet, and cloven the shield;
The sound of whose strife was like ocean afar,
When lances were red from the harvest of war.

"Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those

Who shared its bright draughts in the days which are fled;
Though cold on the mountains the valiant repose,

Their lot shall be lovely-renown to the dead!
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung,
While regal Exyri with snow shall be crown'd,
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung,

And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound.
The free winds of Maelor shall swell with their name,
And Owen's rich hirlas be filled to their fame."


"Near to the gates, conferring as they drew,
Argus the dog his ancient master knew;
And, not unconscious of the voice and tread,
Lifts to the sound his ears and rears his head."

BEDDGELERT, or the Grave of Gêlert, is an extensive parish lying partly in Carnarvonshire and partly in Merionethshire. It has a small church formerly belonging to the Augustine Priory. Scarcely any remains of this monastic house are now to be seen. The name of the place is derived from an affecting legend, on which the Hon. W. R. Spencer has composed a touching poem, which may be appropriately introduced here-premising that Llewellyn was a Welsh Prince in the days of King John:

The spearsman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach and many a hound
Obeyed Llewellyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,

And gave a louder cheer, "Come, Gêlert; why art thou the last Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gêlert roam ?

The flower of all his race!

So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
A lion in the chace ?"

'Twas only at Llewellyn's board

The faithful Gêlert fed,

He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentinel'd his bed.

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,

The gift of royal John;

But now no Gêlert could be found,
And all the chace rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells

The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved

The chace of hart or hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied:
When near the portal seat,
His truant, Gêlert, he espied,

Bounding his lord to greet.

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

The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise :
Unused such looks to meet,

His favourite checked his joyful guise
And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,

And on went Gêlert too;
And still where'er his eyes he cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground,
With recent blood besprent.

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Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But the same couch beneath
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.

Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's wo:
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue."

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gêlert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearsman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;

Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear,

And oft, as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gêlert's dying yell!

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