BEDD GELERT. 'T was only at Llewellyn's board He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, In sooth, he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John, But now no Gelert could be found, And now, as o'er the rocks and dells That day Llewellyn little loved Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, But when he gained his castle door, The hound all o'er was smeared with gore, Llewellyn gazed with fierce surprise: His favourite checked his joyful guise, Onward in haste Llewellyn passed, O'erturned his infant's bed he found, 107 He called his child; no voice replied: "Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured !" His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Concealed beneath a tumbled heap, Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread; Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain? Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe! The frantic blow which laid thee low And now a gallant tomb they raise, THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. There never could the spearman pass, 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 Snowdon's rocks grow old, The consecrated spot shall hold The name of Gelert's Grave. 109 -Hon. W. R. Spencer. THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. SWEET to the morning traveller Whose twinkling wings are seen at fits And cheering to the traveller The gales that round him play, When faint and wearily he drags Along his noontide way. And when beneath th' unclouded sun Full wearily toils he, The flowing water makes to him Most pleasant melody. And when the evening light decays, And all is calm around, There is sweet music to his ear In the distant sheep-bell's sound. And sweet the neighbouring church's bell, But sweeter is the voice of love That welcomes his return! -Southey. THERE are noble heads bowed down and pale, Deep sounds of woe arise, And tears flow fast around the couch Where a wounded warrior lies. The hue of death is gathering fast Upon his lofty brow, And the arm of might and valour falls Weak as an infant's now. I saw him 'mid the battling hosts Where banner, helm, and falchion gleamed, He trod the Holy Land, I saw the routed Saracens Flee from his blood-dark brand. SABBATH CHIMES. I saw him in the banquet hour To seek his favourite minstrel's haunt He loved that spell-wrought strain Then seemed the bard to cope with time, Oblivion's mighty tomb; Again the hardy Britons rushed Like lions to the fight, While horse and foot, helm, shield, and lance, But battle-shout and waving plume, The magic of the minstrel's song, It was the hour of deep midnight When, with sable cloak and broidered pall, Dull and sad fell the torches' glare On many a stately crest; They bore the noble warrior king To his last dark home of rest. -C. Swain. |