صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

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 lov'd
The chase of hart or hare;
And scant and small the booty prov'd,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleas'd, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gain'd his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound was smear'd with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood!
Llewellyn gaz'd with wild surprise,
Unus'd such looks to meet;
His favorite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd, and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd,
(And on went Gelert too),
And still where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view!
O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found;
The blood-stain'd cover rent,
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He call'd his child-no voice replied;
He search'd-with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child!

"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd,"

The frantic father cried;

And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plung'd in Gelert's side.
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Arous'd by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer waken'd nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!

Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap
His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kiss'd!

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 woe:
"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 deck'd,
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmov'd ;

Here oft the tear-besprinkl'd grass
Llewellyn's sorrow prov'd.

And here he hung his horn and spear;
And oft, as evening fell,

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


I SEE a column of slow-rising smoke
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild:
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat
Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung
Between two poles upon a stick transverse,
Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog,
Or vermin, or at best of cock, purloin'd
From his accustom'd perch. Hard faring race!
They pick their fuel out of every hedge,

Which, kindl'd with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd
The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,
The vellum of the pedigree they claim.
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more
To conjure clean away the gold they touch,
Conveying worthless dross into its place.
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.
Strange! that a creature rational and cast
In human mould, should brutalize by choice
His nature; and, though capable of arts,
By which the world might profit, and himself,
Self-banish'd from society, prefer

Such squalid sloth to honourable toil!
Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft
They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,
And vex their flesh with artificial sores,

Can change their whine into a mirthful note
When safe occasion offers; and with dance,
And music of the bladder and the bag,
Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound.
Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy

The houseless rovers of the sylvan world;

And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering much,
Need other physic none to heal th' effects
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.



(Designed to illustrate the sound of the letter H.)

'TWAS in heaven pronounc'd, and 'twas mutter'd in hell,

And echo caught faintly the sound, as it fell:
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confest;
"Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder.
"Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death,
Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is

Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drown'd.
"Twill not soften the heart; but, though deaf be the
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower:
Ah breathe on it softly-it dies in an hour.
Miss Fanshawe.



SAY, pensive youth, why heave that sigh?
Why trembling stands the tear of sorrow?
With waning day thy care shall die,
And smiling joy be thine to-morrow.

Has fortune frown'd, and friendship fled?
Those common ills should ne'er move sorrow;
For friends by fortune's smiles are led—
They both may come again to-morrow.

Hast thou upon the great in vain

Relied, and brought thy heart to sorrow?. Their smiles and promises disdain;

For happier stars may rule to-morrow.

From fortune's frowns, and slighted love,
Celestial hope can pleasure borrow ;
Nor keen suspense long pain can prove
To him who fondly trusts to-morrow.
To-morrow is the balm of life,
The stay of hope! the dream of sorrow!
From Misery's hand it wrests the knife;
Despair alone would shun to-morrow.


« السابقةمتابعة »