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 fav'rite 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 ev'ry side,
But no where 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-besprinkled 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!

THE FATHER'S LAMENT.

BLOOMFIELD.

No Child have I left, I must wander alone,
No light-hearted Mary to sing as I go,

Nor loiter to gather bright flowers newly blown;
She delighted, sweet maid, in these emblems of

woe.

Then the stream glided by her, or playfully boil'd O'er its rock-bed, unceasing, and still it flows free;

But her infant life was arrested, unsoil'd

As the dew-drop, when shook by the wing of the bee.

Sweet flowers were her treasures, and flowers shall be mine;

I bring them from Radnor's green hills to her grave;

Thus planted in anguish, oh, let them entwine O'er a heart once as gentle as Heaven e'er gave.

Oh, the glance of her eye, when at mansions of wealth

I pointed suspicious, and warn'd her of harm! She smil'd in content, 'midst the bloom of her health,

And closer and closer still hung on my arm.

What boots it to tell of the sense she possess'd,

The fair buds of promise that mem❜ry endears? The mild dove, Affection, was queen of her breast, And I had her love, and her truth, and her

tears.

She was mine.

good,

But she's gone to the land of the

A change which I must, and yet dare not de

plore;

I'll bear the rude shock like the oak of the wood, But the green hills of Radnor will charm me no more!

PRESENTIMENT OF DEATH.

BRUCE.

Now Spring returns, but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known:
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.

Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,

And count the silent moments as they pass:

The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest ;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.

Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate; And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true; Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate, And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns,

And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.

There let me wander at the close of eve,

When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes, The world and all its busy follies leave,

And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

There let me sleep, forgotten, in the clay,

When death shall shut these weary aching eyes, Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,

Till the long night is gone, and the last morn

arise.

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