And all that in the moonshyne lay, And backward scudded overhead Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede; Dost fear to ride with me? 'I weene the cock prepares to crowe; C The dead, the dead can ryde apace; And lo! an yren-grated gate Soon biggens to their viewe: He crackte his whyppe; the clangynge boltes, The doores asunder flewe. They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode; And many a tombstone gostlie white And when hee from his steede alytte, His head became a naked skull; His body grew a skeleton, Whilome so blythe of blee. And att his dry and boney heele No spur was left to be; And inn his witherde hand you might The scythe and hour glasse see. And lo! his steede did thin to smoke, And paled, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite And hollow howlings hung in aire, And shrekes from vaults arose, But onwarde to the judgment seat, Through myste and moonlight dreare, The gostlie crewe their flyghte persewe, And hollowe inn her eare: 'Be patient, though thyne herte should breke, Arrayne not Heven's decree; Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte, Thie soule forgiven bee!' TAYLOR. BETH GELERT*; OR, THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND. THE spearmen heard the bugle sound, The story of this ballad is traditionary in a village at the foot of Snowdon, where Llewelyn the Great had a house. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer, 'Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last, Oh! where does faithful Gêlert roam, So true, so brave; a lamb at home, 'Twas only at Llewelyn's board He watch'd, he served, he cheer'd his lord, In sooth he was a peerless hound, But now no Gêlert could be found, And now, as o'er the rocks and dells That day Llewelyn little loved Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied: The greyhound, named Gêlert, was given to him by his father in law, King John, in the year 1205, and the place to this day is called Beth Gêlert, or the Grave of Gêlert. But when he gain'd his castle door, The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore; Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise : His favourite check'd his joyful guise, And still, where'er his eyes he cast, He call'd his child, no voice replied; 'Hell hound! my child by thee's devour'd!' The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gêlert's side. His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, But still his Gêlert's dying yell Pass'd heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread; Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn, all dead, Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain! Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe: The frantic blow, which laid thee low, And now a gallant tomb they raise, There never could the spearman pass, There oft the tear-besprinkled grass And there he hung his horn and spear, And there, as evening fell, In fancy's ear he oft would hear And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, The consecrated spot shall hold SPENCER. |