And att his dry and boney heele No spur was left to be; And inn his witherde hand you might And lo! his steede did thin to smoke, And paled, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite And hollow howlings hung in aire, But onwarde to the judgment seat, 'Be patient, though thyne herte should breke, 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, Llewelyn's horn to hear. '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: Bounding his lord to greet. 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, Aghast the chieftain stood: 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 Poor Gêlert's dying yell. And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, SPENCER. ALWYN AND RENA. Ask you, why round yon hallow'd grave Yet sorrow's drops bedew your cheek; 6 Go, Alwyn, Rena bids you go, She bids you go to fields of death; Go, Alwyn, rush amidst the foe, Go, and return with Victory's wreath.' A thrilling blast the trumpet blew, The milk white courser paw'd the ground; A mix'd delight young Alwyn knew, But Rena shudder'd at the sound: Yet strove to hide the rising fears Which now in quicker throbbings swell, And faintly smiling through her tears She falter'd out a long farewell! |