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And all that in the moonshyne lay,
Behynde them fled afar;

And backward scudded overhead
The skye and every star.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;
Splash, splash, across the see:
'Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;
Dost fear to ride with me?

'I weene the cock prepares to crowe;
The sand will soon be runne:
I snuff the earlye morning aire;
Downe, downe! our work is done.
'The dead, the dead can ryde apace;
Oure wed-bed here is fit:

Our race is ridde, oure journey ore,
Our endless union knit.'

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;
"Tis hither we are bounde:'

And many a tombstone gostlie white
Lay inn the moonshyne round.

And when hee from his steede alytte,
His armour black as cinder
Did moulder, moulder all awaye,
As were it made of tinder.

His head became a naked skull;
Nor hair nor eyne had hee;
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 charnel fires outbreathe;
And paled, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite
The mayde from underneathe.

And hollow howlings hung in aire,
And shrekes from vaults arose,
Then knew the mayde she mighte no more
Her living eyes unclose.

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!'

BETH GELERT*;

OR,

THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.

TAYLOR.

THE spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach and many a hound

Obey'd Llewellyn's horn.

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, The flower of all his race?

So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!'

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board The faithful Gêlert fed;

He watch'd, he served, he cheer'd his lord, And sentinel'd his bed.

In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;

But now no Gêlert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
The many mingled cries!

That day Llewelyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied:
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied
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; His lips, his fangs ran blood.

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise:
Unused such looks to meet,
His favourite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd, and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewelyn pass'd,

And on went Gêlert too,
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view.
O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stain'd covert 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 no where found his child.

'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,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gêlert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell
Some umberer waken'd nigh:
What words the parent's joy could tell
To hear his infant's cry!

Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap
His hurried search had miss'd:
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kiss'd.

Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But the same couch beneath

Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn, all dead, 'Tremendous still in death.

Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear,
His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewelyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe: 'Best of thy kind, adieu!

The frantic blow, 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 Gêlert's bones protect.

There never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;

There oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewelyn's sorrow proved.

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,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of Gêlert's Grave.'

SPENCER.

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