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I'd brave the eagle's tow'ring wing,
Llewellyn and his Dog.
And cheerly smild the morn;
* A species of dog which hunts by scent.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer,“Come, Gelert, why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear ?
O where does faithful Gelert roam ?
The flower of all his race !
A lion in the chase!"
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare;
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 the 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 ;
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'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stain'd cover rent;
With recent blood besprent.
He call'd his child- no voice replied ;
He search'd with terror wild :
But no where found the child !
“ Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd!"
The frantic father cried ;
He plunged in Gelert's side!
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused 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
Tremendous still in death!
Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain !
For now the truth was clear-
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 marble, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved.
And here he hung his horn and spear ;
And oft, as evening fell,
Poor Gelert's dying yell.
HON. W. SPENCER.
Prospect of Eton College.
Ye distant spires, ye antique tow'rs,
That crown the watery glade,
Her Henry's* holy shade;
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey -
His silver-winding way:
Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields belov'd in vain !
A stranger yet to pain !
* Henry VI., founder of the college.