Onward in haste Llewellyn pa.s.sed (And on went Gelert too), And still, where'er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found, The bloodstained cover rent; And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent.

He called his child--no voice replied; He searched with terror wild; Blood! blood! he found on every side, But nowhere found his child!

"h.e.l.l-hound! by thee my child's devoured!"

The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gelert's dying yell Pa.s.sed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh; What words the parent's joy can tell, To hear his infant cry!

Concealed beneath a mangled heap, His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kissed!

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 raised, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles storied with his praise Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pa.s.s, Or forester, unmoved, Here oft the tear-besprinkled gra.s.s Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

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.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

FIDELITY.

A barking sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts--and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks: And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there anyone in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while The shepherd stood; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the dog As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear!

At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveler pa.s.sed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well.

The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This dog, had been through three months' s.p.a.ce A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated traveler died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ON THE GRa.s.sHOPPER AND CRICKET.

The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the gra.s.shopper's--he takes the lead In summer luxury,--he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The gra.s.shopper's among some gra.s.sy hills.

JOHN KEATS.

ON THE GRa.s.sHOPPER AND CRICKET.

Green little vaulter in the sunny gra.s.s, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning bra.s.s; And you, warm little housekeeper, who cla.s.s With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pa.s.s; Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both, though small are strong At your dear hearts; and both were sent on earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,-- Indoors and out, summer and winter, mirth!

LEIGH HUNT.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo!

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread, And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippin's russet peel, And when his juicy salads failed, Sliced carrot pleased him well.