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I'd brave the eagle's tow'ring wing,
that lot which Heav'n assigns !
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,-
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, Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's* holy shade; And
ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow’rs among Wanders the hoary Thames along
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.