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A BETH GELERT.

BY SPENCER.

The spearman heard the bugle sound,

And cheerly smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,

Attend Llewellyn's horn.

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And still he blew a louder blast,
And
gave

louder cheer:
Come, Gelert! why art thou the last

Llewellyn's horn to hear ?
“Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam ?

The flower of all his race !
So true, so brave; a lamb at home,

A lion in the chase !"

'Twas only at Llewellyn's board

The faithful Gelert fed ; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,

And sentinelled his bed.

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,

The gift of royal John;
But now no Gelert could be found,

And all the chase rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells

The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells

With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved

The chase of heart or hare :
And scant and small the booty proved ;

For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,

When, near the portal-seat, His truant Gelert he espied,

Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained the castle-door,

Aghast the chieftain stood ;
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,

His lips and fangs ran blood !

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,

Unused such looks to meet :
His favourite checked his joyful guise,

And crouched and licked 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-stained covert 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 on every side,

But nowhere found the child !

“ Hell-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

Passed 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 raise,

With costly sculpture decked ; And marbles, storied with his praise,

Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass,

Or forester, unmoved ;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass

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 !

THE ALCHYMIST.

BY WILLIS.

The night wind with a desolate moan swept by, And the old shutters of the turret swung Screaming upon their hinges : and the moon, As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes So dimly, that the watchful eye of death Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.

The fire beneath his crucible was low; Yet still it burned ; and ever as his thoughts Grew insupportable, he raised himself Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals With difficult energy, and when the rod Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye Felt faint within its sockets, he shrunk back Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips Muttered a curse on death! The silent room, From its dim corners, mockingly gave back His rattling breath; the humming in the fire Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when Duly the antique horologe beat one, He drew a phial from beneath his head, And drank. And instantly his lips compressed, And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, He rose with supernatural strength, and sat Upright, and communed with himself:

“I did not think to die
Till I had finished what I had to do ;
I thought to pierce the eternal secret through

With this my mortal eye ;
I felt-oh God! it seemeth, even now,
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow!

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“And yet it is— I feel, Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid ! And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade;

And something seems to steal Over my bosom like a frozen handBinding its pulse with an icy band.

" And this is death! But why
Feel I this wild recoil ? It cannot be
The immortal spirit shuddereth to be free!

Would it not leap to fly,
Like a chained eaglet at its parent's call ?
I fear-I fear—that this poor life is all !

“ Yet thus to pass away!
To live but for a hope that mocks at last-
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast,

To waste the light of day, Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought, All that we have and are --for this--for nought!

“Grant me another year,
God of my spirit !-- but a day- to win
Something to satisfy this thirst within !

I would Know something here !
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken !
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken !

“Vain— vain !--my brain is turning With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,

And I am freezing-burning-
Dying! Oh God! If I might only live!
My phial-Ha! it thrills me-I revive!

“Ay-were not man to die,
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere !
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here-

Could he but train his eye-
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour-
Only his Maker would transcend his power!

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