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The spearman heard the bugle sound,

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

Attend Llewellyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,

And gave a 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!”

That day Llewellyn little loved

The chase of hart 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 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 gazed with wild surprise,

Unused such looks to meet;
His favourite check'd his joyful guise,

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'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,

The blood-stain'd cover 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 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 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 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 deck’d; 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!

SPENCER. Let this pathetic and sorrowful poem teach you how fearful and wrong it is to act from passion.

How many and dreadful are the consequences of passion. Had Llewellyn calmed his temper, and not have acted from the passion of the moment, his dog, as well as his child, would have been preserved to him. May you learn from this never to act in a passion.


A thousand miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea ;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast,
Up and down! up and down!
From the base of the wave to the billow's crown;
And amidst the flashing and feathery foam,
The Stormy Petrel finds a home,-
A home, if such a place may be,
For her who lives on the wide wide sea."

BARRY CORNWALL. The Stormy Petrel is a small bird, and distributed over every portion of the ocean. It is thus described by a writer on Natural History. “The flight of the Petrel is very swift, it wheels round the labouring ship descends into the trough of the waves, and mounts over their curling crests, secure amidst the strife of waters; often with wings expanded is it seen to stand, as it were, on the summit of the billow and dip its bill into the water, no doubt in order to pick up some small animal; and again, on vigorous wings it pursues its way." It follows the course of a ship on account of the refuse which is thrown from time to time overboard. The Sailors hold this bird in great awe, and never on any account destroy one. The body is so oily that the inhabitants of the Ferroe and other islands sometimes convert it into a lamp by drawing a wick of cotton through the body, which will burn till the oil be exhausted.


Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall,
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and sea,
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee ?

Thou art walking the billows and ocean smiles,
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles ;
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladden’d the sailor like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, 1
And the quivering 2 leaves that have caught thy glow,
Like fire-flies 3 glance to the pools below.
I look'd on the mountains,--a vapour lay,
Folding their heights in its dark array;
Thou brakest forth,—and the mist became,
A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot,
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ;-
But a gleam of thee on its lattice 4 fell,
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell.
Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee ?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea !
One thing is like thee to mortals given,
The faith touching all things with hues of (5) Heaven!

MRS. HEMANS. (1) Arcades—a number of arches in succession.--(2) Quiveringtrembling.-(3) Fire-flies—a species of fly found in eastern countries, which like the glow-worm in this country, emits, or throws out light. (4) Lattice--a window made of grate-work---(5) Hues—tints.

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