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With brightest rays it seemed to glow;
Its distance eighty yards or so.

This bumpkin had, it seems, been told
The story of the cup of gold,

Which fame reports is to be found

Just where the Rainbow meets the ground:
He, therefore, felt a sudden itch!
To seize the goblet and be rich;
Hoping (yet hopes are often vain)
No more to toil through wind and rain,
But sit indulgent by the fire,

'Midst ease and plenty like a squire.
He marked the very spot of land

On which the rainbow seemed to stand;
And, stepping forward at his leisure,
Expected to have found the treasure.
But, as he moved, the coloured ray
Still changed its place, and slipt away,
As seeming his approach to shun;
From walking he began to run:
But all in vain; it still withdrew
As nimbly as he could pursue.
At last, through many a bog and lake,
Rough craggy rock, and thorny brake,
It led the easy fool, till night

Approached, then vanished in his sight,
And left him to compute his gains,
With nought but labour for his pains.


The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily 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 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 passed,
(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 blood-stained 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 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!


IN yonder vase behold a drowning fly!
Its little feet how vainly does it ply!
Its cries I understand not, yet it cries,
And tender hearts can feel its agonies;
Poor helpless victim! And will no one save?
Will no one snatch thee from the threat'ning grave?
Is there no friendly hand, no helper nigh?

And must thou, little struggler, must thou die?
Thou shalt not, while this hand can set thee free ;
Thou shalt not die! this hand shall rescue thee!
My finger's tip shall prove a friendly shore :-
There, trembler, all thy dangers now are o'er;
Wipe thy wet wings, and banish all thy fear;
Go join thy buzzing brothers in the air.
Away it flies-resumes its harmless play,
And sweetly gambols in the golden ray.
Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed!
For you, perhaps, a nobler task's decreed;
A young and sinking family to save,

To raise the infant from destruction's wave;
To you for help the victims lift their eyes;
Oh! hear, for pity's sake, their plaintive cries!
Ere long, unless some guardian interpose,
O'er their devoted heads the flood may close.


BEYOND Busaco's mountains dun,
When far had rolled the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had thrown
O'er nature's still convexity!

High on the heath our tents were spread,
The cold turf was our cheerless bed,
And o'er the hero's dew-chilled head.
The banners flapped incessantly.

The loud war-trumpet woke the morn,
The quivering drum, the pealing horn,-
From rank to rank the cry is borne,
"Arouse for death or victory!"

The orb of day, in crimson dye,
Began to mount the morning sky;
Then, what a scene for warrior's eye
Hung on the bold declivity!

The serried bayonets glittering stood,
Like icicles, on hills of blood;
An aerial stream, a silver wood,
Reeled in the flickering canopy.

Like waves of ocean rolling fast,
Or thunder-cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,

Rushed to the dreadful revelry.

The pause is o'er; the fatal shock
A thousand thousand thunders woke :
The air grows sick; the mountains rock;
Red ruin rides triumphantly.

Light boiled the war cloud to the sky,
In phantom towers and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie,
Prone on the battle's boundary.

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