MISCELLANEOUS POETICAL SELECTIONS. BETH-GELERT.-W. L. Spencer.) 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!" 'Twas only at Llewellyn's board the faithful Gelert fed; he watched, he served, he cheered his lord, and sentinel'd 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 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 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 found on every side, but nowhere found the child! "Base 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 BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.-Campbell.) ON Linden, when the sun was low, all bloodless lay the untrodden snow; and dark as winter was the flow of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden showed another sight when the drum beat at dead of night, commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery! By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, each horseman drew his battle blade; and, furious, every charger neighed to join the dreadful revelry! Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; then rushed the steed, to battle driven; and, louder than the bolts of heaven, far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet these fires shall glow on Linden's hills of purpled snow; and bloodier still shall be the flow of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, where furious Frank and fiery Hun shout 'mid their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens!—On, ye brave, who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, and charge with all thy chivalry! Oh! few shall part where many meet; the snow shall be their winding-sheet, and every turf beneath their feet shall mark the soldier's sepulchre ! A DREAM. (William Blake.) ONCE a dream did weave a shade o'er my angel-guarded bed, That an emmet lost its way, where on grass methought I iay. Troubled, wilder'd, and forlorn, dark, benighted, travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, all heart broke, I heard her say : “Oh my children! do they cry? do they hear their father sigh? Now they look abroad to see, now return and weep for me." Pitying, I dropp'd a tear; but I saw a glow-worm near, Who replied, "What wailing wight calls the watchmen of the night ? "I am set to light the ground while the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetle's hum; little wanderer, hie thee home!” THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. (Wolfe.) NOT a drum was heard-not a funeral note, as his corse to the ramparts we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning; by the struggling moonbeam's misty light, and the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast; not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; but he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow; but we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow! We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, and smoothed down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, and we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; but little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on in the grave where a Briton has laid him! But half of our heavy task was done, when the bell tolled the hour for retiring; and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory; we carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, but we left him alone with his glory! CASABIANCA. (Mrs. Hemans.) THE boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled; the flames that lit the battle's wreck shone round him o'er the dead; yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm-a creature of heroic blood, a proud, though childlike form. The flames rolled on-he would not go without his father's word; that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. He called aloud:-"Say, father, say if yet my task is done?" He knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. "Speak, father!" once again he cried, "if I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair, and looked from that lone post of death in still yet brave despair; and shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made way. They wrapped the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, and streamed above the gallant child like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder-sound-the boyOh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around with fragments strewed the sea! With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part; but the noblest thing that perished there was that young, faithful heart. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. (Byron.) THE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; and the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, when the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen; like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; and the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, but through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; and the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, with the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; and the tents were all silent, the banners alone, the lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Asshur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; and the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, hath melted like snow-in the glance of the Lord! SYMPATHY.-S. T. Coleridge.) He that does me good with unmoved face, |