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When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended, Sweet the hope, that Tomorrow my wand'rings will
cease ; That at home then, with care sympathetic attended, I shall rest unmolested, and slumber in peace !
Or, when from the friends of my heart long divided,
When six days of labour, each other succeeding, With hurry and toil have my spirits oppressid, What pleasure to think, as the last is receding, To-morrow will be a sweet sabbath of rest.
And when the vain shadows of life are retiring,
WHERE IS THE SEA ?*
BONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.
WHERE is the sea ? - I languish here
Where is my own blue sea ? With all its barks in fleet career,
And flags, and breezes free.
* A Greek islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied,
“ The sea where is it?
I miss that voice of waves which first
Where is my own blue sea ?
Oh! rich your myrtle's breath may rise,
Soft, soft your winds may be : Yet my sick heart within me dies
Where is my own blue sea ?
I hear the shepherd's mountain flute —
I hear the whispering tree ; The echoes of my soul are mute : Where is my own blue sea ?
GOD GLORIFIED IN THE WORKS OF CREATION.
WHEN Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the
laughing soil; When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's
toil; When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and
the flood, In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his
The birds that wake the morning, and those that
love the shade; The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the
drowsy glade, The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on
way, The moon and stars, their Master's name in silent
Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the
sky, Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny? No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons
cease to be, Then, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour,
The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of
summer fade, The autumn droop in winter, the birds forsake the
shade; The winds be lulld— the sun and moon forget
their old decree, But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee.
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smild the morn,
Attend Llewellyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer ;
Llewellyn's horn to hear?
* The story of this ballad is traditional in a village at the foot of Snowdon, where Llewellyn had a house; the greyhound, named Gelert was given him by his father-in-law, King John, in the year 1205. The place to this day is called Beth Gelert, or the grave of Gelert.
Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam ?
The flow'r of all his race!
A lion in the chase!”
That day Llewellyn little lov'd
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’erturn'd 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 ; Blood ! blood ! he found on ev'ry side,
But nowhere found the child!
“ Monster! by thee my child's devour'd!”
The frantic father cried,
He plung'd in Gelert's side!
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart ;
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Arous'd by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumb'rer 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;
Poor Gelert's bones protect.