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That day Llewelyn little loved
The chase of hart and hare;
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased Llewelyn 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 all o'er was smeared with gore,
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,
And crouched and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewelyn passed,
And on went Gelert too;
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
He called his child—no voice replied—
He searched with terror wild; Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.
"Hell-hound! my boy's by thee devoured 1"
The frantic father cried;
He plunged in Gelert's side.
His suppliant looks as prone he fell
No pity could impart;
Passed heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell
Concealed beneath a tumbled heap
Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread:But the same couch beneath
Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear,
To save Llewelyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe:
"Best of thy kind, Adieu!
This heart shall ever rue!"
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
There never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;
Llewelyn's sorrow proved.
And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there, as evening fell,
Poor Gelert's dying yell.
And till great Snowden's rocks grow old,
The consecrated spot shall hold
"The Emigrant's Grave" always seemed to me eminently pathetic, and, above all, eminently true. There can hardly be a country neighborhood in England in which the recollection of some "poor exile of France," equally patient, equally cheerful, equally kind, may not still be found, softening national animosity, and if he were (as often chanced) of the priesthood, effacing the still deeper prejudice that teaches the followers of Luther to dread the members of the Church of Rome.
THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.
Why mourn ye 1 Why strew ye those flowerets around
In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground !)
And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,
Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow,
Oh! kind was his nature, though bitter his fate,
No comfort, no hope, his own breast could elate,
Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain,
How sad was his woe, yet how blithe was his strain,
One pleasure he knew in his straw-cover'd shed,
The way-wearied traveler recruited to see;
Which he shared with the poor,—the still poorer than he.
And when round his death-bed profusely we cast
He blest us with sighs which we thought were his last,
Poor exile, adieu! undisturbed be thy sleep!
From the feast, from the wake, from the village-green danco, How oft shall we wander at moonlight to weep
O'er the stranger we loved, the poor exile of France!
To the church-bidden bride shall thy memory impart
One flower from her garland, one tear from her heart,
This is a country picture; in my own childhood I knew many of the numerous colony which took refuge in London from the horrors of the First French Revolution. The lady at whose school I was educated, and he was so much the more efficient partner that it was his school rather than hers, had married a Frenchman, who had been secretary to the Comte de Moustiers, one of the last embassadors, if not the very last, from Louis Seize to the Court of St. James's. Of course he knew many emigrants of the highest rank, and indeed of all ranks; and being a lively, kind-hearted man, with a liberal hand, and a social temper, it was his delight to assemble as many as he could of his poor countrymen and countrywomen around his hospitable supper-table. Something wonderful and admirable it was to see how these Dukes and Duchesses, Marshals and Marquises, Chevaliers and Bishops, bore up under their unparalleled reverses! How they laughed, and talked, and squabbled, and flirted, constant to their high heels, their rouge, and their furbelows, to their old liaisons, their polished sarcasms, their cherished rivalries! They clung even to their manages de convenance; and the very habits which would most have offended our English notions, if we had seen them in their splendid hotels of the Faubourg St. Germain, won tolerance and pardon when mixed up with such unaffected constancy, and such cheerful resignation.
For the most part these noble exiles had a trifling pecuniary dependency; some had brought with them jewels enough to sustain them in their simple lodgings in Knightsbridge or Pentonville; to some a faithful steward contrived to forward the produce of some estate too small to have been seized by the early plunderers; to others a rich English friend would claim the privilege of returning the kindness and hospitality of by-gone years. But very many lived literally on the produce of their own industry, the gentlemen teaching languages, music, fencing, dancing, while their wives and daughters went out as teachers or governesses, or supplied the shops with those objects of taste in millinery or artificial flowers for which their country is unrivaled. No one was ashamed of these exertions; no one was proud of them. So perfect and so honest was the simplicity with which they entered upon this new course of life, that they did not even seem conscious of its merit. The hope of better days carried them gayly along, and the present evil was lost in the sunshiny future.
Here and there, however, the distress was too real, too pressing to be forgotten; in such cases our good schoolmaster used to contrive all possible measures to assist and to relieve. One venerable couple I remember well. They bore one of the highest names of Brittany, and had possessed large estates, had lost their two sons, and were now in their old age, their sickness, and their helplessness, almost entirely dependent upon the labor of Mdlle. Rose, their grand-daughter. Rose—what a name for that pallid, drooping creature, whose dark eyes looked too large for her face, whose bones seemed starting through her skin, and whose black hair contrasted even fearfully with the wan complexion from which every tinge of healthful color had long flown! For some time these interesting persons regularly attended our worthy governess's supper-parties, the objects of universal affection and respect. Each seemed to come for the sake of the other; Mademoiselle, always bringing with her some ingenious straw-plaiting to make into the fancy bonnets which were then in vogue, rarely raised her head from her work, or allowed herself time to make a hasty meal. It was sad to think how ceaseless must be the industry by which that fair and fragile creature could support the helpless couple who were cast upon her duty and her affection! At last they ceased to appear at the Wednesday parties, and very soon after (Oh! it is the poor that help the poor !) we heard that the good Abbe Calonne (brother to the well-known minister) had undertaken for a moderate stipend the charge of the venerable Count and Countess, while Mdlle. Rose, with her straw-plaiting, took up her abode in our school-room, working as indefatigably through our verbs and over our exercises as she had before done through the rattle of the tric-trac table and the ceaseless clatter of French talk.
Now this school of ours was no worse than other schools; indeed it was reckoned among the best conducted, but some way or other the foul weed called exclusiveness had sprung up among the half-dozen great girls who, fifty years ago, "gave our little senate laws," to a point that threatened to choke and destroy every plant of a more wholesome influence. Doubtless, long, long ago the world and the world's trials, prosperity with the woariness and the bitterness it brings, adversity with the joys it takes away, have tamed those proud hearts! But, at the time of which I speak, no committee of Countesses deciding upon petitions for vouchers for a subscription ball; no Chapter of noble canonesses examining into the sixteen quarters required for their candidate; could by possibility inquire more seriously into the nice questions of station, position, and alliance than the unfledged younglings who constituted our first class. They were merely