Walter Richard Cassels
Walter Richard Cassels Poems
The tale is pitiful. 'Twas on this wise--
Llewellyn went at morn among the hills,
To hunt, as is his use. My lady, too,
With all her maidens, early sallied forth,
A pilgrimage among the neighbouring vales,
Culling of simples, nor yet comes she home;
And so the child lay sleeping in his crib,
With Gelert--you remember the old hound?
He pull'd the stag of ten down by the Holy Well--
With Gelert set to watch him like a nurse.
The dog alone? nay! friend, but that is strange!
Strange! Not a whit, for fifty times before
From what rock-hollow'd cavern deep in ocean,
Where jagged columns break the billow's beat,
Whirl'd upward by some wild mid-world commotion,
Has this rose-tinted shell steer'd to my feet?
Perchance the wave that bore it has rejoiced
Above Man's founder'd hopes, and shatter'd pride,
Whilst fierce Euroclydon swept, trumpet-voiced,
Through the frail spars, and hurl'd them in the tide,