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
A Night Scene
The lights have faded from the little casement,
As though her closing eyes had brought on night;
And now she dreams--Ah! dreams supremely bright,
While silence reigns around from roof to basement.
And slow the moon is mounting up the sky,
Drawing Heaven's myriads in her queenly train,
Flinging rich largesse, as she passes by,
Of beauty freely over hill and plain.