In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John ;

But now no Gelert could be found,

And all the chace rode on.

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells,
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowden's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries.

That day Llewelyn little loved
The chace of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
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,
His favourite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewelyn passed,
And on went Gelert too;
And still where'er his eyes he cast

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
With 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 his child.

"Hell-hound! my boy's by thee devoured!"

The frantic father cried;

And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant looks as prone 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 could tell To hear his infant's cry!

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap

His hurried search had missed :

All glowing from his rosy sleep

The cherub boy he kissed.

Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread:
But the same couch beneath

Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,

Tremendous still in death.

"The Emigrant's Grave" always seemed to me eminently pathetic, and, above all, eminently true. There can hardly be a country neighbourhood 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? Why strew ye those flowerets around
On yon new-sodded grave, as ye slowly advance?
In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground!)
Lies the stranger we loved, the poor exile of France!

And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,

No longer the sport of misfortune and chance? Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow, For the stranger we loved, the poor exile of France!

Oh! kind was his nature, though bitter his fate,
And gay was his converse, though broken his heart;
No comfort, no hope, his own breast could elate,
Though comfort and hope he to all could impart.

Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain,

The foremost was he mirth and pleasure to raise ; How sad was his woe, yet how blithe was his strain, When he sang the glad song of more fortunate days!

One pleasure he knew in his straw-cover'd shed,
The way-wearied traveller recruited to see;
One tear of delight he would drop o'er the bread

Which he shared with the poor,-the still poorer than he.

And when round his death-bed profusely we cast

Every gift, every solace our hamlet could bring,
He blest us with sighs which we thought were his last,
But he still breathed a prayer for his country and king.

Poor exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep!

From the feast, from the wake, from the village-green

dance,

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 pang as her eyes on thy cold relics glance;
One flower from her garland, one tear from her heart,
Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France!

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 ambassadors, 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