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 Of living valor, rolling on the fo,

burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife;

The morn the marshalling in arms; the day

Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,

The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover,—heap'd and pent,

Her and horse,—friend, fo,—in one red burial blent!

Byron.

spearman heard the bugle sound,

And cheerly smiled the morn,

And many a brach, and many a hound,

Attend Llewellyn's horn:

And still he blew a louder blast,

And gave a louder cheer;

Come, Gelert! why art thou the last

Llewellyn's horn to hear?

Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?

The flower of all his race!

true, so brave, a lamb at home—

A lion in the chase!'