'Though blasts athwarte the hawthorne hiss,

I may not harboure here;

My spurre is sharpe, my courser pawes,

My houre of flighte is nere.

All as thou lyest upon thy couch,
Aryse, and mount behinde;
To-night we'le ride a thousand miles,
The bridal bed to finde.'

'How, ride to-night a thousand miles?
Thy love thou dost bemocke;
Eleven is the stroke that still
Rings on within the clocke.'

'Looke up; the moone is bright, and we
Outstride the earthlie men:

I'll take thee to the bridal bed,
And night shall end but then.'

And where is, then, thy house and home;
And where thy bridal bed?'

''Tis narrow, silent, chilly, dark;

Far hence I rest my head.'

And is there any room for mee,
Wherein that I may creepe?'
There's room enough for thee and mee,
Wherein that we may sleepe.

All as thou ly'st upon thy couch,
Aryse, no longer stop;

The wedding guests thy coming waite,
The chamber dore is ope.'

All in her sarke, as there she lay,

Upon his horse she sprung; And with her lily hands so pale

About her William clung.

And hurry-skurry forth they goe,

Unheeding wet or drye:

And horse and rider snort and blowe,
And sparkling pebbles flye.

How swift the flood, the mead, the wood,
Aright, aleft, are gone!

The bridges thunder as they pass,

But earthlie sowne is none.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speed;
Splash, splash, across the see:
'Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;

Dost feare to ride with mee?

'The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte;
Dost quake the blaste to stem?
Dost shudder, mayde, to seeke the dead?'
'No, no, but what of them?'

'How glumlie sownes yon dirgye song!
Night ravens flappe the wing.
What knell doth slowlie toll ding dong?
The psalmes of death who sing?

'It creeps, the swarthie funeral traine,
The corse is onn the beere;

Like croke of todes from lonely moores,
The chaunt doth meet the eere.'

6 Go, bear her corse when midnight's past,
With song and tear and wayle;

I've gott my wife, I take her home,

My howre of wedlocke hayl.

'Lead forth, O clarke, the chaunting quire, To swell our nuptial song:

Come, preaste, and reade the blessing soone; For bed, for bed we long.'

They heede his calle, and husht the sowne;

The biere was seene no more;

And followde him ore feeld and flood

Yet faster than before.

Halloo! halloo! away they goe,
Unheeding wet or drye;

And horse and rider snorte and blowe,
And sparkling pebbles flye.

How swifte the hill, how swifte the dale,
Aright, aleft, are gone!

By hedge and tree, by thorpe and towne,
They gallop, gallop on.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;
Splash, splash, acrosse the see:
Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;

Dost fear to ride with me?

'Look up, look up, an airy crewe In roundel daunces reele:

The moon is bryghte, and blue the nyghte,
Mayst dimlie see them wheele.

Come to, come to, ye gostlie crew,
Come to, and follow mee,

And daunce for us the wedding daunce,
When we in bed shall be.'

And brush, brush, brush, the gostlie crew
Come wheeling ore their heads,
All rustling like the wither'd leaves
That wyde the whirlwind spreads.
Halloo! halloo! away they goe,
Unheeding wet or drye;

And horse and rider snort and blowe,
And sparkling pebbles flye.

VOL. III.

F F

And all that in the moonshyne lay,
Behynde them fled afar;

And backward scudded overhead
The skye and every star.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;
Splash, splash, across the see:
Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;

Dost fear to ride with me?

'I weene the cock prepares to crowe;
The sand will soon be runne:
I snuff the earlye morning aire;
Downe, downe! our work is done.

6 The dead, the dead can ryde apace;
Oure wed-bed here is fit:

Our race is ridde, oure journey ore,
Our endless union knit.'

And lo! an yren-grated gate

Soon biggens to their viewe:

He crackte his whyppe; the clangynge boltes, The doores asunder flewe.

They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode;
"Tis hither we are bounde:'

And many a tombstone gostlie white
Lay inn the moonshyne round.

And when hee from his steede alytte,
His armour black as cinder
Did moulder, moulder all awaye,
As were it made of tinder.

His head became a naked skull;
Nor hair nor eyne had hee;

His body grew a skeleton,
Whilome so blythe of blee.

And att his dry and boney heele

No spur was left to be;

And inn his witherde hand you might

The scythe and hour glasse see.

And lo! his steede did thin to smoke,
And charnel fires outbreathe;

And paled, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite
The mayde from underneathe.

And hollow howlings hung in aire,
And shrekes from vaults arose,

Then knew the mayde she might no more
Her living eyes unclose.

But onwarde to the judgment seat,

Through myste and moonlight dreare, The gostlie crewe their flyghte persewe, And hollowe inn her eare:

'Be patient, though thyne herte should breke, Arrayne not Heven's decree; Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte,

Thie soule forgiven bee!'

TAYLOR.

BETH GELERT*;

OR,

THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.

THE spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach and many a hound
Obey'd Llewellyn's horn.

The story of this ballad is traditionary in a village at the foot of Snowdon, where Llewelyn the Great had a house.