A set of six songs

Then be it so
 . . . . . . . . . .

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Buds of roses, virgin flowers,
Cull'd from Cupid's balmy bowers,
In the bowl of Bacchus steep,
Till with crimson drops they weep.
Twine the rose, the garland twine,
Every leaf distilling wine;
Drink and smile, and learn to think
That we were born to smile and drink.
Rose, thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower;
Rose, thou art the fondest child
Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild,
Even the Gods, who walk the sky,
Are amorous of thy scented sigh.
Cupid, too, in Paphian shades,
His hair with rosy fillet braids,
When with the blushing sister Graces,
The wanton winding dance he traces.
Then bring me showers of roses, bring,
And shed them o'er me while I sing.
Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine,
Wreathing my brow with rose and vine,
I lead some bright nymph through the dance
Commingling soul with every glance! 

Where is the summer with the golden sun?
That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth,
For me alone the laughing day is done.
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
Far in my own bright land.

Where are the temples through the dim wood shining,
The festal dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes?
Far in my own bright land.

Where are the vineyards with their joyous throngs,
The red grape pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs?
And the pine forests and the olive shades?
Far in my own bright land.

Where the deep haunting grots, the laurel bowers,
The dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's dream?
Oh! that my life were as a southern flower's!
I might not languish thus by these chill streams
Far from my own bright land!

An hour with thee! -- When earliest day
Dapples with gold the eastern grey,
Oh, what, can frame my mind to bear
The toil and turmoil, cark and care.
New griefs, which coming hours unfold,
And sad remembrance of the old? -- 
One hour with thee!

One hour with thee! -- When burning June
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;
What shall repay the faithful swain,
His labour on the sultry plain,
And more than cave or sheltering bough,
Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow? -- 
One hour with thee!

One hour with thee! -- When sun is set,
O, what can teach me to forget
The thankless labours of the day;
The hopes, the wishes, flung away:
The increasing wants, and lessening gains,
The master's pride, who scorns my pains? -- 
One hour with thee!

Oh! poor Louise the live long day
 . . . . . . . . . .

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The spearman heard the bugle sound,
 And cheerily 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!
So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
 A lion in the chase!"

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
 The gift of royal John,
But now no Gelert could be found,
 And all the chase rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells,
 The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
 With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved
 The chase of hart or hare,
And small and scant the booty proved,
 For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
 When near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
 Bounding his lord to meet.

But when he gained the castle door,
 Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
 His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
 Unused such looks to meet;
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
 And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,
 And on went Gelert, too,
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
 Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
 The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around, the walls and ground,
 With recent blood besprent.

He called the child--no voice replied;
 He searched, with terror wild;
Blood! Blood! He found on every side,
 But nowhere found the child!

"Hell-hound! By thee my child's devoured!"
 The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
 He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant, as to earth 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 can tell
 To hear his infant cry!

Concealed beneath a mangled heap
 His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
 His cherub-boy he kissed.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
 But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead--
 Tremendous still in death.

Ah! What was then Llewellyn's pain!
 For now the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain
 To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
 "Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low
 This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
 With costly sculpture decked,
And marbles, storied with his praise,
 Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass,
 Or forester, unmoved!
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
 Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear,
 And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
 Poor Gelert's dying yell.

And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, 
  And cease the storm to brave, 
The consecrated spot shall hold 
  The name of Gelert's grave.