All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught
Of her Heroes of old,
So brave and so bold,—
Of her Bards with long bears, and harps mounted in gold;
Of King Edward the First,
Of memory accurst;
And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,
Killing Poets by dozens,
With their uncles and cousins,
Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved—
Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap,
Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lapl
And how Mr. Tudor
Successfully woo'd her,
Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,
And so made him Father-in-law to the King.
He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour;
On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice.
And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce:
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,
Which went pit-a-pat
As he cried out, What's that?'-
That very queer sound?-
Does it come from the ground?
Or the air,—from above, or below, or around?—-
It is not like Talking,
It is not like Walking,
It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,
Or the tramp of a horse, or the tread of a man.-
Or the hum of a crowd, or the shouting of boys, -
It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!
Not unlike a cart's, but that can't be; for when
Could all the King's horses, and all the King's Dien,'
With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up Prx':
Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,
Now experienced what schoolbovs denominate funk."
In vain he look'd back
On the whole of the track
He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,
At this moment obscured the broad dise of the moon,
And did not seem likely to pass away soon;
While clearer and clearer,
'Twas plain to the hearer,
