THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.
The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheer’ly smiled the morn,
And many a breach, 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?
“O where does faithful Gelert roam!
The flow’r of all his race:
So true, so brave,—a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!”
’Twas only at Llewellyn’s board
The faithful Gelert fed;
He watch’d, he serv’d, he cheer’d his lord,
And sentinel’d his bed.
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 lov’d
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleas’d Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding, his lord to greet.
But when he gain’d the Castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood—
The hound was smear’d with gouts of gore
His lips and fangs ran blood!
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise;
Unus’d such looks to meet;
His fav’rite check’d his joyful guise,
And crouch’d and lick’d his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn past,
And on went Gelert too;
And still where’er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood gouts shock’d his view.
O’erturned his infant’s bed he found,
The blood-stain’d covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground,
With recent blood besprent.
He call’d his child—no voice replied—
He search’d with terror wild;
Blood, blood, he found on every side,
But nowhere found the child;
“Hell-hound, by thee my child’s devour’d,”
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,
Past heavy o’er his heart.
Arous’d by Gelert’s dying yell,
Some slumb’rer waken’d nigh;
What words the parent’s joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!
Conceal’d beneath a mangled heap;
His hurried search had miss’d,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kiss’d.
No 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 that laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue.”
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck’d;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert’s bones protect.
Here never could the spearmen pass,
Or forester unmov’d;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass,
Llewellyn’s sorrow prov’d.
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!
FINIS.