BEDDGELERT
is very romantic, and would form an interesting drawing, by taking in a small bridge of two arches below the house. It is completely encircled by lofty mountains, which may be considered as subject to the “cloud-capt Snowdon.”
Situate at the junction of three vales, its beautiful meadows form a fine contrast to the surrounding rugged scenery. The church is small, but lofty; it is supposed to be erected on the site of an ancient priory of Augustine monks, dedicated to St. Mary, and founded, according to the account of Mr. Rymer, in his Fœdera, by Lleyelyn ap Iorweth, in gratitude for the preservation of his son, and as an atonement for the rash effects of his intemperate rage, so pathetically described in the following poem: but both the Mr. Williamses, who have written on Caernarvonshire, support the opinion of its earlier establishment, looking upon it as the most ancient foundation in the country except Bardsey. Its revenues, according to the Reverend P. B. Williams’s account, must have been considerable; which he likewise accounts for as necessary, from its being on the great road from England and South Wales to North Wales, and from Ireland to England. In order to enable the prior to keep up his usual hospitality, Edward the First, after it had greatly suffered by fire in 1283, most generously, at his own expense, repaired all the damages; and Bishop Anian, about the year 1286, to obtain for it benefactions, remitted to all such benefactors who truly repented of their sins, forty days of any penance inflicted on them.
BEDDGELERT,
OR,
THE GREYHOUND’S GRAVE.
BY WILLIAM SPENCER.
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewelyn’s horn.And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer;
“Come, Gelert, why art thou the last
Llewelyn’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.”’Twas only at Llewelyn’s board,
The faithful Gelert fed;
He watch’d, he serv’d, he cheer’d his lord,
And centinel’d his bed.In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John: [154]
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 Llewelyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied;
When near the royal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.But when he gain’d his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smear’d with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood!Llewelyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favourite check’d his joyful guise,
And crouch’d, and lick’d his feet.Onward in haste Llewelyn past,
And on went Gelert too:
And still, where’er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock’d his view!O’erturn’d 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 no where found the child!“Hell-hound, by thee my child’s devour’d!”
The frantic father cried:
And to the hilt the 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.Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell,
Some slumberer waken’d nigh:
What words the parent’s joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!Conceal’d between a mingled heap,
His hurried search had miss’d;
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kiss’d!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 Llewelyn’s pain!
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewelyn’s heir.Vain, vain was all Llewelyn’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 deckt;
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,
Llewelyn’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.
Since the author’s first visit, much has been added to the picturesque scenery of Beddgelert, through the liberal and patriotic spirit of Thomas Jones of Boyntirion, Esq. the worthy proprietor of this romantic vale. A most excellent inn has been erected, and no expense spared in rendering the accommodations for the tourist and the traveller the most attractive, as well as the most comfortable. It is worthy of remark, that this spot was selected by the monks as favourable to the desponding gloom of popish superstition. The parish church, which is situated within a few hundred yards of this inn, was formerly a part of a priory of Augustine monks, founded by Anion, Bishop of Bangor, in the thirteenth century; and supposed by some to be the oldest religious house in Wales. Part of the cloisters still remain. The monastery was destroyed by fire during the reign of Edward the First. The present appearance of the vale is, however, calculated to produce sensations of a very different description, and presents objects the most alluring to the lovers of mountain scenery. The tourist, whether he be a poet, a philosopher, or an antiquary, will here find abundant sources of recreation to detain him for some days. Within the distance of an hour’s walk from the inn, are situated