END OF VOL. I.
[1] It is probable most of my readers have heard the little pathetic tale here alluded to, and which Mr. Spencer has told very sweetly in his little poem, entitled Beth-gelert. For the advantage of those who have not met with it, we insert the following account:
The tradition says, that Llewelyn the Great had a house at the place now called Beth-gelert, and that being once from home, a wolf entered it. On Llewelyn's return, his favourite greyhound, Gelert, came to meet him, wagging his tail, but covered with blood. The prince was much alarmed, and on entering the house, found the cradle of his infant overturned, and the floor stained with blood. Imagining the dog had killed the child, he instantly drew his sword, and killed the greyhound; but turning up the cradle, found the babe asleep, and the wolf dead by its side. Llewelyn deeply repented his rage, and built a tomb over his ill-fated greyhound. Mr. Spencer has thus beautifully described the event:
The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore,
His lips, his fangs, ran blood!
Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprize,
Unused such looks to meet:
His fav'rite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewelyn pass'd—
O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stained covert rent!
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent!
He called his child, no voice replied;
He search'd with terror wild;
Blood, blood, he found on every side,
But no where found his child.
Llewelyn then passionately accuses and kills the greyhound.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumbers waken'd nigh;
What words the parent's joy could tell,
To hear his infant's cry!
Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap,
His hurried search had miss'd;
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kiss'd.
No scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.
Ah! what was then Llewelyn's pain?
For then the truth was clear,
His 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 blow which laid the low,
This heart shall ever rue."
[2] See Lettres d'une Peruvienne.