LLEWELLYN.
The hound?—the hound—Poor Gelert! well-a-day!
It was ill-done of me—a wicked stroke,
A wicked stroke—and the boy, too, asleep.
And now I mind me how he loved the dog;
How many an hour he sported in the sun,
Twining his grisly neck with summer buds;
And how the dog was patient with the boy,
Yielding him gently to his little arms—
There was a lion's heart in the old hound!
The deed's accursed—accursed—the child will wake,
And call for Gelert with his merry voice;
And when the dog no more comes stalking nigh,
With great mild head to meet the outstretch'd hands,
The child will sob his heart out for his friend;
For, Sir, his nature is right full of love,
And generous affections, never slack
To let his soul have space and mastery—
A wicked stroke!