MORGAN.
The tale is pitiful. 'Twas on this wise—
Llewellyn went at morn among the hills,
To hunt, as is his use. My lady, too,
With all her maidens, early sallied forth,
A pilgrimage among the neighbouring vales,
Culling of simples, nor yet comes she home;
And so the child lay sleeping in his crib,
With Gelert—you remember the old hound?
He pull'd the stag of ten down by the Holy Well—
With Gelert set to watch him like a nurse.