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!