“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
Pass’d 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 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 which 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 spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved,
Here oft the tear besprinkled grass,
Llewellyn’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!