Loud howled each hound; I will presume
They howled at loss of Goblin Groom;
And well they might, for such a fay
Ne’er rode before on hunting day;—
Though not exactly authorized by the writer of the following poem, yet we cannot think he will take offence at our availing ourselves of its beauties, to illustrate the fidelity and attachment of the canine species to their masters, and those who have shared with them in the dangers and fatigues of the chace. We extract this poem from a Calcutta Gazette of 1807.—
BETH-GELERT,
OR THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.[20]
The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewelyn’s horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer,
“Come, Gelert, come, wer’t never last
“Llewelyn’s horn to hear.
“Oh! where does faithful Gelert roam,
“The flower of all his race?
“So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
“A lion in the chace!”
’Twas only at Llewelyn’s board
The faithful Gelert fed;
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentineled his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chace rode on.
And now, as o’er the rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon’s craggy chaos yells
The many mingled cries!
That day Llewelyn little loved
The chace of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.