Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But the same couch beneath
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.
Ah, what was then Llewelyn’s pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewelyn’s heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewelyn’s woe:
“Best of thy kind adieu!
“The frantic blow, which laid thee low,
“This heart shall ever rue.”
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deckt;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert’s bones protect.
There never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;
There oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewelyn’s sorrow proved.
And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there, as evening fell,
In Fancy’s ear he oft 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!”
NOTE VI, P. 76.
The passing shepherd calls the bush,
The Winning-Post of Friar Rush;—
This Friar, or “esprit follet,” is a gentleman of as many names and titles as any Spanish Grandee; “Will o’ the Wisp,” however, is the name he is best known by, when stript of his ecclesiastical honours: he has always been considered a tricky knave, and is thus spoken of in Marmion.—