In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John,
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now, as over rocks and dells,
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And small and scant the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to meet.
But when he gained the castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood.
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,
And on went Gelert, too,
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around, the walls and ground,
With recent blood besprent.
He called the child—no voice replied;
He searched, with terror wild;
Blood! Blood! He found on every side,
But nowhere found the child!
"Hell-hound! By thee my child's devoured!"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.