Cruel Bell! harsh Bell! ring on,
I shall turn my heart to stone,
Flinging back thy mocking tone,
Callous of thy deepest moan
Lying Bell! thy power is gone!
Spake she from her golden cloud,
Spake she to my heart aloud,
Every murmur of her voice,
Would bid my lone heart rejoice;
Every murmur of her voice,
Ah! would make my heart rejoice,
Lying Bell! thy power is gone.
LLEWELLYN.
I.—In the Porch.
MORGAN and a MONK.
MORGAN.
The tale is pitiful. 'Twas on this wise—
Llewellyn went at morn among the hills,
To hunt, as is his use. My lady, too,
With all her maidens, early sallied forth,
A pilgrimage among the neighbouring vales,
Culling of simples, nor yet comes she home;
And so the child lay sleeping in his crib,
With Gelert—you remember the old hound?
He pull'd the stag of ten down by the Holy Well—
With Gelert set to watch him like a nurse.
MONK.
The dog alone? nay! friend, but that is strange!
MORGAN.
Strange! Not a whit, for fifty times before
The hound hath kept him like his own bred whelp,
And ne'er a one could touch him; but the child
Play'd with his shaggy ears and great rough coat,
As no grown man had dared.