Father, this is not well to mock me so;
My heart is sated with the draught of Hope,
And, loathing, turns from the delusive cup;
Nay! touch him not—'tis well that he should lie,
Calm and unquestion'd, on the breast of Heav'n;
Yet once again my lips must flutter his,
He may not be so distant, but that Love
May send its greeting flying on his track—
The lips are warm—my God! he lives! he lives!
[Takes the child, who awakes in his arms.]
MONK.
Faith! This is stranger than a gossip's tale!
My son! the wonderment o'ermasters you—
Nay! look not thus—let Nature have her way—
Give words to joy, and be your thanks first paid
To Heav'n, that sends you thus your child again.
LLEWELLYN.
The joy was almost more than man might bear!
And still my thoughts are lost in wild amaze—
The child unhurt—this blood—the hound—in troth,
The riddle passes my poor wits.
MONK.
Let's search
The chamber well—Heav'n shield us! what is this?
LLEWELLYN.
A wolf! and dead!—Ah! now I see it clear—
The hound kept worthy watch, and in my haste
I slew the saviour of my house and joy.
Poor Gelert! thou shalt have such recompense
As man may pay unto the dead—Thy name
Henceforth shall stand for Faithfulness, and men
For evermore shall speak thine epitaph.