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And att his dry and boney heele

No spur was left to be;
And inn his witherde hand you might

The scythe and hour glasse see.
And lo! his steede did thin to smoke,

And charnel fires outbreathe;
And paled, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite

The mayde from underneathe.
And hollow howlings hung in aire,

And shrekes from vaults arose,
Then knew the mayde she mighte no more

Her living eyes unclose.
But onwarde to the judgment seat,

Through myste and moonlight dreare,
The gostlie crewe their flyghte persewe,

And hollowe inn her eare: • Be patient, though thyne herte should breke,

Arrayne not Heven's decree; Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte, Thie soule forgiven bee!'





The spearmen heard the bugle sound,

And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach and many a hound

Obey'd Llewellyn's horn. • The story of this ballad is traditionary in a village at the foot of Snowdon, where Llewelyn the Great had a house.


And still he blew a louder blast,

And gave a lustier cheer,
Come, Gêlert, come, wert 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 chase!'

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board

The faithful Gêlert fed;
He watch’d, he served, he cheer'd his lord,

And sentinel'd his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,

The gift of royal John;
But now no Gêlert could be found,

And all the chase 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 chase of hart or hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,

For Gêlert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied :

When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied

Bounding his lord to greet,

The greyhound, named Gelert, was given to him by his father in law, King John, in the year 1205, and the place to this day is called Beth Gelert, or the Grave of Gelert.

But when he gain'd his castle door,

Aghast the chieftain stood : * The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore;

His lips, his fangs ran blood.
Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise :

Unused such looks to meet,
His favourite check'd his joyful guise,

And crouch'd, and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewelyn pass’d,

And on went Gêlert too,
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,

Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view.
O’erturn'd his infant's bed he found,

With blood-stain'd covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground

With recent blood besprent.
He callid his child, no voice replied;

He search'd with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side;

But no where found his child. • Hell hound! my child by thee's devour'd!'

The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gelert's side.
His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,

No pity could impart;
But still his Gêlert's dying yell

Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell

Some slumberer waken'd nigh : What words the parent's joy could tell

To hear his infant's cry!

Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap

His hurried search had miss'd:
All glowing from his rosy sleep,

The cherub boy he kiss'd.
Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread;

But the same couch beneath
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn, all 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 deck'd;
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' Gêlert's Grave.'



Ask you, why round yon hallow'd grave

The myrtle and the laurel bloom? There sleep the lovely and the brave,

0, drop a tear upon their tomb! Ah! cease, my love, these fond alarms!'

For war prepared, young Alwyn said, • For I must quit my Rena's charms,

My bleeding country asks my aid.' “Yes, I will hush this struggling sigh,

Yes, I will check these flowing tears, A smile shall brighten in my eye,

My bosom shall dispel its fears.' • You try indeed to force a smile,

Yet sorrow's drops bedew your cheek;
You speak of peace, yet, ah! the while

Your tears will scarcely let you speak,'
Go, Alwyn, Rena bids you go,

She bids you go to fields of death;
Go, Alwyn, rush amidst the foe,

Go, and return with Victory's wreath.' A thrilling blast the trumpet blew,

The milk white courser paw'd the ground; A mix'd delight young Alwyn knew,

But Rena shudder'd at the sound : Yet strove to hide the rising fears

Which now in quicker throbbings swell, And faintly smiling through her tears

She falter'd out a long farewell!


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