Beth Gêlert; or, The Grave of the Greyhound

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smil'd the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obey'd Llewelyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer;
"Come, Gêlert, come, wer't never last
Llewelyn's horn to hear.—

"Oh where does faithful Gêlert 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 serv'd, 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 chace rode on.

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowden's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries!

That day Llewelyn little lov'd
The chace of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty prov'd,
For Gêlert was not there.

Unpleas'd Llewelyn homeward hied,
When near the portal seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied
Bounding his Lord to greet.

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 gaz'd with fierce surprize;
Unus'd such looks to meet,
His fav'rite 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 shocked 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 call'd his child—no voice replied,
He search'd with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.

"Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured,"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plung'd in Gêlert'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.

Arous'd by Gêlert's dying yell,
Some slumb'rer 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 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 deck'd;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gêlert's bones protect.

There never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmov'd;
There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewelyn's sorrow prov'd.

And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there, as evening fell,
In fancy's ear, he oft would hear
Poor Gêlert's dying yell.

And, till great Snowden's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of "Gêlert's grave."