“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 Llewellyn’s board The faithful Gelert 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; {46} 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 scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there. Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, When near the royal seat, His truant Gelert be espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But when he gain’d his castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood; The bound was smear’d with gouts of gore, His lips and fangs ran blood. Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet, His favourite check’d his joyful guise, And crouch’d and lick’d his feet. Onward in haste Llewellyn pass’d, And on went Gelert 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, The 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 no where found the child! “Hell-hound, by thee my child’s devour’d,” The frantic father cried: And to the hilt the vengeful sword, He plunged in Gelert’s side. His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gelert’s dying yell Pass’d heavy o’er his heart. Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell, Some slumberer waken’d nigh; What words the parent’s joy can tell To hear his infant cry? Conceal’d between a mingled heap His hurried search had miss’d: All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kiss’d! Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread, But the same couch beneath Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead, Tremendous still in death! Ah, what was then Llewellyn’s pain! For now the truth was clear, The gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewellyn’s heir. Vain, vain, was all Llewellyn’s woe, Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic deed 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. Here never could the spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved, Here oft the tear besprinkled grass, Llewellyn’s sorrow proved.