The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerly smiled the morn; And many a brach, and many a hound, Attend Llewelyn’s horn. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer; “Come, Gelert, why art thou the 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 Gelert fed; He watch’d, he serv’d, he cheer’d his lord, And centinel’d his bed. In sooth, he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John: {166} 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 Llewelyn little loved The chase of hart or hare, And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there. Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied: When near the royal seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But when he gain’d his castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood: The hound was smear’d with gouts of gore, His lips and fangs ran blood! Llewelyn 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 Llewelyn past, 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 nowhere 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 Past 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 Llewelyn’s pain! For now the truth was clear; The 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 deed which laid thee low, This heart shall ever rue!”