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 scan and small the booty proved, For Gêlert was not there. Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied, When near the portal seat His truant Gêlert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But when he gained the castle-door, Aghast the chieftan stood; The hound was smeared 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 crouched and licked his feet. Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd, And on went Gélert too; And still where'er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. O'erturned his infant's bed he found, The blood-stained covert rent; And all around the walls and ground, With recent blood besprent. He called his child--no voice replied-- He searched with terror wild: Blood! blood! he found on every side, But nowhere found the child. 'Hellhound! by thee my child's devoured!' The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gélert's side. His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gélert's dying yell Passed heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gélert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy can tell To hear his infant cry! Concealed beneath a mangled heap His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kissed. 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 wo: "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 decked; And marbles, storied with his praise, Poor Gélert's bones protect. Here never could the spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear; And oft, as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gêlert's dying yell!