The Grave of the Greyhound

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerly smiled the morn, And many a brach, and many a hound, Obeyed Llewelyn’s horn.

And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer, “Come, Gelert, come, wer’t 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 chace!”

’Twas only at Llewelyn’s board The faithful Gelert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentineled his bed.

In sooth he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John; But now no Gelert could be found, And all the chace 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 chace of hart or hare, And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied: When, near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied Bounding his lord to greet.

But, when he gained his castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood; The hound all o’er was smeared with gore, His lips, his fangs, ran blood.

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise:— Unused such looks to meet, His fav’rite checked his joyful guise, And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewelyn past, And on went Gelert too, And still, where’er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

O’erturned his infant’s bed he found, With 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 no where found his child.

“Hell-hound! my child by thee’s devoured!” 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 Gelert’s dying yell Passed heavy o’er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent’s joy could tell To hear his infant’s cry!

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap, His hurried search had missed: All glowing from his rosy sleep, The cherub boy he kissed.

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 deckt; 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 “Gelert’s Grave!”