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'Twas only at Llewellyn's board

That faithful Gelert fed ;
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,

And sentineld his bed.
In sooth, he was a peerless hound,

The gift of royal John,
But now no Gelert could be found,

And all the chase 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 Llewellyn little loved

The chase of hart and hare,
And scant and small the booty proved,

Far Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn 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.
Llewellyn gazed with fierce surprise :

Unused such looks to meet,
His favourite checked his joyful guise,

And crouched, and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,

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 nowhere found his child.

“ Hell-hound! my child's by thee 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

Pressed heavy on 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 scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread;

But the same couch beneath
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,

Tremendous still in death!

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Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain?

For now the truth was clear-
His gallant hound the wolf had slain,

To save Llewellyn'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 decked,
And marbles storied with his praise,

Poor Gelert's bones protect.


109 There never could the spearman pass,

Or forester, unmoved;
There oft the tear-besprinkled grass

Llewellyn'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.

-Hon. W. R. Spencer.


SWEET to the morning traveller

The skylark's earliest song,
Whose twinkling wings are seen at fits

The dewy light among.
And cheering to the traveller

The gales that round him play,
When faint and wearily he drags

Along his noontide way.
And when beneath th' unclouded sun

Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him

Most pleasant melody.
And when the evening light decays,

And all is calm around,
There is sweet music to his ear

In the distant sheep-bell's sound.
And sweet the neighbouring church's bell,

That marks his journey's bourn;
But sweeter is the voice of love
That welcomes his return!


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THERE are noble heads bowed down and pale,

Deep sounds of woe arise,
And tears flow fast around the couch

Where a wounded warrior lies.
The hue of death is gathering fast

Upon his lofty brow,
And the arm of might and valour falls

Weak as an infant's now.

I saw him 'mid the battling hosts

Like a bright and leading star,
Where banner, helm, and falchion gleamed,

And flew the bolts of war.
When in his plenitude of power

He trod the Holy Land,
I saw the routed Saracens
Flee from his blood-dark brand.


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I saw him in the banquet hour

Forsake the festive throng,
To seek his favourite minstrel's haunt

And give his soul to song ;
For dearly as he loved renown,

He loved that spell-wrought strain
Which bade the brave of perished days

Light conquest's torch again.
Then seemed the bard to cope with time,

And triumph o'er his doom;
Another world in freshness burst

Oblivion's mighty tomb;
Again the hardy Britons rushed

Like lions to the fight,
While horse and foot, helm, shield, and lance,

Swept by his visioned sight.
But battle-shout and waving plume,

The drum's heart-stirring beat,
The glittering pomp of prosperous war,

The rush of million feet;
The magic of the minstrel's song,

Which told of victories o'er,
Are sights and sounds the dying king

Shall see-shall hear no more.
It was the hour of deep midnight

In the dim and quiet sky,
When, with sable cloak and broidered pall,

A funeral train swept by.
Dull and sad fell the torches' glare

On many a stately crest;
They bore the noble warrior king
To his last dark home of rest.

-C. Swain.

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