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XXIX

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 Llewellyn's horn!

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer,
"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn'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 Llewellyn'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 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 portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied
Bounding his Lord to meet.

But when he gained the castle door,
Aghast the chieftain 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 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-stains met 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.

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He called his child- no voice replied;
He searched with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,
But nowhere found the child.

"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devoured!

The frantic father cried;

And to the hilt his 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
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,

Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy can tell To hear his infant's 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 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 decked;
And marbles storied with his praise
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never would 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 notes could hear

Poor Gelert's dying yell.

SPENSER.

XXX

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's hollo!

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,

And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;

Thistles, or lettuces instead,
He used to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippin's russet peel,
And when his juicy salads failed,

Sliced carrot pleased him well.

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