XXIX THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND. The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And still he blew a louder blast, "Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam? So true, so brave! a lamb at home, '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, But now no Gelert could be found, And now, as over rocks and dells The gallant chidings rise, That day Llewellyn little loved And scant and small the booty proved, Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied, But when he gained the castle door, The hound was smeared with gouts of gore, Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise; Onward in haste Llewellyn passed, And still where'er his eyes he cast Fresh blood-stains met his view. O'erturned his infant's bed he found, He called his child- no voice replied; "Hell-hound! by thee my child's devoured! The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword His suppliant, as to earth he fell, 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 Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread - Tremendous still in death. Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain! Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe, The frantic deed which laid thee low And now a gallant tomb they raise, Here never would the spearman pass, Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass And here he hung his horn and spear; 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, Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Though duly from my hand he took He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread, Thistles, or lettuces instead, On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, Sliced carrot pleased him well. |