Modern reciter/A Beth Gelert

by William Robert Spencer

For other versions of this work, see Beth Gêlert.

———

A Beth Gelert.

The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend 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 watch'd, he served, he cheer'd his lord,
And sentinel'd 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 Snowdown'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 greet.

But when he gain'd his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smear'd 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 crouch'd and lick'd his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd
(And on went Gelert too,)
Ind still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view!

O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stain'd covert rent,
And, all around, the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He call'd his child—no voice replied;
He search'd—with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,
But no where found the child!

Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd
The frantic father cried,
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side!

His supplicant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell,
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer awaken'd nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!

Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kiss'd!

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 deck'd;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearmen 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 Gelert's dying yell!

Spencer

FINIS.