The hound, all o'er, was smear'd with gore,
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprize.
Unused such looks to meet ;-
His fav'rite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd, and lick'd his feet.
Onward, in baste, Llewelyn pass'd,
And on went Gelart too;
Oh still where'er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view.
O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,
With 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 ev'ry side,
But nowhere found his child.
"Hell-hound! my child's by thee devour'd"
The frantic father cried,
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelart's side.
His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,
No pity could impart ;
But still his Gelart's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelart's dying yell,
Some slumb'rer waken'd nigh :What words the parent's joy could tell, To hear his infant's cry!
Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap
His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kiss'd.
No scratch 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 deck'd,
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelart'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 Gelart'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 GELART'S GRAVE.
Scholar of Jesus College, Oxford, Published in a thin Octavo, in 1780.
LLEWELYN AB GRIFFITH, last of the Welsh princes, in the early part of his life gave Edward I. a personal overthrow in the Marches, which that king's revengeful spirit never forgave. He conceived a lasting hatred of him, which he pursued through every reverse of fortune, with an unrelenting severity. An accident gave him an advantage over the Welsh prince, which his valour and conduct were unable to obtain. Elinor, daughter of the earl of Leicester, who residing at a nunnery at Montargis in France, and who was betrothed to Llewelyn, sailing for Wales, with her brother Almeric, was taken off the isles of Scilly by four ships from Bristol, and imprisoned in the castles of Corfe and Shirburn. Edward, who knew Llewelyn's extreme love of Elinor, made this advantage the ground of very humiliating conditions, to which the Welsh prince acceded. This treaty, by which Elinor was restored to her lover, granted to Edward an enormous tribute, and an extensive tract of the Welsh territory, with homage for the mutilated part which remained to Llewelyn; and admitted English lords into the bosom of North Wales. The Welsh, impoverished and weakened by this cruel bondage, and heavily oppressed by their new masters, revolted: an unequal struggle ensued, which terminated in the death of the prince, and the entire subjection of Wales to the crown of England.
IN Mona's groves, whose savage glooms
Close thick o'er ruin'd fanes and tombs,
Which, from the world secluded far,
Ne'er echoed to the voice of war;
In fair Aberfraw's princely towers
Llewelyn wore the joyless hours,
On each new scene, whate'er he chose,
The banquet or his short repose,
The form of captive Ellen stole,
And sadden'd all his mighty soul.
Two rival bards contending came,
And tuned the harp's harmonious frame;
They traced him to a Druid grove,
The refuge of despairing love.
Famed Lygad first, to rouse his lord,
Told all the fame his dreadful sword
Had won, and how a youth he rose,
And vanquish'd his surrounding foes.
"Brave prince, from ancient Beli sprung,
Thou darling theme of Cambria's tongue!
Brave prince, immortal gifts are mine,
And skill of poesy divine,
(Each gift the good and wise approve,
The gift descendeth from above.)
Ah never to despondence yield,
Prayer's misfortune's tenfold shield.
Son of the Sylvan boar, behold!
Thy future triumphs I unfold.
But first with haughty Edward's fall
Thy youthful conquests I recal,
The clash of swords, the buckler's ring,
Thy sore defeat of England's king,
When wondering Menai's silver flood
Was stain'd with streams of crimson blood,
And list'ning Arvon's rocky shore
Responsive swell'd the battle's roar.
On came thy bands-arousing fears,
Quick as the lightning of their spears :
Like waves, alternate on the shore
Roll'd the ranks that stream'd with gore.
Llewelyn, such thy former deeds,
A longer, nobler, train succeeds.
But if with love's inglorious flame,
Forgetful of thy former fame,
Thy eagle heart inactive pine,
And Cambria to her fate resign-
Ah! Heaven-what dark'ning gloom appears
To darken thy retiring years!
O'er distant Vaga's sable stream
I hear the hovering raven scream!
Breaker of shields, assert thy throne,
And fame and empire are thine own."
Won by the bard's persuasive skill,
Llewelyn felt his alter'd will:
He felt, and scarce could love controul
The new-born ardour of his soul.
"Sound the golden lyre again,
Strike once more that magic strain,
At which my heart, transported, bounds
As when the horn of battle sounds:
Lift the lay and strike the string
That waked the soul of Gwyneth's king,
Who set his captive warriors free,
And led them on to victory.
Kindle bard the sacred fire
That sleeps, and call forth all the lyre
Within whose deep mysterious cells
The spirit of enchantment dwells.
"Edward, thy fierce revenge I see!
Why dealt my lance a wound to thee?
Or wherefore find no vital part,
Nor welter in thy cruel heart?
Thrice fatal, though victorious day!
Unseen repentance and dismay
Lurk'd in thy rear: the wounds I gave
Return upon me--vainly brave!
Edward, at length thy pride appears,
Too real were my boding fears.
In forests bred, a savage beast,
Thou ne'er hast tasted woman's breast,
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