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Which now beneath them, hut above shall grow
In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, should moulder cold and low!
A BETH GELERT
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
and cheerily 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 serv’d, he cheer’d his lord,
and sentinel’d his bed.
In south, he was a peerless hound,
the gift of Royal John;
But now no Gelert could be found,
and all the chase rode on.
That day Llewellyn little loved
