The tale is pitiful. 'Twas on this wise--
Llewellyn went at morn among the hills,
To hunt, as is his use. My lady, too,
With all her maidens, early sallied forth,
A pilgrimage among the neighbouring vales,
Culling of simples, nor yet comes she home;
And so the child lay sleeping in his crib,
With Gelert--you remember the old hound?
He pull'd the stag of ten down by the Holy Well--
With Gelert set to watch him like a nurse.

MONK.

The dog alone? nay! friend, but that is strange!

MORGAN.

Strange! Not a whit, for fifty times before
The hound hath kept him like his own bred whelp,
And ne'er a one could touch him; but the child
Play'd with his shaggy ears and great rough coat,
As no grown man had dared.

MONK.

I know there is
A strange nobility in dogs, to bear
The utmost sport of children, that would seize
Man by the throat e'en for a finger touch--
But to your tale--

MORGAN.

Well! suddenly at noon,
Llewellyn, baffled of his game, hied back,
Striding right grimly in his discontent,
And whistling, oft his spear upon the ground,
Slaying the visions of his fretful dreams;
And presently he thought him of his child:
So with its winsome ways to wile the time,
He went unto the chamber where it lay,
Watch'd o'er by Gelert, as his custom was:
But there, alack! or that the child had crost
The savage humour of the beast, or that
Some sudden madness had embolden'd it,
He saw the child lie bloody mid the sheets,
Slain by the hound, as it would seem, for there
Lay Gelert lapping from his chaps the blood,
That hung in gouts from every grisly curl.

MONK.

O Heaven! the woful deed! What did your lord?

MORGAN.

You know the hasty humour of the man,
That brooks no let betwixt him and his mood--
He slew the old hound with his heavy spear,
That almost licking of his feet fell dead;
For Gelert loved him well, and, crouching, took
Without a cry the blow that struck his heart.

MONK.

This is a sorry day for all the house; they say
Llewellyn had his soul set on the child.

MORGAN.

His soul! Ay, marry! many a time and oft
I've seen the man's great heart stare from his eyes,
Just like a girl's, out at the crowing boy:
And yesterday it was he perch'd him fair
Upon his broad rough shoulder, like a lamb
Laid on the topmost reaches of a hill,
And so he bore him, all his face a-glow,
When heralds came with war-notes from the king;
At which he turn'd him soft--the startled babe
Still set astride, and looking fondly up,
Said he, 'See! here's the only lord that sets
His foot upon my shoulder.' The man's heart
Scarce beats, I warrant, now the child is dead.

MONK.

And hath he master'd aught his sorrow now,
Or still rides passion curbless through his soul?

MORGAN.

Ah! there, good Father, lies the chiefest woe,
For in the slaying of the hound his rage
Quite spent its force, and now I fear me much
His mind bath lost its olden empery.

MONK.

Nay! Death smites passion still upon the mouth,
And its grim shade is silence--'Tis no sign.

MORGAN.

But in this one act all his fury pass'd;
And turning softly from the dead child there,
Suffering none to touch it where it lay,
He sat him down in awful calmness nigh,
And gazed forth blankly like a sculptured face;
And when we fain would pass to take the child,
A strange wild voice still warns us back again,
'Hush! for the boy is sleeping.' It would seem
He will not think that Death hath struck the babe,
But blinds his willing soul, and deems it sleep.

MONK.

A longer sleep, whose waking is not here!
Poor soul! that, catching at the skirts of Truth.
Muffleth his eyes that he may see her not.

MORGAN.

Good Father! go thou to him, for this doubt
That lays its stony spell upon his heart,
Is sadder far than tears--

MONK.

It is mine office
Still to bear balm unto the bleeding heart;
Then lead on, friend, and let us trust in Heaven.



MONK.

Faith! This is stranger than a gossip's tale!
My son! the wonderment o'ermasters you--
Nay! look not thus--let Nature have her way--
Give words to joy, and be your thanks first paid
To Heav'n, that sends you thus your child again.

LLEWELLYN.

The joy was almost more than man might bear!
And still my thoughts are lost in wild amaze--
The child unhurt--this blood--the hound--in troth,
The riddle passes my poor wits.

MONK.

Let's search
The chamber well--Heav'n shield us! what is this?

LLEWELLYN.

A wolf! and dead!--Ah! now I see it clear--
The hound kept worthy watch, and in my haste
I slew the saviour of my house and joy.
Poor Gelert! thou shalt have such recompense
As man may pay unto the dead--Thy name
Henceforth shall stand for Faithfulness, and men
For evermore shall speak thine epitaph.