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 Gelert's bones protect. 



There never could the spearman pass, 



Or forester, unmov'd ; 

 There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass 



Llewelyn's sorrow prov'd. 



And there he hung his horn and spear, 



And there, as evening fell, 

 In fancy's ear, he oft would hear 



Poor Gelert'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 " Gelert's grave." 



Robert William Spencer. 



no 



