198 TRADITION OF GELERT. 



The faithful creature, as he fell, 



Lick'd his old master's feet ; 

 His heavy groans, his dying yell, 



Ran through the whole retreat. 



But, what is that soul-thrilling voice, 



That shrill-awakening cry, 

 Like spirit from the dead ? a voice 



That tells of bliss gone by ? 



" Yet hush ! again it is my boy 



Where art thou, cherub where ? 

 He moves he lives ! What joy ! what joy ? 

 My lost one, art thou there ? " 



There, where the clothes were lightly thrown, 



In slumber unmolested, 

 Till waked by Gelert's dying groan, 



The little babe had rested. 



Llewelyn's first high transport o'er, 



He searched with anxious care 

 The blood-stain'd heaps that strew'd the floor, 



To find if aught were there. 



What could unveil the mystery ? 



When lo ! beneath the bed, 

 With fangs still grinning horribly, 



A hideous wolf lay dead. 



Ah, faithful dog ! too late I see 



The tale of bloody strife ; 

 Thy courage, thy fidelity, 

 Have saved my darling's life. 



