The hound?--the hound--Poor Gelert! well-a-day!
It was ill-done of me--a wicked stroke,
A wicked stroke--and the boy, too, asleep.
And now I mind me how he loved the dog;
How many an hour he sported in the sun,
Twining his grisly neck with summer buds;
And how the dog was patient with the boy,
Yielding him gently to his little arms--
There was a lion's heart in the old hound!
The deed's accursed--accursed--the child will wake,
And call for Gelert with his merry voice;
And when the dog no more comes stalking nigh,
With great mild head to meet the outstretch'd hands,
The child will sob his heart out for his friend;
For, Sir, his nature is right full of love,
And generous affections, never slack
To let his soul have space and mastery--
A wicked stroke!

MONK.

Ah! would his voice could sound
Ever again among your silent halls;
But the sweet treble never more shall ring
Across the chambers to your wistful ear;
Then hear it now come floating down from heav'n,
Calling your lone and bleeding heart to God.

LLEWELLYN.