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 Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain!

For now the truth was clear;

The gallant hound the wolf had slain,

To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain, was all Llewellyn's woe:

'Best of thy kind adicuadieu [sic]!

The frantic deed which laid thee low,

'This heart shall ever rue!'

And now a gallant tomb they raise,

With costly sculpture decked;

And marbles, storied with his praise,

Poor Gelerts bones protect.

Here never could the spearmen pass,

Or forester, unmoved;

Here oft the tear-besprikled grass,

Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear;

And, oft as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds would hear

Poor Gelert's dying yell! Spencer.

Chief in silence strode bcforebefore [sic],

And reached that torrent's sounding shore,

Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,

From Vennachar in silver breaks,

Sweeps through the plain, and ccaselessceaseless [sic] mines

On Bochastle the mouldering lines,

Where Rome, the Empress of the World,

Of yore her eagle wings unfurled,

And hcrehere [sic] his course the Chieftain staid,

ThrcwThrew [sic] down his target and his plaid,

And to the Lowland warrior said:—