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 Which now beneath them, hut above shall grow In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, should moulder cold and low! Lord Byron

The spearman heard the bugle sound, and cheerily smiled the morn, And many a brach, and many a hound, attend Llewellyn’s horn;

And still he blew a louder blast, and gave a louder cheer; Come, Gelert! why art thou the last Llewellyn’s horn to hear!

‘Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam; the flower of all his race! So true, so brave, a lamb at home— a lion in the chase!’

Twas only at Llewellyn’s board, the faithful Gelert fed He watch’d, he serv’d, he cheer’d his lord, and sentinel’d his bed.

In south, he was a peerless hound, the gift of Royal John; But now no Gelert could be found, and all the chase rode on.

That day Llewellyn little loved the chase of hart or hare,