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 Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread—.

But the same couch beneath,

Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead—

Tremendous still in death!

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 wo:

'Best of thy kind adieu!

The frantic deed 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.

Here never could the spearmen pass,

Or forester, unmoved;

Here oft the tear-besprinkled 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