Classic Poem

Deep in the peacefulness of life
Which breathes amidst these gentle vales,
A little rustic chapel stands,
And smiles when daylight breaks, or fails.
Its scattered graves in soft moss are arrayed,
While o'er its head
Paternal mountains hang a loving shade—
God bless the Dead.

An aged man, a rural lord,
In old Caernarvonshire,
Lived happy with an only child,
Beyond all else in nature dear.
Oh, his heart folded round this little child,
As wall and tower
Of castle-keep, where all beside runs wild,
Preserve one flower.

In the sweet morning they were seen
Breasting the mountains, hand in hand;
Retainers many filled his hall,
But one was chosen from the band.
His faithful dog, rough Gelert, with them sped,
Now here!—now there!
Dashing the dew-drops from the heath-bells red—
Startling the hare.

When they were tired, and resting sat,
The shaggy servant stood close by;
Or bounded off awhile, and showed
Heart-laughter in activity.
Yet oft returned, and watched with wistful eye
For pointing hand,
Or look, or tone, that he might rush to obey
The high command!

He knew all shades of look or mien,
The varied tone, the sudden glance,
Remembered every spot once seen,
Though full of mazes as a dance;
No serious order did he e'er forget,
No loving friend,—
He was as true a heart as could be met
To the world's end.

His valour and his vigilance
Became a proverb of the vale;
His instincts made a small romance,
And shepherd boys preserved each tale;
His gentleness had all the effect of grace;
And, for his form,
His only beauty was his honest face—
No common charm.

Somewhat of humour had he, too,
And oft with head aside
He seemed to meditate on life,—
Bent his nose down and sighed:
But while men sought his sentiments to scan,
Up looked he brightly—
Barked—wagged his tail—off to the mountains ran,
With capers sprightly!

Within the castle, seven years since,
The old lord's happy child was born,
And Gelert in the castle court
Drew his first whimpering breath that morn;
Thus bred, trained, trusted, Gelert and the child
Romped on the heather,
And 'midst the sunbeams, hail-showers, and winds wild
They played together.

One day this grey lord sat him down
Upon a hill-side steep,
And brooding o'er past days, his thoughts
Loosened, and melted into sleep.
The child with Gelert in a pensive mood
Wandered and strayed
From the hill's foot, and through a neighbouring wood
And its green glade.

The father woke—rose up, and gazed
On every side, but saw them not;
The hill descended, searching round,
But all in vain—he saw them not!
Aloud he called—the mountain echoes called,
Near and afar!
Homeward he hied, with terrors vague enthralled,
While rose night's star.

The night-star rose, like a child's clear soul,
Aloft in the pure serene;
The father thought, ‘Though idly lost,
By our hall-fire he sits, I ween,
And fondly hoped that Gelert still had led’
With care discreet,
Had brought safe back, while daylight yet was red,
His wildered feet.

He was not there—had ne'er been seen!
With lighted brands the throng rush out,
And o'er the hills, vales, wood and glade,
Their torches flash, their voices shout.
The wild-eyed father led the search all night
Still, still in vain!
And the first streak of wretched morning light
Brought maddening pain:

For on the heath there crouched the form
Of Gelert with a bloody jaw!
He had a grim and anxious look—
A panting heart, a quivering paw!
His murderous deed they all with horror see—
The child is dead!
The blood of his sweet playfellow must be
On Gelert's head.

The shaggy watch-worn face looked-up,
Fraught with pathetic want of speech,
He strove to rise, but down he sank,
Yet something seemed he to beseech,—
Watching aghast their dreadful looks around.
They stare, and crowd
Closer and closer on the crouching hound,
With curses loud!

‘Fiend!—fiend!’ the father screamed, and rushed
At Gelert with his iron-capped staff,
And beat his howling skull in twain,
And stamped him dead with frantic laugh!
The mutilated limbs stretch stiffly out,
Measuring their grave;
And then the old man cast himself about.
Like a burst wave.

‘Monster, lie there and rot!’ he cried,
Glaring on Gelert's battered corse,
‘Thou wouldst his sure defender be,
I well believed, whate'er might cross;
Now hath a heart-damned hunger caused thee rend him—
Oh, help!—none speak—
My dear, lost child—would not kind hand be-friend him?
Seek with me—seek!’

Slow moved they, searching round about
And traces soon of blood they found;
The old man wrung his hands, and cried,
‘My child lies somewhere on this ground!’
And truly spake he, though in vain dismay,
For on soft heath,
Embedded and asleep, his darling lay,
Smiling at death!

The child awoke, and raised himself
Upon his little hand;
His rosy cheeks all dimpling smiled
To see so many round him stand.
The father ran, and, falling on his knees,
To his breast caught him,
And held him fondly thus with frequent gaze—
Such bliss-it brought him.

‘And art thou safe, my little child,
Sweet flower-bud of my life and hope?
A minute since my grief ran wild—
My joy can scarcely now find scope.
I know not if I hold thee safely yet
And surely here!’
The child look'd round, then cried with accent shrill,
‘Where's Gelert dear?’

He started up—they followed him,
When all abruptly they stood fast.
Before them came a frightful dream
Of struggles fixed—of contest past:
A haggard Snowdon wolf, stark dead and glaring,
Lay on its back,
Threatening the air—of victory undespairing—
Ghastly and black!

‘Where's Gelert?’ cried the child again;
And while they stand confounded,
Some peasants bring a mangled shape,
With heath and grass surrounded.
And two brown paws hang mournfully adown,
Well known to all,
Which round the child's white neck, so lately thrown,
Fond scenes recall.

The child a loud and wretched wail
Sent forth, and clasped his hands,
The old man stood all mute and pale,
He scarcely sees, yet understands;
Then turns aside his head, and earthward bends
With close-shut eyes:
‘I cannot look on it—I cannot, friends!’
Moaning he cries.

His followers moved on, bearing still
The body in their arms;
The old man led his child along
Like silence after storms.
Of all the leaden load of grief within
No word he spake,
But sought atonement for his cruel sin
Humbly to make.

And in the gentle valley green
He built a chapel white;
With simple heart, and mournful mien,
He said he hoped that he did right.
‘The dear remains bring here,’ he softly sighed;
‘In this small space
My once blithe, bounding friend—the castle's pride—
Tenderly place.

‘My child's defender here I lay—
It were a fresh crime not to weep.’
His little child knelt in the clay,
And said, ‘Farewell, dear Gelert—sleep!’
The old man softly stroked his dead friend's breast,
Sadly, yet bland—
‘My faithful, murdered servant, take thy rest—
Forgive my hand.’


‘O, murdered honesty, O friend!
Destroyed by vengeance blind and wild,
Thou the sure champion to defend—
Whom first I slew, and then reviled,
Dumb foster-brother of my child,
Forgive this hand—O, let it make
A resting-place for thy dear-sake;
So shall this tomb the record hold
Of thy fair fame,
While clodded years, in darkness rolled,
Bury my name.’