hrough cycles of decay, back to the time
When he was one with Sleep, and passing fair;
Think you he would not sigh, "Sleep, on! sleep on!
Thou copy and thou counterfeit of me,
And teach the world that I was beautiful."
The child is sleeping.

MONK.

O my son! my son!
These are delusions that but wrong the soul,
And keep the aching thoughts from peace and Heaven.

LLEWELLYN.

Why, Father, if Death woke him as he lay,
The lad would look up at him with a smile,
And twist his little limbs in childish sport,
Until the angel, surfeited with fear,
Would love and spare the thing that fear'd him not.
No man could see his pretty ways and frown,--
And he was full of little childish tricks,
That won the very heart out of a man
In spite of him. There's Beowolf the Curst,
With ne'er a gentle word for man or child,
But cold and crusty as a northern hill--
Why this day sen'night did my master there,
Crawl up his knees without a Yea or Nay,
And toy'd him with his sword-hilt merrily,
Till the rough man, caught with his gamesome arts,
Swore that he had the making of a man;
And, for the maids, there's none but has a word,
Or kiss to bandy with the gainsome lad;
Ay! when he wakes you'll see how he will crow,
And fill the place with laughter--he's no girl,
Puking and mewling evermore--not he.

MONK.

Good lack! my son, your heart is too much set
Upon the child, to bow before Heav'n's will,
That turns your soul back to itself with stripes;
Oh! know you not, Sir, that the child is dead?

LLEWELLYN.

You all have conn'd the same wise tale by rote--
The child is sleeping; hush! and wake him not.

MONK.

Nay! doth your mind not stumble on the truth,
Here by this old hound lying at your feet,
With all his clotted blood in crimson pools
Curdling among the rushes on the floor?

LLEWELLYN.

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