Part 5 (1/2)

The tiny streamlet on the hill Its wandering way pursueth, The mighty river far below Adown the valley floweth, The winds roam ever in the sky, The clouds are onward driving, And towards some quiet sh.o.r.e--at home The raging sea is striving.

Daybreak.

Yonder on fair Snowdon's height, Ere breaks the light, Stars that through the darkness swim Are sinking in the distance dim.

See! the day its spears hath hurled From the Eastern world; And each shaft is flaming red As though the night had dying bled.

Matin song of skylark gay Proclaims the day; Fled the dragons of the dark And quenched the firefly's glimmering spark.

White its head now Snowdon rears, The sun appears!

Day and brightness, lo, he brings To pauper's cot and hall of kings.

The White Stone.

Though far from my poor, feeble hand, My country's harp of gold, Though far from that dear home I stand, Where it was played of old, My mother tongue hath yet a spell And inward voice, which bids me tell My tale in song that Wales loves well, Whatever aliens hold.

A tiny streamlet wandering strayed Beneath our garden wall, Where one of my forefathers made A mimic waterfall.

Above the spot the willows weep, Where down its height the water poured, And on the bank beside the deep Fair apple trees keep ward.

Across the pool where fell the spate A bridge of wood was thrown; And marble-like, to bear its weight, There stood a big white stone.

Here all my boyhood's hours sped by, Here would I sit contentedly, And on this stone as happy I As king upon his throne!

Where'er in this wide world I be, Where'er I yet may roam, The great white stone I ever see, And hear the stream at home.

And when to strangers I confess That in my dreams I thither fly, They pardon me, for all men bless Each childish memory.

Far off, far off are childhood's days, And starry as the sky, Nor lives the man but loves to raise His head with wistful eye Towards the days that are no more: And as I turn towards that sh.o.r.e, For me one star burns evermore-- My childhood's dear white stone.

The Traitors of Wales.

You know the fate of Caractacus, A name immortal for each of us, Before whose face Rome's legions dread For nine long years in terror fled.

How to Brigantum's town one day, All unattended, he took his way, And to the fair queen's palace came-- Cartismandua was her name.

Then cried the queen, ”For many a year To me and mine thou hast been dear: Safe mayest thou dwell in this my land,”

And she kissed the scars on his strong right hand.

Then, with her own white royal hand, She losed his hauberk's metal band, And in her fairest chamber laid His bow of steel and his flas.h.i.+ng blade.

With dainties quickly the board is laid, And mead--the sweetest ever made, Beaming with joy is every face, And mirth and feasting fill the place.

The royal harpist sweeps the strings, And brave Caradoc's deeds he sings, His foes deriding, and most of all Ostorius, the Roman general.