Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century | Page 8

waneth,
From hour to hour the bright stars turn
In distances unending,
And all the mighty works of God,
Are ever homeward tending.
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 shore--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 shore,
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
flashing 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.
But evening fell--that fatal night
That darkened all our nation's light:

In sleep his head Caradoc laid,
And woke--a captive, bound,
betrayed.
Aregwedd {66} she, of winsome smile,
Who broke the strength of
Britain's Isle,
And gave the Samson of our land
Delilah-like to the
Roman's hand.

A triad of triads, yea, thrice three score,
Of traitors our land has borne
and more,
And traitors many within the sound
Of the Western sea
may yet be found.

If e'er from love or hate you try
To trace a Welshman's pedigree,

There is a book--for you 'tis meant,
A bluebook of high Parliament.
For in this book incorporate
A thousand facts, brought up to date,

Prove that each father, mother, son,
In Wales is baseborn--every one!
It further shows there's scarce a wight
In all wild Wales knows how
to write!
That none of those who only talk
Their native tongue
know cheese from chalk.
That 'Eisteddfodau' Welshman teach
To spurn the thrice blest English
speech:
Welsh books--there are none, save what quacks
Sell the
poor churls as almanacks.
That therefore that most grievous sin
Yclept Dissent is rife therein;

But if 'the English' were more prized,
Wales might some day
be--civilized!
Ring out, O bells--proclaim our glee
That a real nation we yet may be,

When English blessings reach us here--
Mountains of beef and
floods of beer!
Fraud and treason garbed as grace
In the Blue Book find a place,

And in the 'Triads of Treachery'
Let these 'Three Spies' remembered
be.
A Mother's Message.
Her visit was ended and back to her home
Far away my dear mother was going;
But now that the hour for
parting was come
With sorrow her heart was o'erflowing.
Oh pale grew her cheeks and
fast fell her tears,

Her faltering counsels delaying,
Then low fell these words on my
listening ears,
"You know what my heart, dear, is saying."
Not a word of the devil, his plans and his