id="pgepubid00036">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 wiles,
   His lies and his love of deceiving,
Not a word of the world with its follies and smiles
   She said when her son she was leaving.
I know on my journey she wished me all bliss,
   I know that for me she was praying,
But all that I heard her lips utter was this,
   “You know what my heart, dear, is saying.”

Like the sea as it plays on a dangerous rock
   Is the spirit that now is in motion,
Around me are men who at Heaven make mock,
   And I’m but a drop in the ocean.
My feet are oft hasting the broad path along
   But while on the precipice straying
I am saved by the message so tender, so strong,
   “You know what my heart, dear, is saying.”

‘Sin not’—in the skies though this sentence I read,
   In letters of fire engraven,
Though roared the loud thunder in accents of dread,
   ‘Transgress not the laws of high Heaven,’
Though slowed the swift lightning to one solid flame,
   My feet from ungodliness staying,
Far stronger the words from my mother which came,
   “You know what my heart, dear, is saying.”

Mountain Rill.

Mountain rill, that darkling, sparkling,
   Winds and wanders down the hill,
’Mid the rushes, whispering, murmuring,
   Oh that I were like the rill!

Mountain ling, whose flower and fragrance
   Sorest longing to me bring
To be ever on the mountains—
   Oh that I were like the ling!

Mountain bird, whose joyous singing
   On the wholesome breeze is heard,
Flitting hither, flitting thither—
   Oh that I were like the bird!

Mountain child am I, and lonely
   Far from home my song I sing;
But my heart is on the mountain
   With the birds amid the ling.

Llewelyn’s Grave.

The earth has sunk low on the grave of Llewelyn,
   The rainpools lie o’er it unruffled and still;
The moon at her rising, the sun at his setting,
   Blush red as they look o’er the slope of the hill.
O Cymru, my land, dost know of this ill?
   And where is the patriot hiding his face?
The tears of the cloudwrack know well where he lieth,
   The birds of the mountain can tell of the place.

By chance comes a Welshman and carelessly