e 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