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the Druidic bards in their historical triads, have handed the fame of this princess to posterity, is very remarkable and just: for her brave and patriotic bearing in heading a revolt, and leading her countrymen to battle against the Romans, she is held up to admira. tion ; for her unmerited degradation, when scourged by the Roman lictors, on her capture, her worth is vindicated in the same degree that the ungenerous victors are rendered detestable for a brutal and ferocious act: but she is ultimately consigned to infamy for basely betraying her countryman and rival chieftain, the celebrated Caradoc, or Caractacus, into the hands of the Romans. This deed, which stained her former celebrity, was denominated “one of the three secret treasons of the isle of Britain."

When the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods ;-
Sage, beneath the spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Ev'ry burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief.
" Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.
“ Rome shall perish—write that word

In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr’d,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.
“ Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates !
“ Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of soldier's name ;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prizo,

Harmony the path to fame.
" Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,
Arm’d with thunder, clad with wings..

Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway;.
Where his eagles never few,

None invincible as they !"
Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire ;
Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet, but awful lyre,
She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt the in her bosom glow :
Rush'd to battle, fought, and diedi;

Dying,, hurl’d them at the foe.
“Ruffians, pitiless as proud !

Heaven awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait on you,"

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CARACTACUS.

By the Rev. Sneyd Davies.

CARADOC (Caractacus) the Silurian and Ordo vicean chief, or as Tacitus says he described himself, “ Plurium Gentium Imperator." Having bravely defended his country against the Roman power for sixteen years, he was at length betrayed by Cartismandua, queen of the Brigantes, and sent prisoner to Rome. His manly and dignified deportment in the Roman senate procured him his freedom, and the esteem of Claudius. The following is a version of his celebrated *peech before the Roman emperor.

All Rome was still, and nations stood at gaze:
Forth came the mighty chief, august in chains,
Unbroken, unsubdued; his dauntless brow
Lost not its conscious grandeur: round he look'd
With steady glance, a lion in the toils;
Yet mindful of his fate, to Cæsar's throne
He bow'd majestic, and thus calmly spake :

" Had moderation sway'd my prosperous days,
Rome had beheld me Cæsar's guest, and friend,
Nor blush’d; descended from a sceptred race
That ruled Britannia's independent isle
Beyond all annals of recording fame.
If Rome commands, must vassal worlds obey?
What, not resist? Who not defend their rights
Deserve not. Cowards only should be slaves.
Yes, I had arms, and wealth, and friends, and fame:
What, tamely give them up? Disgrace indeed!
That I so long withstood your baffled power.
Forgive me, Roman virtue, that offence:
Had I a cheap and easy conquest proved,
My ruin, and your glory had been less;
Oblivion soon had veil'd my dastard name,
Unworthy Cæsar's pity. Death or life
Are at his dread disposal. That or this,
I neither fear to meet, nor scorn to ask.”

“Yes, noble captive,” said the lord of Rome,
Thy life is sacred, and thy freedom seal'd.
My sole ambition, soaring high, requires,
Amid my banners, and triumphal cars,
To bear thy valiant country's name."

He spake: loud thundering acclamations
And shouts that tore the Capitol, proclaim'd
Imperial mercy to the gallant foe,
All eyes are fix'd in wonder! some admire
His front erect, broad limbs, and martial port:
All praise the unwearied valour that durst cope
With Roman prowess, and well nigh prevaild.
Not bold Jugurtha, nor the Syrian king,
Nor Persius reft of Alexander's crown,
Attracted more regard, and gazing awe.
E’en Claudius, in his radiant seat sublime,
The world's great master, with his legions fierce,
His glittering eagles, all his trophied pomp
And pride begirt, look'd little on his throne.

Brave Caradoc, applauded by thy foes,
What shall thy friends, thy grateful Britons say !
What columns, and what altars rear of fame ?
Thrice told five hundred courses of the sun,
Thy age is green, thy laurels freshly bloom.

THE CAMBRIAN BARD.
From the Rev. David Lloyd's Voyage of Life.

The following is an extract from the second edition of that work, published in 1812, a poem of such excellence, that its merits need only to be known to be duly appreciated. Its author is the present vicar of Llanbister, Radnorshire, who, in the bosom of his native country, and in the parish which gave him birth, evinces the possession of such powers in poetry, music, and mechanism, as prove him endowed with no common genius. He is also the author of a work entitled Horæ Theologicæ, a series of essays on the more importa nt points in theology, by which he has likewise distinguished himself as an author in his more immediate professional department.

But not in courts are real Bards produced, Though genius oft has gain'd admission there : They love the walks where Nature's track is seen, And riot 'mid rent rocks, and forests wild, Huge precipices, cataracts, and groves Of venerable oak, impervious half To Sol's bright beams, o’erhanging waterfalls, And half admitting che quer'd rays to dance Adown the silver Naiads' murmuring streams.

Such are the scenes which caught the poet's eye, And fired in freedom's cause his ardent muse, 'Mid Cambria's cloud-capt hills, and rural vales, Here balmy air, and springs as æther clear, Fresh downs, and limpid rills, and daisied meads Delight the eye, reanimate the heart, And on the florid cheek emboss the rose, 'Mid sweetest dimples and unteigned smiles. Here shepherd swains, attentive to their charge, Distent o'er hillocks green, or mountains huge, Mantled with purple heath; throughout the day Enjoy “ alternate exercise and ease,” And oft at eve, meet each his favorite lass, And chaunt their ditties to the dulcet sound Of tabor, pipe, and harp, with social glee. Blithe days and nights of undisturb’d repose Brace all their nerves with vigour, and conduce To health and happiness, and length of years.

Near to these sacred haunts, erst seldom trod By foot profane, the far-famed Druid pour’d Immortal harmony, to meet the skies. Methinks I hear the symphony sublime Of Cambria's ancient harp, with triple rows Of melodies, so soft, so sweet, so full, As old Orphean lyre might not disown. I hear applauding throngs, assembled round In the Eisteddyod, chosen sons of art,

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