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, Counsel of her country's gods ;- Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Full of rage, and full of grief. Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, All the terrors of our tongues. In the blood that she has spilt; Deep in ruin as in guilt. Tramples on a thousand states; Hark! the Gaul is at her gates ! Heedless of soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prizo, Harmony the path to fame. From the forests of our land, Shall a wider world command. Thy posterity shall sway;. None invincible as they !" Pregnant with celestial fire ; Of his sweet, but awful lyre, Felt the in her bosom glow : Dying,, hurl’d them at the foe. Heaven awards the vengeance due; Shame and ruin wait on you," 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: " Had moderation sway'd my prosperous days, “Yes, noble captive,” said the lord of Rome, He spake: loud thundering acclamations Brave Caradoc, applauded by thy foes, THE CAMBRIAN BARD. 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, |