BOADICEA

AN ODE

WHEN the British warrior-queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a 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

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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 groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates.

'Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 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.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

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

Shame and ruin wait for you.

COWPER.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES [1831]

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light

Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height;
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;

While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.

Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue

Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!

WORDSWORTH.

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain

. 346

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise

. 167

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears

. 164

A weary lot is thine fair maid

. 194

Behold her, single in the field

90

Bird of the wilderness

198

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day

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Come live with me and be my love.

135

Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace

94

But the Abbot's blood ran colder, When he saw a gasping Knight lie there, With a gash beneath his clotted hair, And a hump upon his shoulder.

And the loyal churchman strove in vain

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks

As he took forth a bait from his iron box.

It was a haunch of princely size,

Filling with fragrance earth and skies.

The corpulent Abbot knew full well

The swelling form, and the steaming smell:.