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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; Every 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 abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renowned,
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 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, Armed with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway ;
None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
Felt them in her bosom glow :
Dying, hurled them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance
Shame and ruin wait for you.
THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW.WORM.
A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
“ Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
The songster heard his short oration,
Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Those Christians best deserve the name
FAREWELL TO ANNA'S GRAVE.
I wish I was where Anna lies,
hour affection cries,
I lost my all; and life has proved Since that sad hgur a dreary void,
A waste unlovely and unloved.
But who, when I am turned to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away,
And weeds that have no business there?
And who with pious hand shall bring
The flowers she cherished, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded spring,
To scatter o'er her hallowed mould ?
And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?
I did it; and would Fate allow,
Should visit still, should still deplore; But health and strength have left me now,
And I, alas ! can weep no more.
Take then, sweet maid, this simple strain,
The last I offer at thy shrine;
And all thy memory fade with mine.
And can thy soft persuasive look,
Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy air, that every gazer took, • Thy matchless eloquence of eye,
Thy spirits frolicksome as good,
Thy courage by no ills dismayed, Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good humour,-can they fade?
Perhaps ;-but sorrow dims my eye:
Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh,
A long, a last, a sad adieu.
THE DYING GLADIATOR.
Bowed low and full of death, his head declines,
Think not, with terror heaves that sinewy breast!
Unfeared is now that cord, which oft ensnared
foe!” Vain hope! the streams of life-blood fast descend ; That giant arm's up-bearing strength must bend : Yet shall he scorn, procumbnet to betray One dastard sign of anguish or dismay, With one weak plaint to shame his parting breath, In pangs sublime, magnificent in death.
But his were deeds unchronicled ;-his tomb No patriot wreaths adorn ;-to cheer his doom,