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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 ; 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 terrours 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 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.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew,

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 them in her bosom glow: Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ;

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 for you.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning;
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations;
Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,
Apollo, hast thou stolen away

A poet's drop of ink? Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now, Impellid through regions dense and rare,

By all the winds that blow : Ordain'd perhaps ere summer flies,

Combined with millions more, To form an Iris in the skies,

Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop? and happy then

Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,

So soon to be forgot!
Phoebus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left

may

shine With equal grace below.

HORACE.

BOOK II. ODE X.

Receive, dear friend, the truth's I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse Fortune's power:
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep,

Along the treacherous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,

Imbittering all his state.
The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower

Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capt eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.
The well-inform’d philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes in spite of pain : If Winter bellow from the north, Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,

And Nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast?
The dark appearance will not last;

Expect a brighter sky.
The God that strings the silver bow,
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,

And lays his arrows by.
If binderances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But 0! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,

Take half thy canvass in.

A REFLECTION

ON

THE FOREGOING ODE.

And is this all ? Can Reason do no more
Than bid me shun the deep and dread the shore;
Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,
The Christian has an art unknown to thee.
He holds no parley with unmanly fears ;
Where Duty bids he confidently steers,
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,
And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.

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