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But thou hast little need. There is a Book
A chronicle of actions just and bright-
TO THE SAME
The twentieth year is well-nigh past
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
For could I view nor them nor thee,
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
And still to love, though press'd with ill,
But ah! by constant heed I know
And should my future lot be cast
BOADICEA: An ODE
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
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 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, 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;
Dying, hurled them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due;
Shame and ruin wait for you.'
OBSCUREST night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
Washed headlong from on board,
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
With warmer wishes sent.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Or courage die away;
He shouted: nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course,
That, pitiless perforce,
Some succour yet they could afford;
And such as storms allow,
Delayed not to bestow.
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Alone could rescue them;
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
His destiny repelled;
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Could catch the sound no more:
No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere,
Is wet with Anson's tear:
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
A more enduring date: