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For thee I panted, thee I prized,
Whate'er I loved before;
Farewell! we meet no more?
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath a spreadầng 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
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 few,
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 hurld 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,
And little or no meaning;
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations;
Too covetous of drink,
A poet's drop of ink? Upborne into the viewless air,
It floats a vapour now, Impell’d 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.
Beyond the happiest lot,
So soon to be forgot!
To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left
shine With equal grace below.