For thee I panted, thee I prized, And shall I see thee start away, And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say— Farewell! we meet no more? BOADICEA. An Ode. WHEN the British warrior queen, Sage beneath a spreading oak, 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 Rome, for empire far renown'd, Other Romans shall arise, 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, She, with all a monarch's pride, 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. Ah, why, since oceans, rivers, streams, 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, To form an Iris in the skies, Illustrious drop! and happy then Of all that ever pass'd my pen, Phoebus, if such be thy design, With equal grace below. may shine |