Boadicea: An Ode

When the British warrior queen,


 * Bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought with an indignant mien,


 * Counsel of her country's god's.

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&mdash;write that word


 * In the blood that she has spilt;

Perish hopeless and abhorred,


 * Deep in ruin and in guilt.

'Rome, for empire far renowned,


 * Tramples on a thousand states;

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,&mdash;


 * 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 Caesar never knew


 * Thy posterity shall sway,

Where his eagles never flew,


 * None invincible as they.'

Such the bard's prophetic words,


 * Pregnant with prophetic 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,

Rushed to battle, fought and died,


 * Dying, hurled them at the foe.

'Ruffians, pitiless as proud,


 * Heaven awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestowed,


 * Shame and ruin wait for you!'