Boadicea. An Ode.

When the British warrior queen,     Bleeding from the Roman rods,     Sought, with an indignant mien,     Counsel of her countrys gods,     Sage beneath the 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 perishwrite that word     In the blood that she has spilt;     Perish, hopeless and abhorrd,     Deep in ruin as in guilt.     Rome, for empire far renownd,     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 soldiers name;     Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,     Harmony the path to fame.     Then the progeny that springs     From the forests of our land,     Armd with thunder, clad with wings,     Shall a wider world command.     Regions Csar never knew     Thy posterity shall sway;     Where his eagles never flew,     None invincible as they.     Such the bards prophetic words,     Pregnant with celestial fire,     Bending as he swept the chords     Of his sweet but awful lyre.     She, with all a monarchs pride,     Felt them in her bosom glow:     Rushd to battle, fought, and died:     Dying, hurld them at the foe.     Ruffians, pitiless as proud,     Heaven awards the vengeance due;     Empire is on us bestowd,     Shame and ruin wait for you.