A Complete Collection of the English Poems which have obtained the Chancellor's Gold Medal in the University of Cambridge/Boadicea
Tyrant of earth! whose banner wide unfurl'd Waved o'er the ruins of a conquer'd world; Rome, beneath yon heav'n what region lies, But calls on thee the vengeance of the skies?What favour'd shore where ne'er thy legions dread Have crush'd the flowers of Peace with iron tread? But now—an outcast band, a robber horde, And now—of half the globe the scourge and lord. Ausonia's plains beneath thy bondage groan, And Carthage sinks, and leaves her place unknown; E'en fair Athena sees her sacred fane Shrink at thy touch, and mourns her ægis vain:For thee the East her sparkling treasures spreads, For thee her mountains lift their spicy heads; Ungorged with all the teeming Orient yields Thou ask'st the North her bleak and barren fields; Indignant Ister rolls his subject flood, And feels his eddies warm with native blood; Albion looks forth from all her cliff's—thy oars Bear war and bloodshed to her peaceful shores, Impatient still while Peace and Freedom own One single spot beneath the starry zone. And thinks thy soul, elate with conquest's glow, Thy widening reign no bounds on earth shall know? Think'st thou the Deluge of thy power shall spreadTill not one islet shows its verdant head;Till, like the dove the olive-branch that bore,Fair Peace shall seek in vain a friendly shore,And banish'd Liberty on soaring wingBack to her native skies indignant spring—?Vain thought! beyond thy empire's sweeping boundShall Freedom find some hallow'd spot of ground;Driven from the climes where fervid summer glows,She seeks the northern wastes and polar snows;There, though the bleak blasts rend th' inclement sky,Shall Nature smile beneath her cheering eye,Unfading there her blooms and flow'rs remainTill thy vast empire shrinks to nought again. What though thou deem that thine is Albion's shore,Her day of freedom gone, her battles o'er;Deem thou may'st smiling hear around thee riseHer groans of anguish, her accusing cries,And see her Queen in widow'd sorrow standRed from thy scourge, and bleeding from thy hand,Destined in vain her country's wrongs to mourn,Slave to thy slave, insulted and forlorn;Perhaps e'en yet her patriot arm may stayThy mad Ambition on his crimson'd way.E'en now—while 'mid the calm that slumbers wide,Thou view'st the prospect round in swelling pride,Inhal'st each breeze, and think'st for thee they bearTheir ripening fragrance through the balmy air;—E'en now the coming tempest loads the gales,Waves through the woods, and breathes along the vales;It comes—it comes—I hear the boding soundThat calls the spirits of the storm around,O'er all the sky their sable wings they spread,And point the bolts of Vengeance at thy head. Ye Powers that guard your Albion's rude domains,Her trackless wilds and grey-extending plains, Untrod since Nature's hand in ruin hurl'dThe bands of rock that chain'd her to the world;Whom the rapt Druid sees in terrors rove'Mid the deep silence of his gloomy grove,Or where your temples vaulted by the skies,A frowning band of giant columns rise;And ye who haunt the shores where Mona ridesSecurely moor'd amid the rocking tides,Bend from your cloudy car. If e'er your forceCheck'd Julius' steps, and stay'd his victor course;If urged by you Caractacus's carSwept down Salurian steeps the torrent war;If fired by you his captive eye could rollIts freeborn glance and awe a despot's soul;Now bid each arm in injured freedom strong,Avenge a Country's woes, a Monarch's wrong. Lo! through the surge the Roman chargers boundThat girds your sacred Mona's woods around;In vain your hoary Druids on the shore,Their torches toss and imprecations pour;In vain your fearless tribes, a faithful band,Before your shrines unyielding fall or stand:The victors stride above the ranks of dead,Your hallow'd vistas shrink before their tread;Fall'n are your sacred groves where silence reign'd,Your altars ruin'd and your shrines profaned,Your priests, their silver hair with gore defiled,Lie on the strand in ghastly carnage piled;And lie they unrevenged? with impious hand,Shall Rome deal woes around the groaning land,And shall no power that guards the injured goodLook from yon azure skies, and mark her deeds of blood? Yes, they have mark'd; and speak in[1] portents dreadThe wrath that trembles o'er th' oppressor's head. Push'd from its base his idol Victory falls,Unbodied furies howl along the walls,Empurpled Ocean glows with slaughter dyed,And hoary Thames beneath his glassy tide,Unseen before, his shadowy towers displays,And wrecks of palaces of former days;As if some nation once that rose sublime,Once proud like Rome, and deep like her in crime,Would lift its head and break its long reposeTo warn the tyrant of impending woes. O sinking Albion, yet again arise,Rear thy fair front, and lift thy gladden'd eyes;Feel all a mother's joy thy sons to seeGrasp the red blade for freedom and for thee.Pour'd from the pathless glen, the forest's gloom,Fierce as their native bands of wolves they come;Dark-frowning chiefs, and shaggy forms appear,Burning for blood, and shake the thirsty spearWhile 'mid the throng, like whiten'd foam that lavesThe restless ocean's darkly-rolling waves,The hoary Bards and white-robed Druids flingThe song of battle from the trembling string. But why above the throng observant strainsEach eager gaze o'er all the crowded plains?'Tis she!—above the countless thousands seenLifts her exalted form, the Warrior-Queen:Her lofty forehead mark'd with high command,And stamp'd with majesty by Nature's hand;Indignant Freedom glows upon her cheeks,But on her front no milder passion speaks,Severe and stern;—not her's the gentler grace,The melting eye, the fascinating face,The charms that o'er each speaking feature rove,And fix the gaze, and steal the soul to love;No—would'st thou view fair Woman's softer mould?Then by her side those sister forms behold; Bright o'er the wavy crowd as western beamsThat gild with trembling light pleased Ocean's streams.Oh! though each bosom there, each untaught mind,By social arts untutor'd, unrefined,Knew but the feelings Nature gives her child,Rude as her savage scenes, and harsh, and wild,Yet think not there might Beauty shed her raysUnmark'd, unfelt, by every careless gaze.No—as each Briton's eye was thither turn'd,Each swelling breast with keener vengeance burn'd,Each firmer grasp'd his spear, and inly sworeTo write their injuries in Roman gore.O Beauty! heaven-born Queen! thy snowy hands Hold the round earth in viewless magic bands; From burning climes where riper graces flame To shores where climes of ice resound thy name, From savage times ere social life began To fairer days of polish'd, soften'd man, To thee, from age to age, from pole to pole, All pay the unclaim'd homage of the soul. Though not, Bonduca, thine the dove-like eye That asks, Omnipotent, for sympathy. Yet to that stately form, that regal brow Might free-born Pride, and fearless Valour bow. All hail, thy Albion's much-loved Queen, to thee, Daughter of Monarchs! Monarch of the free! Heiress of Kings whose patriarchal sway Th' untamed Icenian triumphs to obey! Oft have thy Britons seen a female hand Pour life and gladness round a grateful land, Oft have they seen a woman's prowess guide The storm of war and stem the battle's tide; E'en now they feel thy words, thy looks impart Indignant courage to each freeborn heart, And bid thee lead them on where Freedom cries, And Vengeance beckons from the angry skies. Heard'st thou, O Rome, that shout, whose deepen'd shockShook to its base the isle's eternal rock?Thy steel-clad watchman from his turret high,Has heard it burst the lurid eastern sky,As when the tempest which th' horizon shroudsRolls in the centre of his gather'd clouds,And up the concave from the south afarThe distant Thunder drives his rapid car;And as his fiery steeds impetuous come,And glance with ruddy track across the gloom,So, red with blood and Desolation's stains,The path of Ruin sweeps across thy plains.Haste, Roman, haste! lo, bending to its fall,Destruction trembles o'er Augusta's wall,Thy rising cities wildly shriek dismay'd,And ask thy guardian hand, thy parent aid;Go—bid the surge of insurrection bideIn midway course, and backwards roll its tide;No—bid thy angry Adria's waves obeyThy chiding voice, and call their storms away;Push backwards up thy red Vesuvius' steepThe lava torrent pouring to the deep;Alike thy might is vain; 'tis thine to fear,Imperious despot! thine to tremble here.Woe to thy towns! amid their shrieking wallsQuick in the work of death the falchion falls;Exulting there Destruction's demons rise,And on the steaming carnage mount the skies;And nodding ruins in a lake of bloodMark the sad place where peopled cities stood.Speak not of mercy;—of the kindly glowThat warms the heart to spare a fallen foe.Would'st thou to pity soothe with suasive tongueThe raging lioness who seeks her young,And bid her, if her course the spoiler meet,Fawn at his knees, and harmless kiss his feet? Frenzied with wrongs they seek revenge alone,Mercy to beg or give alike unknown.But ah! not yet 'tis theirs to view the foeCrush'd at their feet, and laid for ever low;Though droops his eagle crest and ruffled plumes,Still stern revenge his fiery eye illumes;Driven from his quarry, watchful yet he sails,And wheels in distant circles on the gales,And nearer sweeping still in balanced flight,Prepares to stoop with renovated might.Heard ye the clang of mingling armies there,Mix'd with the groans of Anguish and Despair,And all the piercing sounds of battle roarLoud as the deep that yawns on Norway's shoreWhen o'er the Ocean's voice of thunder riseThe shrieking vessel's agonizing cries.Lo! chiefs sublime amid the storm of deathBuffet the raging surge that roars beneath,And through the mangled files the scythe-arm'd carTears its red path across the opening war,And naked bosoms bared to danger feelThe mailed legion's points of gleaming steel:Ah, mourn not, warriors, for the life ye leave,Grieve for your Albion, for your country grieve;For lo! the whirlwind blast of battle veers,And backwards bends that grove of patriot spears,And louder swell above the mingled cryThe Roman's pealing shouts of Victory.In vain above the shatter'd throng is seen,With terror-darting eye the Warrior-Queen,While wet with blood her long bright tresses toss'dFloat like a standard o'er the rallying host;In vain the conquering legions pause and standIn mid career, check'd by a woman's hand:Borne down the cataract that sweeps the groundO'er falling ranks her fiery coursers bound, Fling from their rapid wheels the crimson sprayAs Death and Fate in vain might stop their way,And like some meteor red that shoots afar,Across the gloom of elemental war,Deep purpled o'er from head to heel with bloodThey dart and vanish in yon blacken'd wood.Unheard thy seraph notes, O Pity, riseWhere War's stern clamour raves along the skies;In vain would sex, would youth demand thy aidTo stay the Victor's slaughter-blunted blade.With tiger port along the carnaged ground,Glad triumph stalks, and rolls his eyes around;And Freedom lingering ere she onward sweepsTo Caledonia's wilds and rugged steepsSheds o'er her sons and daughters there who fellA mournful tear, and breathes a sad farewell.But deep within that wood, where branches throwA vaulted, monumental gloom below,So still that all the battle's distant screamThe tumult of another world might seem,Lo! where its leafless arms yon blasted treeWaves o'er the form of fallen Majesty.Grasp'd in her hand that empty chalice tells,Why on her forehead death's damp chillness dwells,Why at her feet her children pale are seen,Lovely in death with marble looks serene.It seems as on her brow the changeful strifeWould soon for ever close of Death and Life;It seems as Life but linger'd there to castOne mother's look before she look'd her last.And near a Druid's sacred brow is rear'd,White on his harp is toss'd his silver beard,While sad and wild amid the waving treesThe death-song floats upon the sighing breeze,And seems in tones of sadden'd praise to shedA grateful influence round her dying head. Though o'er the strings his hands have ceased to stray,And left the plaintive notes to die away,They melt as if some spirit of the airWith notes of triumph loved to linger there.Well may the Druid mark that vivid glow,That lightning glance which fires her pallid brow;As if those sounds that breathed around had castOn life's warm embers one reviving blast;As if those floating notes on wings sublimeHad borne her soul across th' abyss of time:While her fix'd gaze in air appears to spyUnearthly forms conceal'd from mortal eye,And her pale lip triumphant smiles at death,In accents wild she pours her parting breath:"—Yes, Roman! proudly shake thy crested brow,'Tis thine to conquer, thine to triumph now;For thee, lo, Victory lifts her gory hand,And calls the Fiends of Terror on the land,And flaps, as tiptoe on thy helm she springs,Dripping with British blood her eagle wings."Yet think not, think not long to thee 'tis giv'nTo laugh at Justice, and to mock at Heav'n;Soon shall thy head with blood-stain'd laurels crown'dStoop at the feet of Vengeance to the ground.I see amid the gloom of future daysThy turrets totter, and thy temples blaze;I see upon thy shrinking Latium hurl'dThe countless millions of the northern world;I see, like vultures gathering to their prey,The shades of states that fell beneath thy sway;They leave their fallen palaces and fanes,Their grass-grown streets, and ruin-scatter'd plains,Where lonely long they viewless loved to dwell,And mourn the scenes that once they loved so well.Triumphant, lo! on all the winds they come,And clap th' exulting hand o'er fallen Rome, And hovering o'er thy domes that blazing glow,Their waving pinions fan the flames below;They view rejoiced the conflagration's gleams,Shoot their long glare o'er Tiber's redden'd streams;And snuff the carnage-tainted smokes that rise,An incense sweet, a grateful sacrifice.—"Sad Tiber's banks with broken columns spread!Fall'n every fane that rear'd to heav'n its head!Poor heaps of ashes! Grandeur's mould'ring tomb!Art thou the place was once Eternal Rome?"Yes, Roman; snatch thy triumph whilst thou may,Weak is thy rage, and brief thy little day:Vanish'd and past the momentary storm,Albion, my Albion, brighter shews her form.Far o'er the rolling years of gloom I spyHer oak-crown'd forehead lifted to the sky,Above the low-hung mists unclouded seen,Amid the wreck of nations still serene;She bursts the chains, when hands like thine would bindThe groaning world, and lord it o'er mankind.Amid yon glitt'ring flood of liquid light,Float regal forms before my dazzled sight;Like stars along the milky zone that blaze,Their sceptred hands and gold-bound fronts they raise:My Sons!—my Daughters! faint, alas, and dimBefore these failing eyes your glories swim,Mix'd with the mists of death. 'Tis yours to throwYour radiance round, while happier ages flow;I smile at storms of earthly woe, and rise,Shades of my sires! to your serener skies."
- ↑ Tacitus, An. XIV. 32. Dio. Cass. LXII. 1.