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BOADICEA.

AN ode.

When the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's 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 perish_write that word

In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish, hopeless and abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned,

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, Armed 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,

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 :
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.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.

A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark ;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent-

“ Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he,
" As much as I your minstrelsy,
“You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song ;
“For 'twas the self-same Power divine,
“Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
“That you with music, I with light,
“ Might beautify and cheer the night."

The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of grace.
- Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps, and him that flies.

FAREWELL TO ANNA'S GRAVE. I wish I was where Anna lies,

For I am sick of lingering here;And every hour affection cries,

Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could : for when she died

I lost my all ; and life has proved Since that sad hgur a dreary void,

A waste unlovely and unloved.

But who, when I am turned to clay,

Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have no business there?

And who with pious hand shall bring

The flowers she cherished, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallowed mould ?

And who, while memory loves to dwell

Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,

And pour the bitter, bitter tear ?

I did it; and would Fate allow,

Should visit still, should still deplore; But health and strength have left me now,

And I, alas ! can weep no more.

Take then, sweet maid, this simple strain,

The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undecked remain,

And all thy memory fade with mine.
And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice that might with music vie,
Thy air, that every gazer took,
• Thy matchless eloquence of eye,
Thy spirits frolicksome as good,

Thy courage by no ills dismayed,
Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,

Thy gay good humour,-can they fade?

Perhaps ;- but sorrow dims my eye:

Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh,

A long, a last, a sad adieu.

THE DYING GLADIATOR.
WILL then no pitying hand its succour lend,
The Gladiator's mortal throes to end ?
To free the unconquered mind, whose generous power
Triumphs o'er nature in her saddest hour ?

Bowed low and full of death, his head declines,
Yet o'er his brow indignant valour shines,
Still glares his closing eye with angry light,
Now glares, now darkens with approaching night!

Think not, with terror heaves that sinewy breast!
'Tis vengeance visible and pain supprest;
Calm in despair, in agony sedate,
His proud soul wrestles with o'ermastering fate;
That pang the conflict ends! he falls not yet!
Seems every nerve for one last effort set :
At once by death, death's lingering power to brave,
He will not sink, but plunge into the grave-
Exhaust his mighty soul in one last sigh,
And rally all life's energies to die !

Unfeared is now that cord, which oft ensnared
The baffled rival, whom his falchion spared :
Those clarions mute, which on the murderous stage,
Roused him to deeds of more than martial rage:
Once poised by peerless might, once dear to fame,
The shield, which could not guard, supports his frame;
His fixed eye dwells upon his faithless blade,
As if in silent agony he prayed ;
“O might I yet by one avenging blow,
« Not shun my fate, but share it with my foe !"

Vain hope! the streams of life-blood fast descend ; That giant arm's up-bearing strength must bend : Yet shall he scorn, procumbnet to betray One dastard sign of anguish or dismay, With one weak plaint to shame his parting breath, In pangs sublime, magnificent in death.

But his were deeds unchronicled ;-his tomb No patriot wreaths adorn ;--to cheer his doom,

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