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For thee I panted, thee I prized,
For thee I gladly sacrificed

Whate'er I loved before;
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, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods, 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—write that word

In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr’d,

Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

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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, 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,

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; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;

Dying hurl'd them at the foe:

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

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Published by W. Suttaby. London,

Aug 30.1809

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those luckless brains

That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning;
Ah, why, since oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations;
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, Impellid through regions dense and rare,

By all the winds that blow: Ordain’d perhaps ere summer flies,

Combined with millions more, To form an Iris in the skies,

Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop! and happy then

Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,

So soon to be forgot!
Phoebus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left

may

shine With equal grace below.

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