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William Cowper - Boadicea. An Ode
Work rating: Medium

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 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!
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