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, Shame and ruin wait for you. BONDUCA. [Bonduca the British queen, taking occasion from a defeat of the Romans to impeach their valor, is rebuked by Caratac.] QUEEN BONDUCA, I do not grieve your fortune. If I grieve, 'tis at the bearing of your fortunes; You put too much wind to your sail : discretion And hardy valor are the twins of honor, And nursed together, make a conqueror; Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth, That Rome has fled before us twice, and routed; A truth we ought to crown the gods for, lady, And not our tongues. You call the Romans fearful, fleeing Romans, And Roman girls: Does this become a doer? are they such? Where is your conquest then? Why are your altars crowned with wreaths of flowers, The beast with gilt horns waiting for the fire? The holy Druidés composing songs For hunting a poor herd of wretched Is it no more? shut up your temples, Britons, And let the husbandman redeem his heifers; Put out our holy fires; no timbrel ring; Let's home and sleep; for such great overthrows A candle burns too bright a sacrifice; A glow-worm's tail too full a flame. You say, I doat upon these Romans; Witness these wounds, I do; they were fairly given: I love an enemy, I was born a soldier; And he that in the head of 's troop defies me, Rending my manly body with his sword, I make a mistress. Yellow-tressèd Hymen Ne'er tied a longing virgin with more joy, Than I am married to that man that wounds me: And are not all these Roman? struck battles Ten Not half so fearful;-not a flight drawn home, A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish, E'er made that haste they have. By heavens! I have seen these Britons that you magnify, Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring, Basely for mercy, roaring; the light shadows, That in a thought scour o'er the fields of corn, Halted on crutches to them. Yes, Bonduca, I have seen thee run too, and thee, Nennius; Yea, run apace, both; then when Penyus, The Roman girl, cut through your armed carts, And drove them headlong on ye down the hill; Then when he hunted ye like Britain foxes, More by the scent than sight: then did I see These valiant and approvèd men of Britain, Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy, And hoot their fears to one another nightly. I fled too, But not so fast; your jewel had been lost then, Young Hengo there; he trasht me, Nennius: For when your fears outrun him, then stept I, And in the head of all the Romans' fury Took him, and, with my tough belt My helm still on my head, my sword my prow, Turned to my foe my face, he cried out nobly, "Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely; Thy manly sword has ransomed thee: grow strong, And let me meet thee once again in arms: Then if thou stand'st, thou art mine." I took his offer, And here I am to honor him. There's not a blow we gave since Julius landed, That was of strength and worth, but like records They file to after-ages. Our Registers The Romans are, for noble deeds of honor; And shall we burn their mentions with upbraidings? Had we a difference with some petty Isle, Or with our neighbors, lady, for our landmarks, The taking in of some rebellious Lord, Or making a head against commotions, After a day of blood, peace might be argued : But where we grapple for the ground we live on, The Liberty we hold as dear as life, The gods we worship, and next those, our honors, And with those swords that know no end of battle: Those men beside themselves allow no neighbor; Those minds that, where the day is, claim inheritance; And where the sun makes ripe the fruits, their harvest; And where they march, but measure out more ground To add to Rome, and here in the bowels on us; It must not be; no, as they are our foes; And those that must be so until we tire 'em, Let's use the peace of Honor, that's fair dealing; But in our ends, our swords. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. THE BARD. I. 1. "RUIN seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait; Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. The shrieks of death, through Berk- That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with flight combined, And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind. II. 2. "Mighty victor, mighty lord! Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. II. 3. "Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl Heard ye the din of battle bray, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. "Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. Her lion-port, her awe-commanding What strains of vocal transport round her play Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored wings. III. 3. "The verse adorn again Fierce war, and faithful love, And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. Wizard. -Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed-for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlement's height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. |