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CARACTACUS—
Caractacus was a British prince, who placed
himself at the head of the Silures, a people of
North Wales, in a revolt against the Romans.
He defeated the Roman general, Plautius, in
three pitched battles; but, after a protracted
struggle of nine years, was overcome by Ostorius,
Roman governor of Britain, who took
captive the chieftain's wife and daughter. Caractacus
took refuge with Cartismandua, Queen
of the Brigantes; but was treacherously delivered
up to Ostorius, and carried by him to
Rome, where (his fame having reached the
capital) a great concourse of people attended,
to witness his introduction to the Emperor
Claudius. The behaviour of the noble barbarian,
on this occasion, was firm and magnanimous,
as, with an erect presence, he replied to
the Cæsar's questions; and the latter had the
generosity to admit his defence, and, releasing
him from his chains, ordered his wife and child
to be restored to him.—
Vide
Taciti Annal. XII.
A ROMAN BALLAD.
Caractacus was a British prince, who placed himself at the head of the Silures, a people of North Wales, in a revolt against the Romans. He defeated the Roman general, Plautius, in three pitched battles; but, after a protracted struggle of nine years, was overcome by Ostorius, Roman governor of Britain, who took captive the chieftain's wife and daughter. Caractacus took refuge with Cartismandua, Queen of the Brigantes; but was treacherously delivered up to Ostorius, and carried by him to Rome, where (his fame having reached the capital) a great concourse of people attended, to witness his introduction to the Emperor Claudius. The behaviour of the noble barbarian, on this occasion, was firm and magnanimous, as, with an erect presence, he replied to the Cæsar's questions; and the latter had the generosity to admit his defence, and, releasing him from his chains, ordered his wife and child to be restored to him.—
Vide Taciti Annal. XII.
CLOSE your gates, O priests of Janus! close your brazen temple gates!
For the bold Ostorius Scapula invokes the peaceful fates;
And the brave Britannic Legion at the Arch of Triumph waits.
For the bold Ostorius Scapula invokes the peaceful fates;
And the brave Britannic Legion at the Arch of Triumph waits.
Bold Ostorius—home returning—for the island war is o'er;
And the wild Silurian rebels shall arise in arms no more:
Captive stands their savage monarch on the Tiber's golden shore.
And the wild Silurian rebels shall arise in arms no more:
Captive stands their savage monarch on the Tiber's golden shore.
Crowded are the banks of Tiber—crowded is the Appian Way;
And through all the Via Sacra ye may mark the dense array
Of the tramping throngs who celebrate a Roman gala-day.
And through all the Via Sacra ye may mark the dense array
Of the tramping throngs who celebrate a Roman gala-day.
305
From the joyous Campus Martius to the lonely Aventine—
From the Capitolian Palace to Apollo's Tiber shrine—
Hurrying onward to the Forum, sweeps the long, unbroken line.
From the Capitolian Palace to Apollo's Tiber shrine—
Hurrying onward to the Forum, sweeps the long, unbroken line.
To the Forum, where the Captive—chief of Britain's savage horde—
He who smote the host of Plautius with his fierce barbaric sword—
To the Forum, where the captive, trembling, waits the Cæsar's word.
He who smote the host of Plautius with his fierce barbaric sword—
To the Forum, where the captive, trembling, waits the Cæsar's word.
Caractácus! Caractácus! Oh! full many a Roman child
To its mother's breast at midnight has been caught in terror wild,
When some fearful dream of Britain's chief her sleeping sense beguiled.
To its mother's breast at midnight has been caught in terror wild,
When some fearful dream of Britain's chief her sleeping sense beguiled.
Thrice in battle sank our Eagles—shame that Romans lived to tell!
Thrice three years our baffled legions strove this rebel chief to quell:
Vain were all our arms against him—till by treachery he fell.
Thrice three years our baffled legions strove this rebel chief to quell:
Vain were all our arms against him—till by treachery he fell.
306
Now, behold! he is our captive! in the market-place he stands,
And around him are the Lictors and the stern Prætorian bands:
Stands he like a king among them—lifting high his shackled hands.
And around him are the Lictors and the stern Prætorian bands:
Stands he like a king among them—lifting high his shackled hands.
Sure he sees the steel-clad cohorts—sure he marks the lictors nigh,
Yet he stands before our monarch with a glance as proudly high
As if he, in truth, were Cæsar, and 'twere Claudius that should die.
Yet he stands before our monarch with a glance as proudly high
As if he, in truth, were Cæsar, and 'twere Claudius that should die.
Gazes he o'er prince and people, with a glance of wondering light—
O'er the Rostra—o'er the Forum—up the Palatinian height—
O'er the serried ranks of soldiers stretching far beneath his sight.
O'er the Rostra—o'er the Forum—up the Palatinian height—
O'er the serried ranks of soldiers stretching far beneath his sight.
Grandly swell the crash of cymbals, blare of trump, and roll of drum,
As adown that storied market-place the veteran cohorts come:
Then, at once, the clamorous shoutings sink into a brooding hum.
As adown that storied market-place the veteran cohorts come:
Then, at once, the clamorous shoutings sink into a brooding hum.
307
Tramping onward move the legions—tramping on with iron tread,
While Ostorius, marching vanward, proudly bends his martial head—
Proudly bends to the Ovation—meed of those whom valor led.
While Ostorius, marching vanward, proudly bends his martial head—
Proudly bends to the Ovation—meed of those whom valor led.
Statue-like, in savage grandeur, stands the chief of Britain's isle;
And his bearded lip is wreathing, as with silent scorn, the while:
Bold barbarian! dost thou mock us—mock us with that bitter smile?
And his bearded lip is wreathing, as with silent scorn, the while:
Bold barbarian! dost thou mock us—mock us with that bitter smile?
Lo! thou standest where the Brutus sware by chaste Lucretia's blood—
Where the Roman sire, Virginius, o'er his virgin daughter stood;
And where Marcus Curtius perished—victim for his country's good.
Where the Roman sire, Virginius, o'er his virgin daughter stood;
And where Marcus Curtius perished—victim for his country's good.
Lo! thou standest in the Forum—where the stranger's voice is free—
Where the captive may bear witness—thus our Roman laws decree!
“Lift thy voice, O chief of Britons!” 'Tis the Cæsar speaks to thee!—
Where the captive may bear witness—thus our Roman laws decree!
“Lift thy voice, O chief of Britons!” 'Tis the Cæsar speaks to thee!—
308
“Lift thy voice, O wondering stranger! Thou hast marked our Roman state:
All the terrors—all the glories—that on boundless empire wait!—
Boldly speak thy thought, O Briton!—be it framed in love or hate!”
All the terrors—all the glories—that on boundless empire wait!—
Boldly speak thy thought, O Briton!—be it framed in love or hate!”
Thus our monarch to the stranger. Then, from off his forehead fair,
Backward, with a Jove-like motion, flung the chief his golden hair:
And he said—“O King of Romans! freely I my thought declare:—
Backward, with a Jove-like motion, flung the chief his golden hair:
And he said—“O King of Romans! freely I my thought declare:—
“Vanquished is my warlike nation—stricken by the Roman sword;
Lost to me my wife and children—long have I their fate deplored—
They are gone—but gloomy Hertha still enthralls their hapless lord.
Lost to me my wife and children—long have I their fate deplored—
They are gone—but gloomy Hertha still enthralls their hapless lord.
“Yet I murmur not—but wonder—WONDER, as in Jötna dreams,
At each strange and glittering marvel that before my vision gleams;
At the blaze of Roman glory which upon my senses streams.
At each strange and glittering marvel that before my vision gleams;
At the blaze of Roman glory which upon my senses streams.
309
“Romans! even as gods ye prosper—boundless are your gifts and powers!
Ye have fields with grain o'erladen—gardens thick with fruits and flowers
Halls of shining marble builded—cities strong with battling towers.
Ye have fields with grain o'erladen—gardens thick with fruits and flowers
Halls of shining marble builded—cities strong with battling towers.
“I have marked your gorgeous dwellings, and your works of wondrous art;
Bridges high in air suspended—columned shrine, and gilded mart:—
And I marveled—much I marveled—in my poor barbarian heart.
Bridges high in air suspended—columned shrine, and gilded mart:—
And I marveled—much I marveled—in my poor barbarian heart.
“For this day I saw your mighty gods beneath the Pantheon dome—
Gods of gold, and bronze, and silver!—and I marveled, King of Rome!
That such wealthy gods should envy me my poor, barbarian home!”
Gods of gold, and bronze, and silver!—and I marveled, King of Rome!
That such wealthy gods should envy me my poor, barbarian home!”
Ceased the chief—and on the pavement sadly sank his tearful eyes,
And the wondering crowds around him held their breath in mute surprise;
Held their breath—and then, outbursting, clove the air with sudden cries:
And the wondering crowds around him held their breath in mute surprise;
Held their breath—and then, outbursting, clove the air with sudden cries:
310
As when round the hush'd arena's dust a swoon-like silence floats,
While the Coliseum's victor o'er his dying foeman gloats—
And as breaks the sudden plaudit from a hundred thousand throats.
While the Coliseum's victor o'er his dying foeman gloats—
And as breaks the sudden plaudit from a hundred thousand throats.
Thus arose the voiceful tumult—thus, with loud and sudden swell,
Up from all those swaying thousands rose the shout no king might quell:
“Cæsar! he hath spoken bravely! Claudius! he hath spoken well!”
Up from all those swaying thousands rose the shout no king might quell:
“Cæsar! he hath spoken bravely! Claudius! he hath spoken well!”
Not unmoved the brow of Cæsar—it hath lost the Claudian frown;
And a tear upon his royal cheek is slowly trickling down:
Never purer gem than Pity's tear enriched a monarch's crown!
And a tear upon his royal cheek is slowly trickling down:
Never purer gem than Pity's tear enriched a monarch's crown!
Yet he speaks in anger's accents—“Ho! advance the fasces now!
Lictors! close ye round the scorner! Ha! barbarian! smilest thou?
There is ONE beneath whose glance even THY haughty soul shall bow!”
Lictors! close ye round the scorner! Ha! barbarian! smilest thou?
There is ONE beneath whose glance even THY haughty soul shall bow!”
311
Thus spoke Claudius—and the soldiers, opening round the curule chair,
Half revealed a form majestic 'mid the lictors bending there—
Half revealed a stately WOMAN—mantled by her radiant hair.
Half revealed a form majestic 'mid the lictors bending there—
Half revealed a stately WOMAN—mantled by her radiant hair.
Flashed the captive's eye with sunlight—burned his cheek with new-born life—
Hope, and fear, and doubt, and gladness, held by turns their eager strife—
Then two hearts and voices mingled—murmuring, “Husband!” answering, “Wife!”
Hope, and fear, and doubt, and gladness, held by turns their eager strife—
Then two hearts and voices mingled—murmuring, “Husband!” answering, “Wife!”
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