England :: :: University of Virginia Library

England never did, and never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
------ nought shall make us rue
If England to itself do rest but true.
—Shakspeare.

We shall look from tower and steeple,
On the coming ships of the foe!
And dames and daughters shall all your locks
With the spoiler's grasp entwine!
—Campbell's Reullura.

Never was any land so sorely tried!
Its youth was burning fire that aye would cling—
The hostile foot ne'er left its pastures wide—
The foeman's eagle never dropt its wing,
But slew the dove, though caged with a king!
Thus hath its honour aye been pure and fair,
And noblest fruit sprung from its blossoming;
And now old ocean doth her vessels bear,
Whether the fires of war, or perilous tracks they dare.

Rome, the majestic, rose, and England fell!
O, what had England then to tempt the foe?
The simple village and the cottag'd dell

Existed not—and on the river's flow
The ship of commerce rear'd no front of snow:
What then brought mighty Cæsar from the land
Of golden skies, warm suns, and streams that go
Through blushing vineyards, to a rock-strewn strand,
To fight on the sea-cliffs, a rude barbarian band?

Was it ambition to hew down a child,
Born of the billows and the tempest's breath?
Was it for gold to crop our deserts wild,
Or wring the yellow flower'd and purple heath?
England had nought for Rome but war and death.
Yet, the huge world for that belong'd to Rome,
Save this poor ocean gem Ambition's wreath:
Drew forth the fiery legions from their home,
To win the ocean-queen, and bear her o'er the foam.

Say, shall I rear no laurel for thy head,
And rear no monument above thy dust,
Thou noblest one of England's royal dead—
Thou, on whose sword of fame there lies no rust—
Who bear'st no spot upon thy snow-white bust—
Queen Boadicea?—thou wert great indeed:
Belov'd by heaven, even when thy land was lost;
And though a thousand years have dimm'd thy seed,
Thy blood on England's fields hath left a mighty breed!

She drove the Roman back, like a worn wave;
And rear'd triumphant England from the mire:

She taught the hungry battle storm to rave,
And lit the flames of Rome's wild funeral pyre.
Alas, too soon extinguish'd was the fire!
For we had nought but scythe and useless gear:
Feeble, we could not meet a storm so dire—
A storm that, as an earthquake, bellow'd near,
And smote the standard down a Queen was first to rear.

Yea, they dishonour'd her, who was a Queen,
And tore the purple from her snowy breast:
Lust came and dwelt amid our pastures green,
And with hot fingers their fair blooms carest,
And the Queen's daughters were all soil'd and prest;
Ravish'd and murder'd even before her eyes!
Her lands despoil'd, her people sore opprest;
And she so weak, she had not power to rise;
What English Queen, was e'er in such sad piteous wise.

But she is dead—the mighty one is dead!
Nought now remains save History's golden line:
Less worthy queens have monumental bed:
But she has none, who liv'd and died divine!
O'er her fair brow, no garlandings entwine.
Yet, when she reign'd—to meet her queenly eye,
To hear her speak, thousands had sought her shrine;
Thousands had borne her praises to the sky,
Whose mouldering ashes now in black oblivion lie.

And yet, perchance, even then was heard some note,
And the old minstrel Bard could turn a lay:
Perchance her praises warbled from the throat
Of blue-eyed maiden, in the lonely way,
Tending her white lambs in the early May.
Yet now the wild winds watch, the fast rains weep—
Sole mourners, and night's glooms their homage pay—
With the immortal dead she hath her sleep—
The mighty shades, who still the world in bondage keep.

They should have lain her down with helm and spear;
And pil'd the marble, so no flowers might grow:
(Whose bloom and scent had mock'd her life of fear)
And clad her in the sheeted mail;—her woe
Been told by solemn yew-tree, swinging low;
And, for an epitaph,—“They took my all,
“They slew my children, and defil'd their snow;
“They wrung my country's heart and mock'd her call,
“But me they could not chain—I have escap'd their thrall.”

Another of the same great breed—a hand
To guide the helm, when loudest storms were near—
A power sprung forth, to save a falling land!
Bravely and long, he fought the fight of fear,
And blew a trumpet in the foeman's ear.
He was a chief, such as old battles knew;
The hills were glad his guiding voice to hear;

And though of savage times, his faith was true,
And with the noblest dreams all actions did embue.

Perchance, had the same heart beat for the war
Of latter times, his name had swell'd on high,
A patriot's and conqueror's: a bright star
Beckoning afar on Fame's enkindled sky,
To guide the trampled slave to liberty:
Perchance a Hampden, Washington, or Tell,
To cheer the bondsman's heart, and clear his eye!
But as it was, the lofty spirit fell,
Bound to Rome's chariot wheels, proud Cæsar's ranks to swell.

What were his thoughts, when captive borne to Rome?—
One who had trod the deserts—who had made
The haughty cliffs his most approved home—
When, at the conqueror's chariot wheels, they bade
Him hang his locks!—say, was he then dismay'd?
No: his old freedom clad him like the air;
And the vast towers, proud domes, and crowds array'd,
He saw not; for his soul had other care,
And wander'd far away, 'mid England's pastures fair.

He bore the freedom on his mountains won;
The soul elate—the bearing proud and high:
Nature look'd out in him, her savage son,
From the wild raven hair, and eagle eye;
And robed him with her native majesty.

The gorgeous hall—the kingly state—the crowd
Of glittering shapes, ne'er brought a tear or sigh;
And England seem'd already to shout loud,
That she should sway the earth when Rome was in her shroud!

Say ye, that Rome was free?—she slew the free!
Look to her history!—when she arose,
The world was hush'd in love and liberty;
The ocean and the sky were all repose;
The earth had then but heard of half its woes.
But she arose, and Egypt was bent low;
And Macedonia, wrung with mighty throes,
And craggy Carthage, felt the sudden blow;
And the Barbaric Kings she slew, and every foe!

There was not any sea where her proud fleet
Shook not their giant ribs among the foam;
There was no hidden spot whereon her feet
Had trod not, which she sought not as her home:
The strangest caverns knew thy name, O Rome;—
Deserts the most remote, and wastes most lone.
Of fairest cities, thou didst make a tomb;
The loveliest places rung with curse and groan;
And millions bled and died, that thou might'st rear thy throne.

She rose in mists of blood—in blood she fell;
With cruel murder were her temples won;
The pomp that over all the earth did swell,
And like a mighty monument, alone,
Stood forth, even like a shatter'd rock fell down.

Great was the noise—it sounded far and wide;
Earth clapp'd her hands for joy to hear her groan;
And she that with great ocean did divide
All climates, wither'd low, and fell in all her pride.

Yea, she whose conquering ships trode down the sea;
Who, through vast rocks, did carve her hungry way—
She, 'neath whose feet, the mountains, towering free
With elk-trod forests, like new harvests lay,
To whom the wrath of nations was but play—
Hath she not suffer'd for her deeds of ill?—
Yea, Time, hath scourg'd her, and transform'd her clay:
The spear and faulchion long have had their fill;
And slaves pollute the soil, where freemen once held will.

What, though her temples greet the setting sun;
What, though her marble pillars stand in pride,
And tell of the old glory Rome hath won;
Though domes and palaces stand side by side,
On whose white fronts, the loving moonbeams glide;
In whose fair halls, with music, dance, and song,
Great emperors in splendour did abide:—
Even these are not her own: the Austrian long
Hath held them: nought but slaves do walk their glooms among!

As a small stream, that, from the mountain's heart,
In gloom and sunshine, treads its silent way,
Till, as each neighbouring rill doth lend a part,

The rolling tide breaks forth unto the day,
Then, as a mighty river, swells away,
So Rome arose. Earth saw her from afar:
The nations were her feeding rills alway,
Won from their mountains by the sword of war;
And o'er them all she shone a glory-bearing star.

Her waters swept the vineyards of the south,
And topp'd the mountains of the frozen North:
Robed in the vigour of their mighty youth,
O'er Lybia and Syria they went forth,
And where the Ethiopian hath his birth,
Beside the fountains of the Infant Nile
They mingled, and Euphrates: all the earth
Was delug'd; over continent and isle
They swept; o'er every clime, and atmosphere, and soil.—

Till, in the ocean of eternity,
Where time lies dead, and strives to move in vain,
The mighty waters gather'd; far as eye
Could stretch, and far beyond, did stretch this main:
Earth heard the sound, and groan'd aloud in pain:
Ceas'd, long ago, is that tremendous roar;
Nor will it ever lash the world again;
But still the fame will live, nor e'er run o'er:
In History's page, the voice shall sound for evermore.