Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
 |
|
|
|
King Veric.
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Ballads for the Times |  |
King Veric.
[_]
(Suggested by a gold British coin, unique, of Veric Rex, found among some Roman remains at Farley Heath.)
Veric, the King, in his chariot of war,
Like a statue straight upstood,
As his scythèd wheels flash'd fast and far,
Smear'd with the Romans' blood;
His huge bronze celt was crimson with gore,
And, round his unkempt head,
The golden fillet his fathers wore
Was dabbled with drops of red!
Like a statue straight upstood,
As his scythèd wheels flash'd fast and far,
Smear'd with the Romans' blood;
His huge bronze celt was crimson with gore,
And, round his unkempt head,
The golden fillet his fathers wore
Was dabbled with drops of red!
And rage in the monarch's eye blazed bright,
And his cheek was deadly pale,
For Plautius Aulus had won the fight
With his mighty men in mail:
The carross of hide and the wicker targe
Were riddled far and near;
And terrible was the prætorian charge,
And keen the cohort's spear!
And his cheek was deadly pale,
For Plautius Aulus had won the fight
With his mighty men in mail:
The carross of hide and the wicker targe
Were riddled far and near;
And terrible was the prætorian charge,
And keen the cohort's spear!
And over the hurt-wood, and over the heath,
Alone—alive he fled;
For the car bore straight to his stronghold of Leith
The living—and the dead!
Young Mepati lay at his father's feet,
Hew'd by the ruthless foe;
And the bloodhound may track on the trickling peat
The pathless way they go!
Alone—alive he fled;
For the car bore straight to his stronghold of Leith
The living—and the dead!
Young Mepati lay at his father's feet,
Hew'd by the ruthless foe;
And the bloodhound may track on the trickling peat
The pathless way they go!
Young Mepati—well had he borne him then,
On Fair-lee's fatal day,
He boasted that ten of those bearded men
Had vanish'd from the fray;
His flinthead shafts went merrily home,
As four hard hearts had felt;
And six of the stalwarth guards of Rome
Had bow'd to the stripling's celt!
On Fair-lee's fatal day,
He boasted that ten of those bearded men
Had vanish'd from the fray;
115
As four hard hearts had felt;
And six of the stalwarth guards of Rome
Had bow'd to the stripling's celt!
Young Mepati, come of the Comian stock,—
Ha! look! they hem him round,
And down is he hurl'd in the battle shock,
And trampled to the ground,—
But Veric has seen with his lightning eye,
And struck has the bolt, goodsooth!
Like thundering Thor with his hammer on high,
He has saved the gallant youth!
Ha! look! they hem him round,
And down is he hurl'd in the battle shock,
And trampled to the ground,—
But Veric has seen with his lightning eye,
And struck has the bolt, goodsooth!
Like thundering Thor with his hammer on high,
He has saved the gallant youth!
But, woe! for the foe had smitten him sore;
And eight deep wounds in his front
With red lips swore how well the boy bore
That hideous battle-brunt!
Proudly the monarch smiled on the child,
In his rescuing arms upborne,—
But—all of his son that Veric has won
Is a corpse by the tigers torn!
And eight deep wounds in his front
With red lips swore how well the boy bore
That hideous battle-brunt!
Proudly the monarch smiled on the child,
In his rescuing arms upborne,—
But—all of his son that Veric has won
Is a corpse by the tigers torn!
Then, deep as the ocean's distant roar,
The father gave a groan;
And the Attrebate king by his gods he swore
He should not die alone!
Back on their haunches swift he stopp'd
Those untamed fiery steeds;
As an eagle down on the dovecote dropp'd,
Or a whirlwind in the reeds!
The father gave a groan;
And the Attrebate king by his gods he swore
He should not die alone!
Back on their haunches swift he stopp'd
Those untamed fiery steeds;
As an eagle down on the dovecote dropp'd,
Or a whirlwind in the reeds!
116
And, was it then that the monarch's life
By the Waverley witch was charm'd?
The javelin sleet of that stern strife
Around him flew unharm'd!
And weary he cleft with his wedge of war
The hundredth foreign brow,
Before he would flee in his iron car,
As he is fleeing now!
By the Waverley witch was charm'd?
The javelin sleet of that stern strife
Around him flew unharm'd!
And weary he cleft with his wedge of war
The hundredth foreign brow,
Before he would flee in his iron car,
As he is fleeing now!
For lo! to that false foe he has lost
All that a king can lose;
His veteran chiefs, his patriot host,
Scatter'd as early dews:
Treason had wink'd at the stranger's gold,
And faithless friends had fled,—
And Mepati's self—his darling bold—
Alas! that he is dead.
All that a king can lose;
His veteran chiefs, his patriot host,
Scatter'd as early dews:
Treason had wink'd at the stranger's gold,
And faithless friends had fled,—
And Mepati's self—his darling bold—
Alas! that he is dead.
He flies, as only a king may fly,
In obstinate despair,—
On his hill-top high like a lion to die
At bay in his own lair!
And lo! the black horses are white with foam,
Strong straining up the steep;
To carry the king to his ancient home,
Yon far-seen castle keep!
In obstinate despair,—
On his hill-top high like a lion to die
At bay in his own lair!
And lo! the black horses are white with foam,
Strong straining up the steep;
To carry the king to his ancient home,
Yon far-seen castle keep!
But—woe upon woe! for the wily foe
Hath been before him there,
And while the lion was prowling below,
Hath spoil'd the lion's lair;
Dead, dead and stark, and smear'd with gore,
Beneath a smouldering heap,
Wife, daughters, and sons, and the grandsire hoar,
On death's red ashes sleep!
Hath been before him there,
And while the lion was prowling below,
Hath spoil'd the lion's lair;
117
Beneath a smouldering heap,
Wife, daughters, and sons, and the grandsire hoar,
On death's red ashes sleep!
Then burst in agony, rage, and pain,
That noble broken heart;
And under his beetled brows like rain
The spouting tears did start:
And down like a pole-axed bull he drops,
And weak on the threshold lies;
The wellspring of life freezes and stops—
He dies—the hero dies!
That noble broken heart;
And under his beetled brows like rain
The spouting tears did start:
And down like a pole-axed bull he drops,
And weak on the threshold lies;
The wellspring of life freezes and stops—
He dies—the hero dies!
But, look! a light on his royal brow,
A strange prophetic flame—
The spirit of Vola over him now
In solemn calmness came,
He saw the Gael at the gates of Rome,
And carnage on the track,
And Britain's spoilers hurrying home
To drive the terror back,—
A strange prophetic flame—
The spirit of Vola over him now
In solemn calmness came,
He saw the Gael at the gates of Rome,
And carnage on the track,
And Britain's spoilers hurrying home
To drive the terror back,—
He saw in the midst of his native plains
Fair-lee's polluted hill,—
Where Rome so long should forge her chains
To bind the Briton still,
He saw it ruin'd, and burnt, and bare;
And—from one mite of gold,
He saw a Saxon stranger there
Read off this tale of old!
Fair-lee's polluted hill,—
Where Rome so long should forge her chains
To bind the Briton still,
He saw it ruin'd, and burnt, and bare;
And—from one mite of gold,
He saw a Saxon stranger there
Read off this tale of old!
| Ballads for the Times | |