I.

The Harp.

COME, take thy harp —'t is vain to muse
Upon the gathering ills we see:
Oh! take thy harp and let me lose
All thoughts of ill in hearing thee.

Sing to me, love!— though death were near,
Thy song could make my soul forget-

Nay, nay, in pity dry that tear,

All may be well, be happy yet.

Let me but see that snowy arm

Once more upon the dear harp lie; And I will cease to dream of harm, Will smile at fate, while thou art by.

Moore.

I.

Lyra.

SUME lyram, mea lux! rerum quid proderit ægra
Mente procellosas anticipare vices?

Sume lyram: nostræ jucunda oblivia curæ,
Aure bibam dulces, te modulante, sonos.
Canta, age: mors etiam si, te cantante, veniret,
Me neque sentirem, raptus ad astra, mori.
Parce, precor, nimios lacrymis augere dolores;
Crede dari lætos nunc quoque posse dies.
Te niveis videam solita dulcedine captus
Implicitas digitis pervolitare fides;
Somnia desistam venturi fingere luctus;

Nil mala, te coram, Parca minata valet. Teque mihi tactasque tuo modo pollice chordas Annuat, aversa cætera fronte neget.

Arbitra delicias geminat, fallitque dolorem
Emula cum facili vox tua juncta manu.
Hæc mihi non Orcus rapiet: cœloque superstes

Restat adhuc citharæ gratia, restat amor.

B.

II.

Boadicea.

WHEN the British warrior-queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods;

Sage beneath the 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 ruins as in guilt.

II.

Boadicea.

CUM modo Romanis regina Britannica flagris
Saucia, nudato sanguinolenta sinu;

Indignata malis succumbere, nescia vinci,
Cum petiit patrios consuluitque deos ;

Præscius en patulæ quercus sub tegmine sedit
Rex Druidûm, nivea colla tegente coma.
Omnia, quæ vates accenso e pectore fudit,
Plena gravis luctus, plena furoris erant.

"O domina, imbelles si tanta injuria guttas
Elicit, et possunt nil nisi flere senes;
Est quia terrores aufert violentia luctus,
Nostraque præ nimio lingua furore silet.

“Roma cadet: (tu scribe meas age sanguine voces, Sanguine, quo nostros commaculavit agros,) Spe sine detestata cadet: cito prægravis illam

Par sceleri tanto, crede, ruina premet.

"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.

66

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.