PROPHETESS.

In the caverns of the west,

By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er shall comb his raven hair,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor see the sun's departing beam,
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

Yet a while my call obey;
Prophetess, awake, and say,

What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth with solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,

And snowy veils that float in air?
Tell me whence their sorrows rose :
Then I leave thee to respose.

PROPHETESS.

Ha! no traveller art thou, King of men, I know thee now; Mightiest of a mighty line

ODIN.

No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, nor prophetess of good; But mother of the giant brood!

K

PROPHETESS.

Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall inquirer come

To break my iron-sleep again;

Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain;
Never, till substantial Night

Has reassumed her ancient right;

Till wrapt in flames, in ruin hurled,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

T. Gray.

BOADICEA.

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief:

'Princess! if our agèd 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 ruin as in guilt.

'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.

'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.

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,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you!

W. Cowper.

BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS ON THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!

Now's the day and now's the hour:
See the front o' battle lower :
See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa,'
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!-
Let us do or die!

R. Burns.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side;

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No temptest gave the shock;

She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock :

His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down,

With twice four hundred men.