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| WHEN the British warrior queen, | |
| Bleeding from the Roman rods, | |
| Sought, with an indignant mien, | |
| Counsel of her countrys gods, | |
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| Sage beneath a spreading oak | 5 |
| Sat the Druid, hoary chief; | |
| Every burning word he spoke | |
| Full of rage, and full of grief. | |
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| Princess! if our aged eyes | |
| Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, | 10 |
| Tis because resentment ties | |
| All the terrors of our tongues. | |
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| Rome shall perishwrite that word | |
| In the blood that she has spilt; | |
| Perish, hopeless and abhorred, | 15 |
| 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! | 20 |
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| Other Romans shall arise, | |
| Heedless of a soldiers name; | |
| Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize | |
| Harmony the path to fame. | |
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| Then the progeny that springs | 25 |
| From the forests of our land, | |
| Armed with thunder, clad with wings, | |
| Shall a wider world command. | |
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| Regions Cæsar never knew | |
| Thy posterity shall sway, | 30 |
| Where his eagles never flew, | |
| None invincible as they. | |
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| Such the bards prophetic words, | |
| Pregnant with celestial fire, | |
| Bending, as he swept the chords | 35 |
| Of his sweet but awful lyre. | |
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| She, with all a monarchs pride, | |
| Felt them in her bosom glow; | |
| Rushed to battle, fought, and died; | |
| Dying, hurled them at the foe. | 40 |
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| Ruffians, pitiless as proud, | |
| Heaven awards the vengeance due: | |
| Empire is on us bestowed, | |
| Shame and ruin wait for you. | |
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