Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary; Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily totter ing There was one who watch'd and told me - down their statue of Victory fell. Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Cámu lodúne, Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be pitiful? Shall we deal with it as an infant? shall we dandle it amorously? 'Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Tri nobant! While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly medi tating, There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses. "Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets! Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee, Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet! Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable, Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, Thine the North and thine the South and thine the bat tle-thunder of God." 439 So they chanted: how shall Britain light upon auguries happier? So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now. 'Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of lib erty, Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash’d and humiliated, Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian vio lators! See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in igno miny! Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Cámulo dúne ! There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inex orable. Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Tri nobant, Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipi tously Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Cúno belíne ! There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay, Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effemi nacy. There they dwelt and there they rioted; there — there they dwell no more. Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary, Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable, Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptu ousness, Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated, Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out, Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us.' So the Queen Boädicéa, standing loftily charioted, Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, Yell'd and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce volubility. Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineäments, Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand, Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice, Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary. Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Cámulodúne. IN QUANTITY. O MILTON. Alcaics. MIGHTY-MOUTH'D inventor of harmonies, O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, Milton, a name to resound for ages; Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Me rather all that bowery loneliness, And bloom profuse and cedar arches Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, And crimson-hued the stately palmwoods Whisper in odorous heights of even. O Hendecasyllabics. YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, Should I flounder awhile without a tumble Thro' this metrification of Catullus, They should speak to me not without a welcome, All that chorus of indolent reviewers. Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me - |