Boadicea: A Vision of Old Times 1838

Hark! The wild hunter-call, the gathering-cry,

The promise of a swift and sure revenge,

Singing through England’s ancient forest-grounds.

—Whither so hastily, O warrior bold?

‘To fight for Boadicea and our land.’

—Whither so hastily, O stripling rash?

‘To fight for Boadicea and our land.’

—Whither so hastily, O Druid old?

‘To fight for Boadicea and our land.’

Strange was the contrast of the rival hosts.

On one side stood the Roman soldiery,

Perfect in arms, a firm and solid mass,

With lance and buckler glancing in the sun.

Opposed to them, a stern and dusky crowd

Covered the upland slope. Rude hunting spears,

And wicker shields, and scythed chariots,

Appeared among their host; but they themselves

Stood naked in their war-paint, and unclad,

Save the loose wolf-skin girt about their loins.

Deep silence came upon them, when their Queen

Arose to speak; but sorrowing and shame

Had quelled the utterance of her lion heart:

Twice rose her towering form, and twice again

She bent in silence; then, at last, one word,

One deep, far-penetrating whisper came—

‘Strike.’ —and they struck.

Spear-point and helm, and iron panoply

Went down before the rush of naked men:

Gleamed the blue eye, and breath came hot & thick,

And ridgy muscles leapt up from the arm,

Writhing and straining with a giant’s grasp.

All martial order was unthought of then;

All art and discipline was trodden down;

And as the surges rend some stately bark,

Whose ribs of oak and solid bolted frame

Seemed almost everlasting in their strength,

So the wild onset of these savages

Broke through the serried lines of Roman war.

It was no conquest but a slaughtering;

No strife, but a pursuit; no victory,

But an extermination of their foes.

Still the wild work went on; till, at the last,

A stalwart chieftain tossed his arm aloft,

And, standing thus, as if he felt a pride

In his strong beauty, with a trumpet voice,

Cried ‘Victory!’—and all the warriors,

And all the Druids and the sacred bards,

And women watching on the mountain tops,

And even the eternal hills themselves,

Caught up the sound, and gave back ‘Victory!’

Such was the massacre at Colchester.

But England has been fruitful in bold Queens: —

Ethelfrid, she who quelled her brother’s foes;

Phillippa then, who trod on Scotland’s neck;

Jane Grey, who earned the martyr’s holy wreath;

Elizabeth, the scourge of haughty Spain,

With many such; and now Victoria¹

Comes, full of promise, to the throne of power.

O, God of battles! let her empire be

Not over hands but hearts. Let her keep down

The frantic efforts of the mob (who strive

To mutilate our Constitution-ark)

With gloves of velvet, but with hands of iron;

Let her career of widespread sovereignty

Be as a planet’s calm and regular,

Not as a comet’s, scattering fear and awe.

And when her mighty power shall yield at last

To mightier death, let her dear memory be

Embalmed and consecrated with the tears

And blessings of all time. Amen. Amen.

E.T.F.

Quebec, 16 December 1838