crisis-we must either write ourselves down slaves, or you must demand that there shall be no such thing as irresponsible, and therefore abused, power. The question is, whether you are to have one hundred and seventy masters or not; one hundred and seventy irresponsible masters? What is the title by which they claim to rule you? That they are an ancient institution. This looks all very well; but I should as soon think of suppressing the power-loom and annihilating the steam-engine, because they have taken the place of less useful machinery, as I should think of upholding an institution because it is old. I am not saying that those institutions were not at one time useful, but they were useful just as the hammer was useful when it beat out nails before you got the nailmaker's machine; and we must have improved machinery for legislation as we have for manufactures. No man can look back to British history, without feeling proud of belonging to the British nation. Though my country has suffered much, my heart throbs to exultation for the entire empire, and to participate in the blessings of a combined nation. I look back to your history, and behold when the other nations of Europe were sinking into despotism, you were fighting for liberty. Englishmen were never to be slaves. You, through the dark ages of feudal tyranny, were better than other nations who could admire, but were not men enough to imitate you. I see those throbs and throes for liberty at one period overturning the throne, and covering the scaffold with blood, because the people could not believe in the word of their king, and it is a sad thing to have liars about the throne. I see that that struggle ended in giving to military despotism that obedience which the people would not yield to legal monarchy. Then came 1668, and a despot of the same unfortunate breed. English people had grown wiser than to think of cutting off his foolish head, but sent him to carry it through Europe, to show the folly of an attempt to reduce Britons to the condition of slaves.

The

CHAPTER VII.

POETRY CONNECTED WITH MODERN HISTORY.

I.-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 abhorr'd,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renown'd,
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,
Arm'd 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:
Rush'd to battle, fought and died;
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heav'n awards the vengeance due ;

Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.-Cowper.

II. THE BARD.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!a

Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,

Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance; [lance. "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering a Edward I., when he conquered Wales, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands to be put to death. c Wales.

Coat of mail, made of steel rings.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air);
And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

"Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoël's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hushed the stormy main:
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmond bow his cloud-topp'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shores they lie,

Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
The famished eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-
No more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,

I see them sit; they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line."

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace:

d A mountain in Wales.

e Caern-avon in Wales.

Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!f

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

h

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs [wait. The scourge of Heaven.

What terrors round him

Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,

And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies! i
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable Warrior fled?

Thy son is gone: he rests among the dead,

The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born
Gone to salute the rising Morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly rising o'er the azure realm

In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;

Youth at the prow, and pleasure at the helm,
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway

That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast :'

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard the din of battle bray,

ye

m

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.

Edward II. who was cruelly_murdered] by his queen, Isabel of France, in Berkley Castle. g Isabel. h Edward III., who conquered the French in many battles. i Death of Edward I., abandoned by all. j Edward the Black Prince. Magnificence of Richard the Second's reign. Richard II. was deposed and starved to death. m The wars of York and Lancaster.