And there the gray-haired hero, bowed with years,
Drops on his galling chain indignant tears;
There frightened children, who lament aloud,
And gaze in terror on the hostile crowd,
Followed by many a pale and tearful maid,
And frantic lovers who the gods upbraid;
And there the white-robed Druid lifts his hand,
And heaps prophetic curses on the land.

But who is he, majestic and alone, Who in his country's fall forgets his own? Unbent by fortune, calm amidst his woes, The last proud conquest of a host of foes! Not e'en that pang can his stern firmness move, When each dear tie of kindred and of love, Long parted from him, he beholds again, Sad and dishonoured with the captive train; And led in servile chains, a public show, To swell the victor's triumph with their woe. The king's, the husband's, and the father's grief, Shake not the firmness of the patriot chief; Sublime he rises o'er the shocks of Fate, In that dark hour unconquerably great, Amidst the gaze of haughty Rome, the same As when her legions trembled at his name; Awed by his glance the gathering crowd retire, And, though in fetters, dread him and admire. And the world's master, on the Roman throne, Felt a slave's majesty eclipse his own.

THE ROMAN TRIUMPH.

HISTORIC ILLUSTRATION.

"EVEN at Rome, the name of Caractacus was in high celebrity. The emperor, willing to magnify the glory of the conquest, bestowed the highest praise on the valour of the vanquished king. He assembled the people to behold a spectacle worthy of their view. In the field before the camp the Prætorian bands were drawn up under arms. The followers of the British chief walked in procession. The military accoutrements, the harness, the rich collars, which he had gained in various battles, were there displayed. The wife of Caractacus, his daughters, and his brother, followed next; he himself closed the melancholy train. The rest of the prisoners, struck with terror, descended to mean and abject supplications. Caractacus alone was superior to misfortune. With a countenance unaltered, not a symptom of fear appearing, no sorrow, no condescension, he behaved with dignity even in ruin."-Annals of Tacitus, b. xii. p. 372.

Such is the touching portrait which the Roman historian has given of the demeanour, under the most trying reverse of fortune, of the British hero, who had for so many years opposed the masters of the world in their full tide of conquest. The sequel is too well known to require detail; yet surely the free pardon and generous treatment which the royal captives received from the emperor Claudius, should be recorded as bright though solitary traits of greatness in the character of that feeble and besotted prince.

TO THE CITY OF ROME.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GUIDICCIONE.

NURSE of the mighty! who in ancient time Filled thee with glory, and the world with fears; Once of the favouring gods the home sublime, Now the abode of unavailing tears;

How can I see thee of thy honours reft,

And hear thy sighs, nor feel my heart o'erflow?
Can I behold thee dark and joyless left,
And not partake my bleeding country's woe?
Majestic in thy fall! though fall'n so low,
My bosom thrills at thy still hallowed name;
E'en at thy ruins I adoring bow.-
Ah! had I then beheld thee in thy fame,
When as a queen thy flowing locks around
The laurels of a conquered world were bound!

THE

GRAVE OF COMMODORE SIR JOHN HAYES,

OF THE INDIAN NAVY.

VICTORIOUS rider of the deep!

Thy bold career is o'er,

And thy unconquered flag shall sweep

The subject main no more.

That glorious flag, brave Hayes, is furled,
And hushed each thundering gun-
Fame's mournful voice has told the world
Thy last stern battle's won.

Thy bark a peaceful port has found,
From all the storms of life,

And though wild billows rage around,
Thou'rt anchor'd from their strife.

Though not beneath the solemn shade
Of minster's marble dome,

Wert thou by weeping Britain laid,
Within a trophied tomb.

Yet in thy lovely eastern isle,*

With fadeless verdure drest,

Which meets the morning sun's first smile,

Thou'st ta'en a calmer rest.

And where their tall heads to the breeze

The plumy cocoas wave,
Amidst the deep blue Indian seas,
Is seen thy lonely grave.

There, undisturbed, thy relics sleep,

Brave chief, in holy trust,
While glory shall admiring keep

Her vigils o'er thy dust!

Till the dread summons of that day

Is heard on land and main,

Which wakes the cold unconscious clay,
And bids it live again.

* This gallant officer was buried, according to his own particular desire, in a small uninhabited island in the Indian main, covered with cocoa-nut trees, where his solitary grave is the only trace that it has ever been trodden by the steps of Europeans.

R