Edward Everett. ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. (ALARIC stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred.) WHEN I am dead, no pageant train WHEN Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, For I will die as I did live, Ye shall not raise a marble bust Upon the spot where I repose; In hollow circumstance of woes; Nor yet Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, But 66 ye the mountain-stream shall turn, Then bid its everlasting springs My gold and silver ye shall fling Back to the clods that gave them birth; The captured crowns of many a king, The ransom of a conquered earth: For, e'en though dead, will I control The trophies of the Capitol. But when, beneath the mountain-tide, Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, Ye shall not rear upon its side Pillar or mound to mark the spot; For long enough the world has shook Beneath the terrors of my look; And, now that I have run my race, The astonished realms shall rest a space. My course was like a river deep, And from the Northern hills I burst, Across the world in wrath to sweep, And where I went the spot was cursed; See how their haughty barriers fail Before my ruthless sabaoth; Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal car; 'Twas God alone on high did send The avenging Scythian to the war— With iron hand that scourge I reared And Vengeance sat upon the helm, Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help, In vain, within their seven-hilled towers; I quenched in blood the brightest gem That glittered in their diadem, And struck a darker, deeper die In the purple of their majesty,And bade my Northern banners shine Upon the conquered Palatine! My course is run, my errand done; I go to Him from whom I came ; But never yet shall set the sun Of glory that adorns my name; And Roman hearts shall long be sick, My course is run, my errand done; Frances H. Green. THE CHICKADEE'S SONG. O N its downy wing, the snow, Poets sing in measures bold They who choose, abroad may go, But we love the breezes free Of our North-land-Chickadee ! To the cottage yard we fly, Every little feathered form And He knoweth where we be- There we sit the whole night long, All the strong winds, as they fly, Where our harvest sparkles bright Will a choice confection make Each globule a nectary be, And we'll drain it-Chickadee ! |