Most musical from marble fountains wreathed
With clustering ivy, like a poet's brow-
Why comes he not to add his higher strains,
And be the interpreter of lower things,
In intellectual worship, at the throne
Of the Beneficent Power, that gave to them
Their pride and beauty?" In these palaces,
These awful temples, these religious caves,
These hoary ruins, and these twilight groves
Teeming with life and love, -a secret plague
Dwells, and the unwary foot, that ventures here,
Returns not. Fly! To linger here is death."

WILLIAM E. GALLAUDET

Was a native of Hartford, Connecticut. He was graduated at Yale College in 1815, and commenced the study of medicine in New York, but abandoned it for some mercantile views. These were however, terminated by his death at the age of 26, in 1821. He was a young man of uncommon promise. Poetry he wrote, but not much. We know of nothing that has been published, except the annexed piece which was included in Roscoe's Specimens of the American Poets.

LINES TO THE WESTERN MUMMY.

O STRANGER, whose repose profound
These latter ages dare to break,
And call thee from beneath the ground
Ere nature did thy slumber shake!

What wonders of the secret earth
Thy lip, too silent, might reveal!
Of tribes round whose mysterious birth
A thousand envious ages wheel!

Thy race by savage war o'errun,
Sunk down, their very name forgot;
But ere those fearful times begun,
Perhaps, in this sequester'd spot,

By friendship's hand thine eyelids closed,
By friendship's hand the turf was laid-
And friendship here perhaps reposed,
With moonlight vigils in the shade.

way,

The stars have run their nightly round,
The sun look'd out and pass'd his
And many a season o'er the ground
Has trod where thou so softly lay.

And wilt thou not one moment raise
Thy weary head, awhile to see
The later sports of earthly days,
How like what once enchanted thee?

Thy name, thy date, thy life declare-
Perhaps a queen whose feathery band
A thousand maids have sigh'd to wear,
The brightest in thy beauteous band.

Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye
Love kindled up the flame of war-
Ah me! do thus thy graces lie
A faded phantom and no more!

O! not like thee would I remain,
But o'er the earth my ashes strew,
And in some rising bud regain
The freshness that my childhood knew.

But has thy soul, O maid! so long
Around this mournful relict dwelt?
Or burst away with pinion strong,
And at the foot of mercy knelt ?

Or has it in some distant clime

With curious eye unsated stray'd, And down the winding stream of time On every changeful current play'd?

Or lock'd in everlasting sleep
Must we thy heart extinct deplore?
Thy fancy lost in darkness, weep,
And sigh for her who feels no more?

Or exiled to some humbler sphere,

In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell,
And murmuring in the stranger's ear,
Thy tender melancholy tell?

Whoe'er thca be, thy sad remains
Shall from the muse a tear demand,
Who, wandering on these distant plains,
Looks fondly to a distant land.

EDWARD EVERETT.

MR EVERETT was born in Dorchester, Mass. His father was pastor to the New South Church in Boston. He studied at Harvard University, and was ordained as a minister over the Brattle Street Church in Boston, at the early age of eighteen. Upon the foundation of the professorship of Greek literature at Cambridge, he was called upon to fill the office, in consequence of which, he relinquished his pastoral duties in Boston. After making a visit to Europe, he entered upon his business as professor, and continued in that station till 1825. Since that time he has been a representative in Congress.

Mr Everett's reputation, both as a statesman and a scholar, is too widely extended to need any comments from us. Among the great variety of his labors, he has found moments to devote to the muse. The following piece, and a Phi Beta Kappa poem, written in his youth, are, we believe, all that have appeared in public.

DIRGE OF ALARIC, THE VISIGOTH,

Who 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
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain,
Stain it with hypocritic tear;
For I will die as I did live,
Nor take the boon I cannot give.

Ye shall not raise a marble bust
Upon the spot where I repose;
Ye shall not fawn before my dust,

In hollow circumstance of woes:
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath,
Insult the clay that moulds beneath.

Ye shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil
Lay down the wreck of Power to rest;

Where man can boast that he has trod
On him, that was "the scourge of God."

But ye the mountain stream shall turn,
And lay its secret channel bare,
And hollow, for your sovereign's urn,
A resting-place for ever there :
Then bid its everlasting springs
Flow back upon the King of Kings;
And never be the secret said,
Until the deep give up his dead.

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 astonish'd 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,
Nor blade of grass again was seen
Where Alaric and his hosts had been.

See how their haughty barriers fail
Beneath the terror of the Goth,
Their iron-breasted legions quail
Before my ruthless sabaoth,
And low the queen of empires kneels,
And grovels at my chariot-wheels.

Not for myself did I ascend

In judgment my triumphal car;
'"T was God alone on high did send
The avenging Scythian to the war,
To shake abroad, with iron hand,
The appointed scourge of his command.

With iron hand that scourge I rear'd
O'er guilty king and guilty realm;
Destruction was the ship I steer'd,

And vengeance sat upon the helm,
When, launch'd in fury on the flood,
I plough'd my ways through seas of blood,
And in the stream their hearts had spilt
Wash'd out the long arrears of guilt.

Across the everlasting Alp

I pour'd the torrent of my powers,
And feeble Cæsars shriek'd for help
In vain within their seven-hill'd towers;

I quench'd in blood the brightest gem
That glitter'd in their diadem,
And struck a darker, deeper die
In the purple of their majesty,
And bade my northern banners shine
Upon the conquer'd Palatine.

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