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Had never stoop'd to ruin. All was still;
Hardly the faintest sound of living thing
Moved through the mighty solitude-and yet
All wore the face of beauty. Not a cloud
Hung in the lofty sky, that seem'd to rise
In twofold majesty, so bright and pure,

It seem'd indeed a crystaline sphere-and there
The sun rode onward in his conquering march
Serenely glorious. From the mountain heights
Tinged with the blue of heaven, to the wide sea
Glass'd with as pure a blue, one desolate plain
Spread out, and over it the fairest sky

Bent round and bless'd it. Life was teeming there
In all its lower forms, a wilderness

Of rank luxuriance; flowers, and purpling vines
Matted with deepest foliage, hid the ruins,
And gave the semblance of a tangled wood
To piles, that once were loudly eloquent

With the glad cry of thousands. There were gardens
Round stateliest villas, full of graceful statues,

And temples rear'd to woodland deities;

And they were overcrowded with the excess
Of beauty. All that most is coveted
Beneath a colder sky, grew wantonly
And richly there. Myrtles and citrons fill'd
The air with fragrance. From the tufted elm,
Bent with its own too massy foliage, hung
Clusters of sunny grapes in frosted purple,
Drinking in spirit from the glowing air,
And dropping generous dews. The very wind
Seem'd there a lover, and his easy wings
Fann'd the gay bowers, as if in fond delay
He bent o'er loveliest things, too beautiful
Ever to know decay. The silent air
Floating as softly as a cloud of roses,
Dropp'd from Idalia in a dewy shower,-
The air itself seem'd like the breath of heaven
Filling the groves of Eden. Yet these walls
Are desolate-not a trace of living man
Is found amid these glorious works of man,
And nature's fairer glories. Why should he
Be absent from the festival of life,

The holiday of nature? Why not come

To add to the sweet sounds of winds and waters-
Of winds uttering Eolian melodies

To the bright, listening flowers, and waters falling

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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."


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.


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 laidAnd friendship here perhaps reposed, With moonlight vigils in the shade.

The stars have run their nightly round, The sun look'd out and pass'd his way, 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 thou be, thy sad remains
Shall from the muse a tear demand,
Who, wandering on these distant plains,
Looks fondly to a distant land.


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.


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;

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