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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;
'Twas 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.

My course is run, my errand done:
I go to Him from whence I came;
But never yet shall set the sun

Of glory that adorns my name;
And Roman hearts shall long be sick,
When men shall think of Alaric.

My course is run, my errand done—
But darker ministers of fate,
Impatient, round the eternal throne,
And in the caves of vengeance, wait;
And soon mankind shall blench away
Before the name of Attila.


BROTHER of the preceding, was born at Dorchester in 1801, and was graduated at Cambridge in 1818. He was a tutor in Transylvania university, and afterwards went to Europe in the suite of our minister to the Netherlands. Upon his return he studied law, and was admitted to the bar. He died in Boston, February 12th, 1826, at the age of 25.


BEAUTIFUL, pure and simple, there thou stand'st,
Fit temple for the pure and only God,
Smiling in cold severity. The heart

That views thee, fills with the bright memory
Of other days; the sunny lands of song,
In their sad, lovely silence of decay,
Rise up to the remembrance in thy sight.
The thoughts of other days, when Plato stood
At Sunium: when the imperial one, herself,
Athena, visited the Parthenon:

Or of the later age, when the proud Roman,
Within the vast Pantheon's walls, beheld

One stream of purest lustre from above,
Lighting the idol-habited Rotund.

Not unacceptable was their ignorant worship
To him they served in darkness, but to thee
A nobler precept than Colonna heard,

A purer light than the Pantheon saw

Is given. Thy cherub songs, and wreathed flowers,
Incense and sacrifice and gifts devote,

Are prayer and penitence, the tearful eye,
The innocent life, the broken, contrite heart.
Simple in elegance, no mounting spire,
Tower, minaret, nor gaily burnish'd dome
Mars thy severe proportions. No device
Of polish'd moulding, sculptured tracery,
Not e'en the soft acanthine folds are there,
Like the divine magnificence of virtue,
Whose ornament would not obscure its worth.
Now, while yon moonbeam gently steals along
The columns of that simple peristyle,
Silvering the massive shaft and plain volute
Of yon extremest pillar, let me gaze
With calm delight insatiate. There is given
A moral feeling to a beautiful scene

Of glorious art with nature join’d, like this,—
And memory crown'd with moonlight roses, lives
To hover o'er the storied names of old;
Heroes and sages deathless-the pure heart
Of him whose lip with sweetest nectar dew'd,
Breathed the great lesson of his godlike teacherf-
Martyr of freedom-him of Syracuse-

The glorious fratricides, the immortal Theban,
And their bright heritors of guiltless suffering,
Intrepid Algernon, and youthful Russell,—
Till the remembrance softens. Not in vain,
Oh! not in vain did the Athenians
Ally the arts to freedom, and invite
Blushing Pictura and her marble sister
Up the stern heights of the Acropolis.
So be it with our country. May she stand
Like thee, modell'd on wisdom of the past,
Yet with the lovely gracefulness of youth.

*Plato. Socrates. Dion. Timoleon. Epaminondas.


COME not to me, my dearest love,
When hope is gay and wo is fied;
Sad is my bower and high above,

Deep trees their shroudlike branches spread. But when that wo tenfold returns,

When in the dust those hopes shall be, When with deep pain thy bosom burns, Then thou, my love, must come to me.

For thee, my desert bower I'll dress,
For thee will light my tearful eyes;
For thee will braid each raven tress
That now in wild disorder flies.
And grief, who sits within my cell
A constant visitor to me,

Shall greet thee, for she knows full well
How sadly sweet I'll sing to thee.


SING to me as in old "lang syne,"
Thy sweet neglected songs.
To other hearts, oh! not to mine,
Thy newer, lighter strain belongs,
My desert memory it wrongs.

The strains thou lightly hurried'st o'er
To charm the gallant and the gay,
The brighter smile thy features wore,
When ceased thy sportive roundelay,
How changed from that more lovely day!

Then to the known, the loved, the few,
Awoke each dear, familiar tone,
Which every heart instincte knew
And thrilling answer'd with its own,
Till not a note was felt alone.

Gone are the few—the known estranged;
Perchance 't is right thy melody

Like them and these and all be changed,

And none preserve those songs but me
To think on what has been, what ne'er shall be.


TOM MOORE, again we 're met-
By the sparkles of thine eye,
By thy lip with bright wine wet,
Thou art glad as well as I.

And thine eye shall gleam the brighter
Ere our meeting shall be o'er
And thy minstrelsy flow lighter

With our healths to thee, Tom Moore.

For thy boyish songs of woman
Thrown about like unstrung pearls,
Ere thy armed spirit's summon

Bade thee leave thy bright-hair'd girls;
For thy satire's quenchless arrows
On the foes thy country bore,
For thy song of Erin's sorrows,

Here's health to thee, Tom Moore.

Drink to Moore, drink to Moore-
What though England renounce him,
Her dark days shall soon be o'er,
And her brightest band surrounds him.
In the land, then, of the vine,

To thee, its glittering drops we pour,

And in warmest, reddest wine,

Drink a health to thee, Tom Moore.


THOU hast braided thy dark flowing hair,
And wreathed it with rosebuds and pearls ;
But dearer, neglected thy sweet tresses are,
Soft falling in natural curls.

Thou delightest the cold world's gaze,

When crown'd with the flower and the gem,

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