« السابقةمتابعة »
Most musical from marble fountains wreathed
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
What wonders of the secret earth
Thy race by savage war o'errun,
By friendship's hand thine eyelids closed,
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
How like what once enchanted thee? ·
Thy name, thy date, thy life declare—
Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye
O not like thee would I remain,
The freshness that my childhood knew.
But has thy soul, O maid! so long
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
And sigh for her who feels no more?
Or exiled to some humbler sphere,
In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell,
Whoe'er thou be, thy sad remains
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. 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,
Ye shall not raise a marble bust
In hollow circumstance of woes:
Ye shall not pile, with servile toil,
Lay down the wreck of Power to rest;
But ye the mountain stream shall turn,
My gold and silver ye shall fling
Back to the clods, that gave them birth ;
The captured crowns of many a king,
For e'en though dead will I control
The trophies of the capitol.
But when beneath the mountain tide,
Ye shall not rear upon its side
Pillar or mound to mark the spot;
For long enough the world has shook
My course was like a river deep,
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
Not for myself did I ascend
In judgment my triumphal car;
With iron hand that scourge I rear'd
And vengeance sat upon the helm,
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,