EDWARD EVERETT, LL. D.

Dirge of ALARIC, THE VISIGOTH,

Who stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterward 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 forever 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 conquer'd 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 terrors 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 dye
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.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, LL. D.

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.

SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll; Till some fair sister of the skies Receives the unpolluted soul.

That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth, Sheds a more dim, discolour'd gleam The more it lingers upon earth. Closed in this dark abode of clay, The stream of glory faintly burns:Not unobserved, the lucid ray

To its own native fount returns.

But when the LORD of mortal breath

Decrees his bounty to resume, And points the silent shaft of death

Which speeds an infant to the tombNo passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quench'd the radiance of the flame; Back to its Gon the living fire

Reverts, unclouded as it came.

Fond mourner! be that solace thine!
Let hope her healing charm impart,
And soothe, with melodies divine,

The anguish of a mother's heart.
O, think! the darlings of thy love,
Divested of this earthly clod,
Amid unnumber'd saints above,

Bask in the bosom of their God.

Of their short pilgrimage on earth
Still tender images remain :
Still, still they bless thee for their birth,
Still filial gratitude retain.
Each anxious care, each rending sigh,
That wrung for them the parent's breast,
Dwells on remembrance in the sky,
Amid the raptures of the blest.

O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend;
For thee the LORD of life implore;
And oft from sainted bliss descend,
Thy wounded quiet to restore.
Oft, in the stillness of the night,
They smooth the pillow of thy bed;
Oft. till the morn's returning light,

Still watchful hover o'er thy head.

Hark! in such strains as saints employ, They whisper to thy bosom peace; Calm the perturbed heart to joy,

And bid the streaming sorrow cease. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear: Their part and thine inverted see :Thou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.*

THE BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood!

When fend recollection presents them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure,

For often at noon, when return'd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, How quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell, Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips; Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though fill'd with the nectar that JUPITER Sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in his well.

JOHN SHAW, M. D.t

SONG.

WHо has robb'd the ocean cave,

To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
Who, from India's distant wave,
For thee, those pearly treasures drew?
Who, from yonder orient sky,
Stole the morning of thine eye?
Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,

On thy breath their fragrance borne.
Guard thy bosom from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind,
Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
Nor in ocean wilt thou find,

Nor in the circling air a heart;
Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, O, take that heart from me.

Mr. WooDWORTH is the author of several volumes of songs, comedies, &c. He was born in Scituate, Massachusetts, in 1785, and now resides in New York.

+ Doctor SHAW was born in Maryland, in 1778, and died

ROBERT M. BIRD, M. D.*

ODE TO THE MOON.

O, MELANCHOLY moon,

Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away
Far in the dusky west, to vanish soon
Under the hills that catch thy waning ray,

Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres,
The friend of grief, the confidant of tears,

Mine earliest friend wert thou:

My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under

The locust tree, and, through the chequer'd bough, Watch thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be The nearest star to roam the heavens with thee. Youth grew; but, as it came,

And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole

To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the That was the early music of my soul, [name And seem'd upon thy pictured disc to trace Remember'd features of a radiant face. And manhood, though it bring

A winter to my bosom, cannot turn

Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern

Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill,
The boyish yearning to be with thee still.
Would it were so; for earth

Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail;
And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to
Turn to a moody melody of wail,
[mirth,
And through her stony throngs I go alone,
Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone.
Would it were so; for still

Thou art my only counsellor, with whom
Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill,
Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom
Of solitude, which is so sad and sore,
Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core.
A boyish thought, and weak :-

I shall look up to thee from the deep sea,
And in the land of palms, and on the peak
Of her wild hills, still turn my eyes to thee;
And then, perhaps, lie down in solemn rest,
With naught but thy pale beams upon my breast.
Let it be so indeed!

Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone;
And let me perish where no heart shall bleed,
And naught, save passing winds, shall make my

moan;

No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine, And watching o'er me no pale face but thine.

at sea, near the West India Islands, in 1809. He was secretary to General EATON, at Tunis, in 1800; and in 1803, accompanied Lord SELKIRK, on his expedition to form a settlement on St. John's Island in Upper Canada. A collection of his poems was published in Philadelphia, in the year after his death.

* Author of "Calavar," "The Infidel," "The Hawks of Hawk Hollow" and other romances; and of "The Gladiator, a Tragedy," &c.