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Oxen, and bleating lambs in lots,
Men in the coal and cattle line;
These are not the romantic times
So dazzling to the dreaming boy:
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy :
Has called “the era of good feeling :"
And leave off cattle-stealing :
The Douglas in red herrings ;
Of Rothschild or the Barings.
The age of bargaining, said Burke,
Has come : to-day the turbaned Turk, (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! Sleep on, nor from your cearments start,)
Is England's friend and fast ally; The Moslem tramples on the Greek,
And on the Cross and altar stone,
And Christendom looks tamely on,
And sees the Christian father die;
By Europe's craven chivalry.
You'll ask if yet the Percy lives
In the armed pomp of feudal state?
Of Hotspur and his “gentle Kate,”
A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
Spoke nature's aristocracy; And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, From donjon-keep to turret wall, For ten-and-sixpence sterling.
DIEGE OF AL FIIC THE VISIGOTH.
BY E. EVERETT.
(Alaric 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,
Stain it with hypocritic tear;
Ye shall not raise a marble bust
Upon the spot where I repose ;
In hollow circumstance of woes ;
Ye shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Lay down the wreck of power to rest;
But ye the mountain stream shall turn,
And lay its secret channel bare,
A resting-place for ever there :
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 astonished 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,
DIRGE OF ALARIC THE VISIGOTH.
And where I went the spot was cursed,
See how their haughty barriers fail
Beneath the terror of the Goth,
Before my ruthless sabaoth,
Not for myself did I ascend
In judgment my triumphal car;
The avenging Scythian to the war,
With iron hand that scourge I reared
O’er guilty king and guilty realm; .
And vengeance sat upon the helm,