It is but justice to the author to say, that he has adopted a severity of style, and a chastity of manner, that peculiarly accords with the stern and gothic character of the subject.-EDITOR.

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 lay, 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

But

"the scourge of God."

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 head.

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 nor 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 the river deep,
And from the northern hills I burst,
Across the world in wrath to sweep,

And where I went the spot was curst: 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 launched in fury on the flood
I plough'd my way 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 poured the torrent of my powers,
And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help
In vain within their seven-hill'd towers;
I quench'd in blood the brightest gem
That glittered 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 whom 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.

New Monthly Magazine.*

MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.

THE following poem breathes a tone of deep melancholy, not unlike the dirge of Alaric, but possesses a tenderness and sweetness of which the dirge was rendered incapable by the ferocious unbending character of the person by whom it is spoken. After placing before us the "deep" and "still silence" of

That unstartled sleep

The living eye hath never known,

and terrifying us with the inania regna of the ideal world, how sublimely and happily is the following image introduced.

The lonely Sexton's footstep falls

In dismal echoes on the walls.

We do not think that the circumstance mentioned in the two lines

And cheerful is my mother's brow,

My father's eye hath lost its gloom,

is in harmony with the entire piece. The circumstance, indeed, may be true and natural, that is, it is true that parents may forget their grief, and it is also natural they should do so after a long lapse of time; but poetic feeling is of a much higher order than natural feeling. All readers will admit there is nothing unnatural in the parents having, at length, forgot their son ; but what reader will admire them for doing so? what

The Editor of the New Monthly Magazine informs us that this Dirge was "written by Professor EVERITT, of America; and couceives that they do no discredit to that gentleman's respectable name."

reader would not admire them more, had the memory of their son never recurred to them without inducing sad and melancholy emotions? The act of forgetting the son is not, therefore, a poetic circumstance, because it produces no emotion in us whatever: we can look on such parents with indifference, and whenever any circumstance leaves the mind cool and unaffected, we may safely pronounce that it has no pretensions to poetry. The poetry that does not move us is poetry only in name.

Non satis est pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto, Et quocumque volent animum auditoris agunto.

Beneath the chancel's hallowed stone,
Expos'd to every rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.

Few words upon the rough stone 'graven,
Thy name, thy birth, thy youth declare,
Thy innocence, thy hopes of heaven,
In simplest phrase recorded there.
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery o'er my brother's grave.

The place is silent: rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walls around;
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet,
Discoursing in the public street;

Nor hum of business, dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell,
From neighbouring fort or citadel;
No sound of human toil or strife,

To death's lone dwelling speaks of life,

ED.