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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,
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,
Flow back upon the king of kings;
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;
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,
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,
Of glory that adorns my name;
My course is run, my errand done,
And in the caves of vengeance wait,
And soon mankind shall blench away
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
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
We do not think that the circumstance mentioned in the two lines
And cheerful is my mother's brow,
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 conceives 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,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
Few words upon the rough stone 'graven,
In simplest phrase recorded there.
The place is silent: rarely sound
No sound of human toil or strife,