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ON THE DEATH OF A WIFE.
Whoe'er, like me, with trembling anguish brings
tie that binds the heart to prove,
Lord Palmerston. 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,
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 breasts,
Nor yet within the common soil
Lay down the wreck of power to rest ; Where man can boast that he has trode On him, that was the scourge of God.'
the mountain stream shall turn,
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 nor mound to mark the spot ;
For long enough the world has shook
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 cursed, Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been.
See how their baughty 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
I reared O'er guilty king and guilty realm, Destruction was the ship I steered,
And vengeance sat upon the helm ; When launched in fury on the flood, I ploughed my way through seas of blood, And in the stream their hearts had spilt, Washed 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-hilled towers ; I quenched in blood the brightest gem That glittered in their diadem, And struck a darker, deeper die In the purple of their majesty, And bade my northern banners shine, Upon the conquered Palatine.
My course is run, my errand done,
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.