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For long enough the world has shook
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 terror of the Goth,
Before my ruthless sabaoth,
Not for myself did I ascend
In judgment my triumphal car; ’T was God alone on high did send
The avenging Scythian to the war,
O’er guilty king and guilty realm;
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 die In the purple of their majesty, And bade my northern banners shine Upon the conquer'd Palatine.
My course is run, my errand done:
to Him from whence I came;
Of glory that adorns my name;
My course is run, my errand done
But darker ministers of fate,
And in the caves of vengeance, wait;
BROTHER of the preceding, was born at Dorchester in 1801, and was graduated at Cambridge in 1818. He was a tutor in Transylvania university, and afterwards went to Europe in the suite of our minister to the Netherlands. Upon his return he studied law, and was admitted to the bar. He died in Boston, February 12th, 1826, at the age of 25.
SAINT PAUL'S CHURCH, BOSTON.
BEAUTIFUL, pure and simple, there thou stand'st,
One stream of purest lustre from above,
purer light than the Pantheon saw
There is given A moral feeling to a beautiful scene Of glorious art with nature join'd, like this,And memory crown'd with moonlight roses, lives To hover o'er the storied names of old ; Heroes and sages deathless--the pure heart Of him* whose lip with sweetest nectar dew'd, Breathed the great lesson of his godlike teachertMartyr of freedom-hims of SyracuseThe glorious fratricides, the immortal Theban, And their bright heritors of guiltless suffering, Intrepid Algernon, and youthful Russell,Till the remembrance softens. Not in vain, Oh! not in vain did the Athenians Ally the arts to freedom, and invite Blushing Pictura and her marble sister Up the stern heights of the Acropolis. So be it with our country. May she stand Like thee, modell’d on wisdom of the past, Yet with the lovely gracefulness of youth.
*Plato. Socrates. Dion. [Timoleon. Epaminondas.
COME not to me, my dearest love,
When hope is gay and wo is fied; Sad is my bower and high above,
Deep trees their shroudlike branches spread. But when that wo tenfold returns,
When in the dust those hopes shall be, When with deep pain thy bosom burns,
Then thou, my love, must come to me.
For thee, my desert bower I'll dress,
For thee will light my tearful eyes ; For thee will braid each raven tress
That now in wild disorder flies.
A constant visitor to me,
How sadly sweet I'll sing to thee.
Sing to me as in old “lang syne,"
Thy sweet neglected songs.
Thy newer, lighter strain belongs,
My desert memory it wrongs.
To charm the gallant and the gay,
Then to the known, the loved, the few,
Awoke each dear, familiar tone,
And thrilling answer'd with its own,
Gone are the few—the known estranged;
Perchance 't is right thy melody
Like them and these and all be changed,
And none preserve those songs but me
Tom MOORE, again we're met
By the sparkles of thine eye,
Thou art glad as well as I.
Ere our meeting shall be o'er
With our healthis to thee, Tom Moore.
For thy boyish songs of woman
Thrown about like unstrung pearls, Ere thy armed spirit's summon
Bade thee leave thy bright-hair'd girls; For thy satire's quenchless arrows
On the foes thy country bore, For thy song of Erin's sorrows,
Here's health to thee, Tom Moore.
Drink to Moore, drink to Moore
What though England renounce him, Her dark days shall soon be o'er,
And her brightest band surrounds him. In the land, then, of the vine,
To thee, its glittering drops we pour, And in warmest, reddest wine,
Drink a health to thee, Tom Moore.
TO FANNI IN A BALL DRESS.
Thou hast braided thy dark flowing hair,
And wreathed it wh rosebuds and pearls;
Soft falling in natural curls.
When crown'd with the flower and the gem,