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Ye shall not fawn before my dust,
In hollow circumstance of woes;
Nor sculptured clay, 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 "the scourge of God."

But 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 dead.

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,
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,

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 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;
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.

Apostrophe to the Sun.-J. G. PERCIVAL.

CENTRE of light and energy, thy way

Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne, Morning, and evening, and at noon of day,

Far in the blue, untended and alone:

Ere the first-wakened airs of earth had blown,

On didst thou march, triumphant in thy light;

Then didst thou send thy glance, which still hath flown Wide through the never-ending worlds of night,

And yet thy full orb burns with flash unquenched and bright

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Thy path is high in heaven ;-we cannot gaze
On the intense of light that girds thy car;
There is a crown of glory in thy rays,
Which bears thy pure divinity afar,
To mingle with the equal light of star;
For thou, so vast to us, art, in the whole,
One of the sparks of night that fire the air;
And, as around thy centre planets roll,

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So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul.

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Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;
Thy light is hid,-and all things droop and mourn;
Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles,

When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; Thou wheel'st away thy flight,-the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake;

All, that was once so beautiful, is torn

By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake,

And, in their maddening rush, the crested mountains shake.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;

Life lingers, and would die, but thy return Gives to their gladdened hearts an overflow Of all the power, that brooded in the urn

Of their chilled frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air

Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there

Rich waves of gold to wreath with fairer light the fair.

The vales are thine :-and when the touch of spring
Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light
They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing

Dashes the water in his winding flight,

And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore ;

The vales are thine; and, when they wake from night,
The dews that bend the grass tips, twinkling o'er
Their soft and oozy beds, look upward and adore.

The hills are thine :-they catch thy newest beam,
And gladden in thy parting, where the wood
Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream,
That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood

Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food
Of nations in its waters; so thy rays

Flow, and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze

Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays.

Thine are the mountains,-where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted, in a sky
Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by ;—
Aloft, in thy eternal smile, they lie,
Dazzling, but cold;-thy farewell glance looks there,
And when below thy hues of beauty die,
Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear,

Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair.

The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues
Are pencilled by thee; when thou bendest low,
Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues

Their waving folds with such a perfect glow
Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw
Shame on the proudest art;

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These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch,
The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine,
Where the spent storm is hasting on its march;
And there the glories of thy light combine,
And form, with perfect curve, a lifted line
Striding the earth and air;-man looks and tells
How peace and mercy in its beauty shine,

And how the heavenly messenger impels

Her glad wings on the path that thus in ether swells.

The ocean is thy vassal :-thou dost sway
His waves to thy dominion, and they go

Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way,
Rising and falling in eternal flow;

Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow,

And take them wings and spring aloft in air,

And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear.

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In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles,
When the quick winds uprear it in a swell,
That rolls in glittering green around the isles,
Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell.
O, with a joy no gifted tongue can tell,

I hurry o'er the waters when the sail

Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well Over the curling billow, and the gale

Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale.

"I thought it slept."-HENRY PICKERING.

From Recollections of Childhood.

I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay,

As it was wont, within its cradle, now

Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange
Filled my young breast with wonder, and I gazed
Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept-

And yet its little bosom did not move!

I bent me down to look into its eyes,

But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand;
But mine it would not clasp. What should I do?
"Wake, brother, wake!" I then, impatient, cried;
"Open thine eyes, and look on me again!"
He would not hear my voice. All pale beside
My weeping mother sat," and gazed and looked
Unutterable things." "Will he not wake?"
I eager asked. She answered but with tears.

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