VARIOUS AUTHORS. EDWARD EVERETT, LL. D. DIRGE OF ALARIC, THE VISIGOTH, Who stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterward 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, Ye shall not raise a marble bust Upon the spot where I repose; In hollow circumstance of woes; Your monuments upon my breast, Lay down the wreck of power to rest; My gold and silver ye shall fling Back to the clods that gave them birth; But when beneath the mountain-tide Pillar or mound to mark the spot; The astonish'd realms shall rest a space. My course was like a river deep, And where I went the spot was cursed, See how their haughty barriers fail In judgment my triumphal car; The avenging Scythian to the war, And vengeance sat upon the helm, I plough'd my ways through seas of blood, Across the everlasting Alp I pour'd the torrent of my powers, In vain within their seven-hill'd towers; 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; 439 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, LL. D. TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise, Beyond where worlds material roll; Till some fair sister of the skies Receives the unpolluted soul. That inextinguishable beam, With dust united at our birth, Sheds a more dim, discolour'd gleam The more it lingers upon earth. Closed in this dark abode of clay, The stream of glory faintly burns:Not unobserved, the lucid ray To its own native fount returns. But when the LORD of mortal breath Decrees his bounty to resume, And points the silent shaft of death Which speeds an infant to the tomb No passion fierce, nor low desire, Has quench'd the radiance of the flame; Back to its GoD the living fire Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner! be that solace thine! Let hope her healing charm impart, And soothe, with melodies divine, The anguish of a mother's heart. O, think! the darlings of thy love, Divested of this earthly clod, Amid unnumber'd saints above, Bask in the bosom of their God. Of their short pilgrimage on earth O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend; Still watchful hover o'er thy head. And bid the streaming sorrow cease. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear: Their part and thine inverted see :Thou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee. VARIOUS AUTHORS. SAMUEL WOODWORTH.* THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood! When fond recollection presents them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. JOHN SHAW, M. D.t SONG. WHо has robb'd the ocean cave, On thy breath their fragrance borne. Guard thy bosom from the day, But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth can ne'er impart; Nor in the circling air a heart; * Mr. WOODWORTH is the author of several volumes + Doctor SHAW was born in Maryland, in 1778, and died 56 ROBERT M. BIRD, M. D.* ODE TO THE MOON. O, MELANCHOLY moon, Mine earliest friend wert thou: The locust tree, and, through the chequer'd bough, And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole A winter to my bosom, cannot turn Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring And through her stony throngs I go alone, Thou art my only counsellor, with whom Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone; moan; No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine, at sea, near the West India Islands, in 1809. He was secretary to General EATON, at Tunis, in 1800; and in 1803, accompanied Lord SELKIRK. on his expedition to form a settlement on St. John's Island in Upper Canada. A collection of his poems was published in Philadelphia, in the year after his death. * Author of "Calavar," "The Infidel," "The Hawks of Hawk Hollow" and other romances; and of "The Gladiator, a Tragedy," &c. KATHERINE A. WARE.* MARKS OF TIME. Ax infant boy was playing among flowers, Old Time, that unbribed register of hours, Came hobbling on, but smoothed his wrinkled face, To mark the artless joy and blooming grace Of the young cherub, on whose cheek so fair He smiled, and press'd a rosy dimple there. Next Boyhood follow'd, with his shout of glee, Elastic step, and spirit wild and free As the young fawn, that scales the mountain height, Or new-fledged eaglet in his sunward flight; Time cast a glance upon the careless boy, Who frolick'd onward with a bound of joy! [eye Then Youth came forward; his bright glancing Seem'd a reflection of the cloudless sky! The dawn of passion, in its purest glow, Crimson'd his cheek, and beam'd upon his brow, Giving expression to his blooming face, And to his fragile form a manly grace; His voice was harmony, his speech was truthTime lightly laid his hand upon the youth. Manhood next follow'd, in the sunny prime Of life's meridian bloom; all the sublime And beautiful of nature met his view, Brighten'd by Hope, whose radiant pencil drew The rich perspective of a scene as fair As that which smiled on Eden's sinless pair; Love, fame, and glory, with alternate sway, Thrill'd his warm heart, and with electric ray Illumed his eye, yet still a shade of care, Like a light cloud that floats in summer air, Would shed at times a transitory gloom, But shadow'd not one grace of manly bloom. Time sigh'd, as on his polish'd brow he wrought The first impressive line of care and thought. Man in his proud maturity came next; A bold review of life, from the broad text Last came, with trembling limbs and bending form, Like the old oak scathed by the wintry storm, *Mrs. KATHERINE Augusta WARE is a native of Massachusetts, and was at one time editor of a periodical published in Boston, called "The Bower of Taste." She has for several years resided in England, and a collection of her writings, entitled "Power of the Passions, and other Poems," appeared in London since the commencement of the present year, (1842.) Man, in the last frail stage of human life- HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT.* GEEHALE. AN INDIAN LAMENT. THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore As sweetly and gayly as ever before; For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light As it ever reflected, or ever express'd, [the best. When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, For they know that their mates are expecting them back. Each bird, and each beast, it is bless'd in degree: All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair; I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay; The steel of the white man hath swept them away. This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore: O, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, |