The knight he struck him to the heart,— Through the branches, with a crash, Down went the corse, and in the wave Sank with a sullen dash. "Thus perish all who would enthrall The innocent and the true; Yet on head of mine no more shall shine The sun from his path of blue! "No more on me shall pleasure smile, Have darkened for aye my span. "Farewell, farewell, my native land! "Blow, blow, ye winds! in fury blow, Rise, rise, ye billows! and bear us along, Who hither return no more!" D D A BURIAL OF ALARIC THE GOTH. AN HISTORICAL SKETCH. By the labour of a captive multitude, the river Busentius was forcibly diverted from its course. The royal pulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed; the waters were then restored to their natural channel; and the secret spot where the remains of the conqueror had been deposited, was for ever concealed, by the massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the work. Gibbon. I. Ir was no eastern king, With blazoned banner, and jewelled crest, And myriads vowed to his high behest, That made THE ETERNAL ring, With sounds unheard of a thousand years; The victor shout of a foreign foe, And the groans of her children trampled low. II. Barbarian and uncouth, But yesterday, in his native woods He strung his bow, and swam the floods, With Dacia's blue-eyed youth. Soon the bold chief of conquering hordes, III. That dazzling hour hath fled! Round him now, for a burial band, IV. They have laid him on his bier, And the labour dire of a thousand slaves Hath changed the course of the whelming waves; Now, even now, are the dark depths free,— There will his place of burial be. V. The warriors' swords are red, Around are the slaughtered captives piled,— There is shouting fierce 'mong the warrior band,— ROSAMUNDA. A VENETIAN FRAGMENT. BY MISS E. ROBERTS. ROSE of the world, Flower of Italy, Bright star of Venice, were the titles applied by the whole population of the city to the lovely Rosamunda di Guarini. When the last sound of the vesper-bell died upon the ear, masqued musicians stole from the ambush of clustering pillars, or paused in their gondolas opposite her palace windows, and poured out strains of melody in her praise; prolonging the soft serenade until the dawn of morning, each note more witching than the last. Nobles sighed at her feet, -minstrels and poets made her the theme of song,—and the most gifted artists of the age transferred to their glowing canvas charms which are still the wonder and delight of admiring worlds. How light was her footstep in the dance,-how joyously she warbled wild notes of thrilling sweetness,and how brightly her blue eyes flashed through the living tapestry of leaves and flowers which she had twined across the fretted stone-work of her balcony. |