DIRGE OF ALARIC. See how their haughty barriers fail Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal car; With iron hand that scourge I reared And vengeance sat upon the helm, Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers, 115 And bade my northern banners shine Upon the conquered Palatine. My course is run, my errand done; 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; And in the caves of vengeance, wait; And soon mankind shall blench away Before the name of Attila. TO A LADY, WHO GAVE ME A LAUREL LEAF. BY C. SHERRY. THE deathless leaf that bound The bald first Cæsar's brow; That men of worth have battled for TO A LADY. Point-to what field of fame ? The laurel wreath for me? Say, shall I hope to wake The poet's breathing strains; Utilitarian times; And mothers frown, suspiciously, Or shall I strive to win The warrior's hard earned glory; And leave a name posterity Shall read in martial story? On his uncrimsoned bays; 117 A painter? It is joy To gaze in beauty's eyes; A statesman? Shall I talk Fight duels on demand, Write essays by the lot, To-day, sit through a long harangue, To-morrow, stand a shot? Consent to think and act As other people bid ?— I hardly think I ever can: Then take again the gift, You proffered me but now; That broad and glossy leaf was plucked A WISH. But as I tread the path Some millions tread beside me, May friendship's hand still guide me; 119 A WISH. FROM THE GERMAN OF MATTHISON. WOULD I might once before my spirit sink The humble bush, which hides the linnet-nest The brook, that cuts the meadow, where a boy I gathered violets, runs with a sweeter murmur Through alders which my father planted, Than the Blandusian silver fountain |