DIRGE OF ALARIC.

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;
"T was 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 dye
In the purple of their majesty,

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And bade my northern banners shine Upon the conquered Palatine.

My course is run, my errand done;
I 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.

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
From days of old till now;
For which the statesman toils,
The poet breathes his songs,
The patriot dares his country's foe,
To vindicate her wrongs;-

TO A LADY.

Point-to what field of fame ?
Where shall the conquest be?
What hand shall ever twine

The laurel wreath for me?

Say, shall I hope to wake
Sweet echoes from the lyre,
And lay a gift upon the shrine
That burns with holy fire?
Ah, no! slight praise awaits

The poet's breathing strains;
But cold applause or heartless sneer
May recompense his pains.
Poems are under par in our

Utilitarian times;

And mothers frown, suspiciously,
On all who deal in rhymes.

Or shall I strive to win

The warrior's hard earned glory;

And leave a name posterity

Shall read in martial story?
Alas, the faded pomp of war!
In these pacific days,
The soldier rests in idleness

On his uncrimsoned bays;
He seldom dreams of conquest,
Save in his morning calls;
And wins his proudest laurels,
At promenades and balls.

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A painter? It is joy

To gaze in beauty's eyes;
To image scenes of fairy land,
Green woods and sunny skies-
But then to work similitudes
Of ugly chins and noses,
And give a rosy hue to cheeks
That never dreamed of roses;
To see in living subjects charms
That no one else can see,
And make a beauty of a fright-
Would never do for me.

A statesman? Shall I talk
Of burning midnight tapers,
Speak speeches, quite extempore,
All ready for the papers;

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:
I'm sure I never did.

Then take again the gift,

You proffered me but now;

That broad and glossy leaf was plucked
To deck a prouder brow.

A WISH.

But as I tread the path

Some millions tread beside me,
May love's kind voice still cheer,

May friendship's hand still guide me;
And from the sod that covers me
May earliest spring flowers grow;
Without a stone to bear the name
Of him who sleeps below.

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A WISH.

FROM THE GERMAN OF MATTHISON.

WOULD I might once before my spirit sink
Into the blest, Elysian world of shades,
Visit the happy fields where childhood,
Lapt in its dreams of heaven, joyous reposed.

The humble bush, which hides the linnet-nest
In its cool shade, waves with a sweeter hum,
My friend, than all the groves of laurel
Over the ashes of a conquerer!

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