Page images
PDF
EPUB

Nor yet within the common soil "Lay down the wreck of power to rest;

Where man can boast that he has trode
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 nor 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 the river deep,

And from the northern hills I burst
Across the world in wrath to sweep,

And where I went the spot was cijrsed,
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.

.s 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 Caesars 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,
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.

Professor Everiti.

AN ADDRESS TO THE DEIT*.

God of my life, and author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And trembling take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.
All Nature faints beneath the mighty name
Which Nature's works through all her parts proclaim.
I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul,
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;
As by a charm the waves of grief subside;
Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide:

At thy felt presence all emotions cease, And my hashed spirit finds a sudden peace, Till every worldly thought within me dies, And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes; Till all my sense is lost in infinite, And one vast object fills my aching sight. Bat soon alas! this holy calm is broke; My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke; With shackled pinions strive to soar in vain, And mingles with the dross of earth again. But He, our gracious Master, kind as just, Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. His spirit ever brooding o'er our mind, Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined y Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the smoking flax into a flame. His ears are open to the softest cry, His grace descends to meet the lifted eye; He reads the language of a silent tear, And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give, Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live; From each terrestrial bondage set me free; Still every wish that centres not in thee; Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, And point my path to everlasting peace.

« PreviousContinue »