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 a river deep,

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

And where I went the spot was cursed,
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.
Not for myself did I ascend

In judgment my triumphal car;
"Twas God alone on high did send
Th' avenging Scythian to the war,
To shake abroad, with iron hand,
Th' 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 ; And bade my northern banners shine Upon the conquered Palatine.

My course is run, my errand done;

I
But never yet shall set the sun

go to Him from whom I came ;

Of glory that adorns my name ;

Ex. 110.

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 Atilla.

Roman Girl's Song.

Rome! Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

On thy seven hills of yore

Thou sat'st a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then

Purpling the street;

Leaders and sceptred men

Bowed at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore

As gods were seen ;

Rome! Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been !

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise.

What hast thou left thee now?

Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!

Veiling thy wastes afar

With coloured light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow,

Rome, for thy dower;
Flushing tall cypress-bough,

Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,

Lovely to hear;

While night, o'er tomb and shrine,

Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung;

Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Everett.

Many a flute's low swell

On this soft air

Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.

Thou hast the South's rich gift
Of sudden song,

A charmèd fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien ;

Rome! Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been !

Mrs. Hemans.

EXTRACTS RELATING TO MODERN HISTORY.

Ex. 111.

Boadicea.

When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief.

'Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

'Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

'Rome, for empire far renowned,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

L

Ex. 112.

'Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name ;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.

'Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

'Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.'
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow:
Rushed to battle, fought and died;
Dying, hurled them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heav'n awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

Crescentius.

I looked upon his brow-no sign

Of guilt or fear was there;

He stood as proud by that death-shrine

As even o'er despair

He had a power; on his eye

There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that death could take,

And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,—

He raised them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now.
Around he looked with changeless brow
On many a torture nigh-

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his owr. red steel.

Cowper.

Ex. 113.

I saw him once before he rode
Upon a coal-black steed ;

And tens of thousands thronged the road
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breast-plate, were of gold
And graved with many a dent, that told
Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood, chained and alone,
The headsman by his side;

The plume, the helm, the charger gone:
The sword that had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near;
And yet no sound nor sign of fear
Came from that lip of pride,

And never king's or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.
He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncovered eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who thronged to see him die.

It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame-
A nation's funeral cry ;

Rome's wail above her only son,

Her patriot-and her latest one. Mrs. McLean.

King Alfred in the Danish Camp.
King Alfred went forth to the camp of the Dane,
And tuned his sweet harp for the foe;

He thought of his country with sorrow and pain,
And sighed for the glory laid low.

Then striking his hand o'er the answering chords,
Of love and its pleasures he sang,

Till the gathering crowd beat applause with their swords,
And their tents with the melody rang.

'Come, sing us a song of the full-flowing bowl!'
Exclaimed the proud foe, as he played :

The minstrel, though sadness lay deep on his soul,
Looked round with a smile, and obeyed

:

'Who drinks the deep draught shall be strong in the fight,

Who drains to the dregs is a king!'

*

Again they applauded: We'll pledge you to-night :"Tis thus that a minstrel should sing!'