THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. I. HERE we halt our march, and pitch our tent, And light our fire with the branches rent, With hail of iron and rain of blood, To sweep and scath the land. II. How the dark waste rings with voices shrill, And the step must fall unheard. In Ticonderoga's towers, And ere the sun rise twice again, The towers and the lake are ours. III. Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides, A ruddier juice the Briton hides, In his fortress by the lake. Build high the fire, till the panther leap From his lofty perch in fright, And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep, For the deeds of to-morrow night. Edward Everett. ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. (ALARIC stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterward: buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred.l HEN I am dead, no pageant train WHEN Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, Nor worthless pomp of homage vain For I will die as I did live, Nor take the boon I cannot give. Ye shall not raise a marble bust Upon the spot where I repose; In hollow circumstance of woes; Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, Lay down the wreck of power to rest, On him that was the Scourge of GOD!" But ye the mountain-stream shall turn, 742014 Then bid its everlasting springs 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, Pillar or mound to mark the spot; 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 Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal car; 'Twas God alone on high did send The avenging Scythian to the war— With iron hand that scourge I reared And Vengeance sat upon the helm, Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers, My course is run, my errand done, But never yet shall set the sun Of glory that adorns my name; And Roman hearts shall long be sick, My course is run, my errand done; THE ON Frances H. Green. CHICKADEE'S SONG. N its downy wing, the snow, Poets sing in measures bold They who choose, abroad may go, But we love the breezes free |