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Most musical from marble fountains wreathed
WILLIAM E. GALLAUDET
Was a native of Hartford, Connecticut. He was graduated at Yale College in 1815, and commenced the study of medicine in New York, but abandoned it for some mercantile views. These were however, terminated by his death at the age of 26, in 1821. He was a young man of uncommon promise. Poetry he wrote, but not much. We know of nothing that has been published, except the annexed piece which was included in e's Specimens of the American Poets.
LINES TO THE WESTERY MUMMY.
O STRANGER, whose repose profound
These latter ages dare to break,
Ere nature did thy slumber shake!
What wonders of the secret earth
Thy lip, too silent, might reveal!
A thousand envious ages wheel!
Thy race by savage war o'errun,
Sunk down, their very name forgot; But ere those fearful times begun,
Perhaps, in this sequester'd spot, By friendship's hand thine eyelids closed,
By friendship’s hand the turf was laidAnd friendship here perhaps reposed,
With moonlight vigils in the shade.
The stars have run their nightly round,
The sun look'd out and pass'd his way, And many a season o'er the ground
Has tród where thou so softly lay.
And wilt thou not one moment raise
Thy weary head, awhile to see The later sports of earthly days,
How like what once enchanted thee?
Thy name, thy date, thy life declare
Perhaps a queen whose feathery band A thousand maids have sigh’d to wear,
The brightest in thy beauteous band. Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye
Love kindled up the flame of warAh me! do thus thy graces lie
A faded phantom and no more!
O! not like thee would I remain,
But o’er the earth my ashes strew, And in some rising bud regain
The freshness that my childhood knew.
But has thy soul, O maid! so long
Around this mournful relict dwelt? Or burst away with pinion strong,
And at the foot of mercy knelt ?
Or has it in some distant clime
With curious eye unsated stray'd, And down the winding stream of time
On every changeful current play'd ?
Or lock’d in everlasting sleep
Must we thy heart extinct deplore?
And sigh for her who feels no more?
Or exiled to some humbler sphere,
In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell,
Thy tender melancholy tell ?
Whoe'er thcu be, thy sad remains
Shall from the muse a tear demand,
Looks fondly to a distant land.
MR EVERETT was born in Dorchester, Mass. His father was pastor to the New South Church in Boston. He studied at Harvard University, and was ordained as a minister over the Brattle Street Church in Boston, at the early age of eighteen. Upon the foundation of the professorship of Greek literature at Cambridge, he was called upon to fill the office, in consequence of which, he relinquished his pastoral duties in Boston. After making a visit to Europe, he entered upon his business as professor, and continued in that station till 1825. Since that time he has been a representative in Congress.
Mr Everett's reputation, both as a statesman and a scholar, is too widely extended to need any comments from us. Among the great variety of his labors, he has found moments to devote to the muse. The following piece, and a Phi Beta Kappa poem, written in his youth, are, we believe, all that have appeared in public.
DIRGE OF ALARIC, THE VISIGOTH, Who stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred.
WHEN I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Stain it with hypocritic tear;
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,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Lay down the wreck of Power to rest ;
But ye the mountain stream shall turn,
And lay its secret channel bare,
A resting-place for ever there:
Back to the clods, that gave them birth ;-
The ransom of a conquered earth :
But when beneath the mountain tide,
Ye've laid your monarch down to rot,
For long enough the world has shook
My course was like a river deep,
And from the northern hills I burst,
And where I went, the spot was cursed,
See how their haughty barriers fail
Beneath the terror of the Goth,
Before my ruthless sabaoth,
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,
O’er guilty king and guilty realm;
And vengeance sat upon the helm,
I pour'd the torrent of my powers,
In vain within their seven-hill'd towers ;