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ALARIC THE VISIGOTH.

When I am dead, no pageant train

Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain

Stain it with hypocritic tear ;
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 ;
Ye shall not fawn before my dust,

In hollow circumstance of woes;
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath,
Insult the clay that moulds beneath.

Ye shall not pile with servile toil,

Your monuments upon my breast, Nor yet within the common soil

Lay down the wreck of power to rest, Where man can boast that he has trod 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 forever there :
Then bid its everlasting springs
Flow back upon the King of kings;
And never be the secret said
Until the deep gives up its dead.

My gold and silver ye shall fling

Back to the clods that gave them birthThe 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,

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Ye shall not rear upon its side

Pillar or mound to mark the spot : For long enough the earth 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 curst : No 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

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;

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