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ALARIC THE VISIGOTH.
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, 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.”
the mountain stream shall turn,
A resting place forever there :
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,
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 !
Before my ruthless sabaoth,
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
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;