My course is run, my errand done :

I go to Him from whence I came ;
But never yet shall set the sun

Of glory that adorns my name;
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 Attila.

JOHN EVERETT,

BROTHER of the preceding, was born at Dorchester in 1801, and was graduated at Cambridge in 1818. He was a tutor in Transylvania university, and afterwards went to Europe in the suite of our minister to the Netherlands. Upon his return he studied law, and was admitted to the bar. He died in Boston, February 12th, 1826, at the age of 25.

SAINT PAUL'S CHURCH, BOSTON.

BEAUTIFUL, pure and simple, there thou stand'st,
Fit temple for the pure and only God,
Smiling in cold severity. The heart
That views thee, fills with the bright memory
Of other days; the sunny lands of song,
In their sad, lovely silence of decay,
Rise up to the remembrance in thy sight.
The thoughts of other days, when Plato stood
At Sunium: when the imperial one, herself,
Athena, visited the Parthenon:
Or of the later age, when the proud Roman,
Within the vast Pantheon's walls, beheld

One stream of purest lustre from above, Lighting the idol-habited Rotund. Not unacceptable was their ignorant worship To him they served in darkness, but to thee A nobler precept than Colonna heard, A purer light than the Pantheon saw Is given. Thy cherub songs, and wreathed flowers, Incense and sacrifice and gifts devote, Are prayer and penitence, the tearful eye, The innocent life, the broken, contrite heart. Simple in elegance, no mounting spire, Tower, minaret, nor gaily burnish'd dome Mars thy severe proportions. No device Of polish'd moulding, sculptured tracery, Not e’en the soft acanthine folds are there, Like the divine magnificence of virtue, Whose ornament would not obscure its worth. Now, while yon moonbeam gently steals along The columns of that simple peristyle, Silvering the massive shaft and plain volute Of yon extremest pillar, let me gaze With calm delight insatiate. There is given A moral feeling to a beautiful scene Of glorious art with nature join'd, like this, And memory crown'd with moonlight roses, lives To hover o'er the storied names of old; Heroes and sages deathless--the pure heart Of him* whose lip with sweetest nectar dew'd, Breathed the great lesson of his godlike teachert Martyr of freedom-himt of SyracuseThe glorious fratricides, the immortal Theban, And their bright heritors of guiltless suffering, Intrepid Algernon, and youthful Russell,-Till the remembrance softens. Not in vain, Oh! not in vain did the Athenians Ally the arts to freedom, and invite Blushing Pictura and her marble sister Up the stern heights of the Acropolis. So be it with our country. May she stand Like thee, modellid on wisdom of the past, Yet with the lovely gracefulness of youth.

*Plato. Socrates. Dion. ♡Timoleon. Epaminondas.

SONG.

Come not to me, my dearest love,

When hope is gay and wo is fled; Sad is my bower and high above,

Deep trees their shroudlike branches spread. But when that wo tenfold returns,

When in the dust those hopes shall be, When with deep pain thy bosom burns,

Then thou, my love, must come to me.

For thee, my desert bower I 'll dress,

For thee will light my tearful eyes; For thee will braid each raven tress

That now in wild disorder flies.
And grief, who sits within my cell

A constant visitor to me,
Shall greet thee, for she knows full well

How sadly sweet I'll sing to thee.

SONG.

Sixg to me as in old “lang syne,"

Thy sweet neglected songs:
To other hearts, oh! not to mine,

Thy newer, lighter strain belongs,
My desert

memory

it

wrong's.

The strains thou lightly hurried'st o'er

To charm the gallant and the gay, The brighter smile thy features wore, When ceased thy sportive roundelay,,

How changed from that more lovely day! Then to the known, the loved, the few,

Awoke each dear, familiar tone,
Which every heart instinctive knew

And thrilling answer'd with its own,
Till not a note was felt alone.

Gone are the few—the known estranged ;

Perchance 't is right thy melody

Like them and these and all be changed,

And none preserve those songs but me
To think on what has been, what ne'er shall be.

SONG.

Tom MOORE, again we're met

By the sparkles of thine eye,
By thy lip with bright wine wet,

Thou art glad as well as I.
And thine eye shall gleam the brighter

Ere our meeting shall be o'er
And thy minstrelsy flow lighter

With our healths to thee, Tom Moore.

For thy boyish songs of woman

Thrown about like unstrung pearls, Ere thy armed spirit's summon

Bade thee leave thy bright-hair'd girls ; For thy satire's quenchless arrows

On the foes thy country bore, For thy song of Erin's sorrows,

Here's health to thee, Tom Moore.

Drink to Moore, drink to Moore

What though England renounce him, Her dark days shall soon be o'er,

And her brightest band surrounds him. In the land, then, of the vine,

To thee, its glittering drops we pour, And in warmest, reddest wine,

Drink a health to thee, Tom Moore.

TO FANNI IN A BALL DRESS.

Thou hast braided thy dark flowing hair,

And wreathed it with rosebuds and pearls ;
But dearer, neglected thy sweet tresses are,

Soft falling in natural curls.
Thou delightest the cold world's gaze,

When crown'd with the flower and the gem,

59

THOMAS 0. FOLSOM.

But thy lover's smile should be dearer praise

Than the incense thou prizest from them.

The bloom on thy young cheek is bright

With triumph enjoy'd too well,
Yet less dear than when soft as the moonbeam's light,

Or the tinge in a hyacinth bell.

And gay is the playful tone,

As to flattery's voice thou respondest :
But what is the praise of the cold and unknown,

To the tender blame of the fondest?

THOMAS O, FOLSOM

Was born at Hallowell, Maine, in 1802. He received his education at the Academy in Exeter, New Hampshire, studied medicine in Boston, and entered into practice there, but his career was soon closed by a consumption. He died at Exeter, September 11th, 1827, at the age of 25.

He was for a year or two before his death, the editor of The Boston Spectator. In this, and other periodicals, he wrote a few

ical articles.

CLOUDS.

BEAUTIFUL clouds in the quiet sky,
Whence come ye, floating so proudly by ?
“We come from the land where the forest's gioom
Frowns darkly around the old warrior's tomb,
Where the ramparts he rear'd still their strength retain,
Though ye seek their defender's name in vain.
“We have cross'd the streams of the boundless west,
We have cluster'd in wreaths round the mountain's crest,
We have swept the prairie's lonely green,
O'er buffalo herds we have hung a screen,
We have shadow'd the path that the hunters take,
And obscured the gleam of the sunny lake.”