Brindisi (Brundusium).

BRUNDUSIUM.

UNEQUAL thus to Cæsar, Pompey yields

The fair dominion of Hesperia's fields : Swift through Apulia march his flying powers, And seek the safety of Brundusium's towers.

This city a Dictæan people hold, Here placed by tall Athenian barks of old; When with false omens from the Cretan shore, Their sable sails victorious Theseus bore. Here Italy a narrow length extends, And in a scanty slip projected ends. A crooked mole around the waves she winds, And in her folds the Adriatic binds. Nor yet the bending shores could form a bay, Did not a barrier isle the winds delay, And break the seas tempestuous in their way. Huge mounds of rocks are placed by nature's hand, To guard around the hospitable strand; To turn the storm, repulse the rushing tide, And bid the anchoring bark securely ride. Hence Nereus wide the liquid main displays, And spreads to various ports his watery ways; Whether the pilot from Corcyra stand, Or for Illyrian Epidamnus' strand. Hither when all the Adriatic roars, And thundering billows vex the double shores ;

When sable clouds around the welkin spread,
And frowning storms involve Ceraunia's head ;
When white with froth Calabrian Sason lies,
Hither the tempest-beaten vessel flies.

Lucan. Tr. Nicholas Rowe.

Busento, the River.

THE GRAVE IN THE BUSENTO.

BY Cosenza

, songs of wail at midnight wake Busento’s

, O’er the wave resounds the answer, and amid the vor

tex' roar !

Valiant Goths, like spectres, steal along the banks with

hurried pace,

Weeping over Alaric dead, the best, the bravest of his

race.

Ah! too soon, from home so far, was it their lot to

dig his grave, While still o'er his shoulders flowed his youthful ring

lets' flaxen wave.

On the shore of the Busento ranged, they with each

other vied, As they dug another bed to turn the torrent's course In the waveless hollow turning o'er and o'er the sod,

the corse Deep into the earth they sank, in armor clad, upon

his horse.

Covered then with earth again the horse and rider in

the grave,

That above the hero's tomb the torrent's lofty plants

might wave.

And, a second time diverted, was the flood conducted

back, Foaming rushed Busento's billows onwards in their

wonted track.

And a warrior chorus sang, “ Sleep with thy honors,

hero brave ! “ Ne’er shall foot of lucre-lusting Roman desecrate thy

grave ! ”

Far and wide the songs of praise resounded in the

Gothic host; Bear them on, Busento's billow, bear them on from coast to coast !

August von Platen. Tr. Alfred Baskerville.

ALARIC.

IS
S then that daring spirit fled ?

Doth Alaric slumber with the dead ?
Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength,
And he and earth are calm at length.

a grave alone.

The land where heaven unclouded sbines,
Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines ;
The land by conquest made his own,
Can yield him now
But his — her lord from Alp to sea
No common sepulchre shall be !
0, make his tomb where mortal eye
Its buried wealth may ne'er descry!
Where mortal foot may never tread
Above a victor monarch's bed.
Let not his royal dust be hid
'Neath star-aspiring pyramid;
Nor bid the gathered mound arise,
To bear his memory to the skies.
Years roll away, -- oblivion claims
Her triumph o'er heroic names ;
And hands profane disturb the clay
That once was fired with glory's ray;
And avarice, from their secret glooin,
Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb.
But thou, O leader of the free!
That general doom awaits not thee :
Thou, where no step may e'er intrude,
Shalt rest 'in regal solitude,
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound,
The Awakener's final trumpet sound.
Turn ye the waters from their course,
Bid nature yield to human force,
And hollow in the torrent's bed
A chamber for the mighty dead.
The work is done, the captive's hand

Hath well obeyed his lord's command.
Within that royal tomb are cast
The richest trophies of the past,
The wealth of many a stately dome,
The gold and gems of plundered Rome;
And when the midnight stars are beaming,
Aud ocean waves in stillness gleaming,
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear
The Chastener of the Nations there,
To rest at length from victory's toil,
Alone, with all an empire's spoil !

Then the freed current's rushing wave
Rolls o'er the secret of the grave;
Then streams the martyred captives' blood
To crimson that sepulchral flood,
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep
The mystery in its bosom deep.
Time hath passed on since then, and swept
From earth the urns where heroes slept;
Temples of gods and domes of kings
Are mouldering with forgotten things;
Yet not shall ages e'er molest
The viewless home of Alaric's rest:
Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river,
The guardian of his dust forever.

Felicia Hemans.