The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, May 1844

ULTIMUS REX GOTHORUM

Here Lies Roderick,

The last King of the Goths

It has been believed by many that this was the veritable tomb of the monarch, and that in this hermitage he had finished his days in solitary penance. The warrior, as he contemplated the supposed tomb of the once haughty Roderick, forgot all his faults and errors, and shed a soldier’s tear over his memory; but when his thoughts turned to Count Julian, his patriotic indignation broke forth, and with his dagger he inscribed a rude malediction on the stone.

‘Accursed,’ said he, ‘be the impious and headlong vengeance of the traitor Julian. He was a murderer of his king; a destroyer of his kindred; a betrayer of his country. May his name be bitter in every mouth, and his memory infamous to all generations.’

Here ends the legend of Don Roderick.

LINES

WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUPITER AND DANAE

Fair maid of Argos! dry thy tears, nor shun
The bright embrace of Saturn’s amorous son.
Pour’d from high Heaven athwart thy brazen tower,
Jove bends propitious in a glittering shower:
Take, gladly take, the boon the Fates impart;
Press the gilt treasure to thy panting heart:
And to thy venal sex this truth unfold,
How few, like Danae, grasp both god and gold.

    J. Smith.

THE DOG-STAR SPIRIT

SUGGESTED BY CERTAIN PAPERS ENTITLED ‘MIND AND INSTINCT,’ IN THE KNICKERBOCKER

Calm be thy slumbers, faithful Tray,
Calm in thy bed
Low-gathered underneath the clay,
Where they have laid thy bones away,
And left thee—dead!

No common dog, dear Tray, wert thou
In life’s short age;
For instinct shone upon thy brow,
And something in thy deep bow-wow
Proclaimed the sage.

When ugly curs at evening made
Their hideous wail,
Mutely thy musing eye surveyed
Bright themes for thought around displayed,
Perched on thy tail.

Oft have I seen thy vision turned
Up to the skies,
Where thy intelligence discerned
In all the little stars that burned,
Strange mysteries.

And then, thy keen glance fixed on one
That glimmered far;
‘If souls of men live when they’re gone,’
Thou thought’st, ‘why not of dogs when flown,
In yonder star?

‘Though diverse in our natures, yet
It don’t ensue
That other judgment we should meet,
Because we muster four good feet
Instead of two.

‘And if in some light, wanton freak
Of Nature’s mind,
She planted hair upon our back,
And, in capricious mood, did tack
A tail behind:

‘It matters not. That coat of hair
Is very thin;
But the habiliment we wear
To warm the heart from wintry air,
We have within.

‘Ah, no! what selfish man would have
For him alone,
To us a title Nature gave:
We too shall live beyond the grave,
When we are gone.’

Now, when at twilight’s solemn hour,
O’er field and lea,
I see the dog-star gently pour
Its beamy light—a golden shower—
I think of thee!

And well, I wot, thy spacious mind,
With journey brief,
Hath mounted like a breath of wind;
And thou art in that orb enshrined,
A thing of life.

Then peace be with thine ashes, Tray,
In their long rest: