Memoirs of Anne C.L. Botta,: written by her friends. With selections from her correspondence and from her writings in prose and poetry.

3toorapbical 1Rotes
WEBSTER.
The mold upon thy memory! -No,
Not while one note is rung
Of those divine, immortal songs
Milton and Shakspere sung;
Not till the night of years enshrouds
The Anglo-Saxon tongue.
No! let the flood of Time roll on,
And men and empires die;
Genius enthroned on lofty heights
Can its dread course defy,
And here on earth can claim the gift
Of immortality;
Can save from that Lethean tide,
That sweeps so dark along,
A people's name-a people's fame
To future time prolong,
As Troy still lives, and only lives,
In Homer's deathless song.
What though to buried Nineveh
The traveler may come,
And roll away the stone that hides
That long-forgotten tomb:
He questions its mute past in vain,
Its oracles are dumb.
What though he stand where Baalbec stood
Gigantic in its pride:
No voice comes o'er that silent waste,
Lone, desolate, and wide;
They had no bard, no orator,
No statesman,-and they died.
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