Her tambourine uplifting with a grace
Nature's and Nature's only, bids him rise.
But here the mighty Monarch underneath,
He in his palace of fire, diffuses round
A dazzling splendour. Here, unseen, unheard,
Opening another Eden in the wild,
His gifts he scatters; save, when issuing forth
In thunder, he blots out the sun, the sky,
And, mingling all things earthly as in scorn,
Exalts the valley, lays the mountain low,
Pours many a torrent from his burning lake,
And in an hour of universal mirth,
What time the trump proclaims the festival,
Buries some capital city, there to sleep
The sleep of ages-till a plough, a spade
Disclose the secret, and the eye of day
Glares coldly on the streets, the skeletons;
Each in his place, each in his gay attire,
And eager to enjoy.
And let the sail be slack, the course be slow, That at our leisure, as we coast along,
We may contemplate, and from every scene
Receive its influence. The CUMAAN towers,
There did they rise, sun-gilt; and here thy groves,
Delicious BAIE. Here (what would they not?)
The masters of the earth, unsatisfied,
Built in the sea; and now the boatman steers
O'er many a crypt and vault yet glimmering,
O'er many a broad and indestructible arch,
The deep foundations of their palaces;
Nothing now heard ashore, so great the change,
Save when the sea-mew clamours, or the owl
Hoots in the temple.
What the mountainous Isle
Seen in the South? 'Tis where a Monster dwelt,†
Hurling his victims from the topmost cliff;
Then and then only merciful, so slow,
So subtle were the tortures they endured.
Fearing and feared he lived, cursing and cursed;
And still the dungeons in the rock breathe out
Darkness, distemper. Strange, that one so vile ‡
+ 'How often, to demonstrate his power, does He employ the meanest of his instruments; as in Egypt, when he called forth -not the serpents and the monsters of Africa-but vermin from the very dust!'
Should from his den strike terror thro' the world;
Should, where withdrawn in his decrepitude,
Say to the noblest, be they where they might,
'Go from the earth!' and from the earth they went. Yet such things were-and will be, when mankind Losing all virtue, lose all energy;
And for the loss incur the penalty,
Trodden down and trampled.
Let us turn the prow
And, in the track of him who went to die,*
Traverse this valley of waters, landing where
A waking dream awaits us.
Two thousand years roll backward and we stand,
Like those so long within that awful Place,†
Immovable, nor asking, Can it be?
* The Elder Pliny. See the letter in which his Nephew relates to Tacitus the circumstances of his death.-In the morning of that day Vesuvius was covered with the most luxuriant vegetation; every elm had its vine, every vine (for it was in the month of August) its clusters; nor in the cities below was there a thought of danger, though their interment was so soon to take place. In Pompeii, if we may believe Dion Cassius, the people were sitting in the Theatre when the work of destruction began.
Once did I linger there alone till day
Closed, and at length the calm of twilight came,
So grateful yet so solemn! At the fount,
Just where the three ways meet, I stood and looked,
('Twas near a noble house, the house of Pansa)
And all was still as in the long, long night
That followed, when the shower of ashes fell,
When they that sought POMPEII, sought in vain;
It was not to be found. But now a ray,
Bright and yet brighter, on the pavement glanced,
And on the wheel-track worn for centuries,
And on the stepping-stones from side to side,
O'er which the maidens, with their water-urns,
Were wont to trip so lightly. Full and clear,
The moon was rising, and at once revealed
The name of every dweller, and his craft;
Shining throughout with an unusual lustre,
And lighting up this City of the Dead.
Mark, where within, as though the embers lived, The ample chimney-vault is dun with smoke.
There dwelt a miller; silent and at rest
His mill-stones now. In old companionship
Still do they stand as on the day he went,
Each ready for its office-but he comes not.
And there, hard by (where one in idleness
Has stopt to scrawl a ship, an armed man ;
And in a tablet on the wall we read
Of shews ere long to be) a sculptor wrought,
Nor meanly; blocks, half-chiselled into life,
Waiting his call. Here long, as yet attests
The trodden floor, an olive-merchant drew
From many an earthen jar, no more supplied;
And here from his a vintner served his guests
Largely, the stain of his o'erflowing cups
Fresh on the marble. On the bench, beneath,
They sate and quaffed and looked on them that passed,
Gravely discussing the last news from ROME.
But lo, engraven on a threshold-stone,
That word of courtesy so sacred once,
HAIL! At a master's greeting we may enter.
And lo, a fairy-palace! every where,
As through the courts and chambers we advance,
Floors of mosaic, walls of arabesque,
And columns clustering in Patrician splendour.
But hark, a footstep! May we not intrude?
And now, methinks, I hear a gentle laugh,
And gentle voices mingling as in converse!
-And now a harp-string as struck carelessly,
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