How fair the scene! the sunny smiles of day
Flash o'er the wave in glad Sorrento's bay;
Far, far along mid Sarno's glancing stream,
The fruits and flowers of golden Summer beam,
And cheer, with brightening hues, the lonely gloom,
That shrouds yon silent City of the Tomb!
Yes, sad Pompeii! Time's deep shadows fall
On every ruin'd arch and broken wall!
But Nature smiles as in thy happiest hour,
And decks thy lowly rest with many a flower.
Around, above, in blended beauty shine
The graceful poplar and the clasping vine;
Still the young violet, in her chalice blue,
Bears to the lips of Morn her votive dew;
Still the green laurel springs to life the while,
Beneath her own Apollo's golden smile;
And o'er thy fallen glories beams on high
The Beauty of the Heavens--Italia's sky!
How fair the scene! even now to Fancy's gaze
Return the shadowy forms of other days:
Those halls, of old with mirth and music rife,
Those echoing streets that teem'd with joyous life,
The stately towers that rose along the plain,
And the light barks that swept yon silvery main.
And see! they meet beneath the chestnut shades,
Pompeii's joyous sons and graceful maids,
Weave the light dance--the rosy chaplet twine,
Or snatch the cluster from the weary vine;
Nor think that Death can haunt so fair a scene,
The Heaven's deep blue, the Earth's unsullied green.
Devoted City! could not aught avail
When the dark omen told thy fearful tale?
The giant phantom dimly seen to glide,
And the loud voice that shook the mountain-side,
With warning tones that bade thy children roam,
To seek in happier climes a calmer home?
In vain! they will not break the fatal rest
That woos them to the mountain's treacherous breast:
Fond memory blends with every mossy stone
Some early joy, some tale of pleasure flown;
And they must die where those around will weep,
And sleep for ever where their fathers sleep.
Yes! they must die: behold! yon gathering gloom
Brings on the fearful silence of the timb;
Along Campania's sky yon murky cloud
Spreads its dark form--a City's funeral shroud.
How brightly rose Pompeii's latest day!
The Sun, unclouded, held his golden way,--
Vineyards, in Autumn's purple glories dressed,
Slept in soft beauty on the mountain's breast;
The gale that wanton'd round his crested brow,
Shook living fragrance from the blossom'd bough;
And many a laughing mead and silvery stream
Drank the deep lustre of the noonday beam:
Then echoing Music rang, and Mirth grew loud
In the glad voices of the festal crowd;
The opening Theatre's wide gates invite,
The choral dance is there, the solemn rite--
There breathes th' immortal Muse her spell around,
And swelling thousands flood the fatal ground.
See! where arise before th' enraptur'd throng,
The fabled scenes, the shadowy forms of Song!
Gods, that with Heroes leave their starry bowers,
Their fragrant hair entwin'd with radiant flowers,
Haunt the dim grove, beside the fountain dwell--
Strike the deep lyre, or sound the wreathed shell--
With forms of heavenly mould; but hearts that glow
With human passion, melt with human woe!
Breathless they gaze, while white-rob'd priests advance,
And graceful virgins lead the sacred dance;
They listen, mute, while mingling tones prolong
The lofty accent, and the pealing song,
Echo th' unbending Titan's haughty groan,
Or in the Colchian's woes forget their own!
Why feels each throbbing heart that shuddering chill?
The Music falters, and the Dance is still--
"Is it pale Twilight stealing o'er the plain?
"Or starless Eve, that holds unwonted reign?"
Hark to the thrilling answer! who shall tell
When thick and fast th' unsparing tempest fell,
And stern Vesuvius pour'd along the vale
His molten cataracts, and his burning hail:--
Oh! who shall paint, in that o'erwhelming hour,
Death's varying forms, and Horror's withering power?
Earthquake! wild Earthquake! rends that heaving plain,
Cleaves the firm rock, and swells the beetling main:
Here, yawns the ready grave, and, raging, leap
Earth's secret fountains from their troubled sleep;
There, from the quivering mountain bursts on high
The pillar'd flame, that wars along the sky!
On, on they press, and maddening seek in vain
Some soothing refuge from the fiery rain;--
Their home? it can but yield a living tomb,
Round the lov'd hearth is brooding deepest gloom;
Yon sea? its angry surges scorching rave,
And Deathfires gleam upon the ruddy wave:
Oh! for one breath of that reviving gale,
That swept at dewy morn along the vale!
For one sad glance of their beloved sky,
To soothe, though vain, their parting agony!
Yon mother bows in vain her shuddering form,
Her babe to shield from that relentless storm:
Cold are those limbs her clasping arms constrain,
Even the soft shelter of her breast is vain!
Gaze on that form! 'tis Beauty's softest maid,
The rose's rival in her native shade;--
For her had Pleasure rear'd her fairest bowers,
And Song and Dance had sped the laughing hours:
See! o'er her brow the kindling ashes glow,
And the red shower o'erwhelms her breast of snow;
She seeks that lov'd one--never false till then;--
She calls on him--who answers not again:
Loose o'er her bosom flames her golden hair,
And every thrilling accent breathes despair!
Even the stern priest, who saw with raptured view,
The deathless forms of Heaven's ethereal blue,
Who drank, with glowing ear, the mystic tone,
That cloth'd his lips with wonders not their own,
Beheld th' immortal marble frown in vain,
And fires triumphant grasp the sacred fane,
Forsook at last the unavailing shrine,
And curs'd his faithless gods--no more divine!
Morn came in beauty still--and shone as fair,
Though cold the hearts that hail'd its radiance there,
And Evening, crown'd with many a starry gem,
Sent down her softest smile--though not for them!
Where gleam'd afar Pompeii's graceful towers,
Where hill and vale were cloth'd with vintage-bowers,
O'er a dark waste the smouldering ashes spread,
A pall above the dying and the dead.
Still the dim City slept in safest shade,
Though the wild waves another Queen obey'd,
And sad Italia, on her angry shore,
Beheld the North its ruthless myriads pour;
And Nature scatter'd all her treasures round,
And grac'd with fairest hues the blighted ground.
There oft, at glowing noon, the village maid
Sought the deep shelter of the vineyard shade;
Beheld the olive bud--the wild-flower wave,
Nor knew her step was on a People's grave!
But see! once more beneath the smiles of day,
The dreary mist of ages melts away!
Again Pompeii, 'mid the brightening gloom,
Comes forth in beauty from her lonely tomb.
Lovely in ruin--graceful in decay,
The silent City rears her walls of grey:
The clasping ivy hangs her faithful shade,
As if to hide the wreck that Time had made;
The shatter'd column on the lonely ground,
Is glittering still, with fresh acanthus crown'd;
And where her Parian rival moulders near,
The drooping lily pours her softest tear!
How sadly sweet with pensive step to roam
Amid the ruin'd wall, the tottering dome!
The path just worn by human feet is here;
Their echoes almost reach the listening ear:
The marble hall with rich Mosaic dressed;
The portal wide that woos the lingering guest:
Altars, with fresh and living chaplets crown'd,
From those wild flowers that sprang fantastic round,
Th' unfinish'd painting, and the pallet nigh,
Whose added hues must fairer charms supply:
These mingle here, until th' unconscious feet
Roam on, intent some gathering crowd to meet;
And cheated Fancy, in her dreary mood,
Will half forget that all is solitude!
Yes, all is solitude! fear not to tread
Through gates unwatch'd the City of the Dead,
Explore with pausing step th' unpeopled path,
View the proud hall--survey the stately bath,
Where swelling roofs their noblest shelter raise;
Enter! no voice shall check th' intruder's gaze!
See! the dread legion's peaceful home is here,
The signs of martial life are scatter'd near.
Yon helm, unclasp'd to ease some Warrior's brow,
The sword his weary arm resign'd but now,
Th' unfinish'd sentence trac'd along the wall,
Broke by the hoarse Centurion's starting call:
Hark! did their sounding tramp reecho round?
Or breath'd the hollow gale that fancied sound?
Behold! where 'mid yon fane, so long divine,
Sad Isis mourns her desolated shrine!
Will none the mellow reed's soft music breathe?
Or twine from yonder flowers the victim's wreath?
None to yon altar lead with suppliant strain
The milk-white monarch of the herd again?
All, all is mute! save sadly answering nigh
The nightbird's shriek, the shrill cicala's cry.
Yet may you trace along the furrow'd street,
The chariot's track--the print of frequent feet;
The gate unclos'd, as if by recent hand;
The hearth, where yet the guardian Lares stand;
Still on the wall the words of welcome shine,
And ready vases proffer joyous wine:
But where the hum of men? the sounds of life?
The Temple's pageant, and the Forum's strife?
The forms and voices, such as should belong
To that bright clime, the land of Love and Song?
How sadly echoing to the stranger's tread,
These walls respond, like voices from the dead!
And sadder traces--darker scenes are there,
Tales of the Tomb, and records of Despair;
In Death's chill grasp unconscious arms enfold
The fatal burthen of their cherish'd gold;
Here, wasted relics, as in mockery, dwell
Beside some treasure lov'd in life too well;
There, faithful hearts have moulder'd side by side,
And hands are clasp'd that Death could not divide!
None, none shall tell that hour of fearful strife,
When Death must share the consciousness of Life;
When sullen Famine, slow Despair consume
The living tenants of the massive tomb;
Long could they hear above th' incumbent plain,
The music of the breeze awake again,
The wave's deep echo on the distant shore,
And murmuring streams, that they should see no more!
Away! dread scene! and o'er the harrowing view
Let Night's dim shadows fling their darkest hue!
But there, if still beneath some nameless stone,
By waving weeds and ivy-wreaths o'ergrown,
Lurk the grey spoils of Poet or of Sage,
Tully's deep lore, or Livy's pictur'd page;
If sweet Menander, where his relics fade,
Mourn the dark refuge of Oblivion's shade;
Oh! may their treasures burst the darkling mine!
Glow in the living voice, the breathing line!
Their vestal fire our midnight lamp illume,
And kindle Learning's torch from sad Pompeii's tomb!
