 | The Last Days of Herculaneum |  |
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'Twas on the morning of that fateful day
When Cyrus met on Thymbra's spacious plain
The mighty host by wealthy Crœsus led.—
Awful the hour when through the expectant camp
The word was given to harness for the fight
For warlike was the foe; four hundred times
A thousand was his strength; in horsemen strong,
And strong in Egypt's yet unconquer'd bands;—
But Cyrus fear'd not, though his Persain men
Not half their number told; for they were bred
To hardship and fatigue; on coarsest fare
They fed, despising luxury and sloth,
And had been used to victory.—So he made
A sacrifice to God, and bade them arm
To march against the foe.
When Cyrus met on Thymbra's spacious plain
The mighty host by wealthy Crœsus led.—
Awful the hour when through the expectant camp
The word was given to harness for the fight
For warlike was the foe; four hundred times
A thousand was his strength; in horsemen strong,
And strong in Egypt's yet unconquer'd bands;—
But Cyrus fear'd not, though his Persain men
Not half their number told; for they were bred
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They fed, despising luxury and sloth,
And had been used to victory.—So he made
A sacrifice to God, and bade them arm
To march against the foe.
Then might be seen
O'er all the stirring camp the polish'd arms
Reflecting from the newly risen sun
Millions of sparkling points. Pale looks were there,
Yet not of terror, but that feeling high
That thrills the soldier's frame, and lifts the soul
To dare all possible things: and busy hands
Were buckling armour on:—and swords were drawn
And sheath'd again, and many-colour'd plumes
Nodded o'er brazen helmets:—steeds in mail
Pranced underneath their gorgeous riders, clad
In fiery scarlet and in glittering brass:—
And there were chariots, dreadful to behold,
With wheels scythe-arm'd: and the horses were clothed
In trappings arrow-proof; two ranks of four
Abreast, whirl'd the dire fury through the field.—
O'er all the stirring camp the polish'd arms
Reflecting from the newly risen sun
Millions of sparkling points. Pale looks were there,
Yet not of terror, but that feeling high
That thrills the soldier's frame, and lifts the soul
To dare all possible things: and busy hands
Were buckling armour on:—and swords were drawn
And sheath'd again, and many-colour'd plumes
Nodded o'er brazen helmets:—steeds in mail
Pranced underneath their gorgeous riders, clad
In fiery scarlet and in glittering brass:—
And there were chariots, dreadful to behold,
With wheels scythe-arm'd: and the horses were clothed
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Abreast, whirl'd the dire fury through the field.—
There was a prince, whose wife in former war
Was captive made by Cyrus;—and her charms
Exceeded those of woman;—yet her mind
Was fairer than her beauty; and her soul
Grew to her husband.—Cyrus saw, but scorn'd
Such loveliness and virtue by a touch
Unhallow'd to pollute; and when her lord
Knew this forbearance, smit with gratitude,
To Cyrus with his forces he repair'd
And vow'd eternal friendship:—and that vow
Till death he kept.—The armed cars that day
Commanded he in fight:—his lovely bride
Was named Panthea;—Abradates he.—
Was captive made by Cyrus;—and her charms
Exceeded those of woman;—yet her mind
Was fairer than her beauty; and her soul
Grew to her husband.—Cyrus saw, but scorn'd
Such loveliness and virtue by a touch
Unhallow'd to pollute; and when her lord
Knew this forbearance, smit with gratitude,
To Cyrus with his forces he repair'd
And vow'd eternal friendship:—and that vow
Till death he kept.—The armed cars that day
Commanded he in fight:—his lovely bride
Was named Panthea;—Abradates he.—
When now the cuirass by his nation worn
Of quilted linen, he was putting on,
She brought him, smiling at his pleased surprise,
For by her secret orders all was done,
A helmet, bracers, bracelets, all of gold,
Coat-armour to his length, and feathery plume
Of vivid purple dye.—Her delicate hands
Assisted to array him, while the tears
She could not stay roll'd down her beauteous cheek,
And sighs unheard by him came thick and deep.
Yet, though she wept, she urged him to the race
Of glory. Think, oh! think,—she said,—
What we to Cyrus owe:—his prisoner, I
Was to his pleasures forfeit;—who of men
But he, would for a captive woman's tears
His privilege have waved?—for nor by word,
Nor loose regard, did he the blush of shame
Call to my cheek;—but with such chasten'd love
As to a sister tender brothers show,
He cheer'd my sorrowing soul; nor ransom ask'd
For liberty restored that nicest mind
Had doubted ere it gave. I told him then
How in thy breast such noble deeds would wake
A gratitude as noble:—and that life
Would in thy thinking be too short a term
To lavish in his service.—Onward then;—
And by thy deeds this day let Cyrus know
How thou dost prize his gift. But oh! my love,
When the hot fury of the fight would urge
To things that reason shrinks from; then, oh! then,
Think on Panthea:—think thou seest her left
A wretched widow sinking o'er the sod
That holds her only treasure; desolate,—
Alone upon the earth,—beyond the reach
Of comfort or of hope.
Of quilted linen, he was putting on,
She brought him, smiling at his pleased surprise,
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A helmet, bracers, bracelets, all of gold,
Coat-armour to his length, and feathery plume
Of vivid purple dye.—Her delicate hands
Assisted to array him, while the tears
She could not stay roll'd down her beauteous cheek,
And sighs unheard by him came thick and deep.
Yet, though she wept, she urged him to the race
Of glory. Think, oh! think,—she said,—
What we to Cyrus owe:—his prisoner, I
Was to his pleasures forfeit;—who of men
But he, would for a captive woman's tears
His privilege have waved?—for nor by word,
Nor loose regard, did he the blush of shame
Call to my cheek;—but with such chasten'd love
As to a sister tender brothers show,
He cheer'd my sorrowing soul; nor ransom ask'd
For liberty restored that nicest mind
Had doubted ere it gave. I told him then
How in thy breast such noble deeds would wake
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Would in thy thinking be too short a term
To lavish in his service.—Onward then;—
And by thy deeds this day let Cyrus know
How thou dost prize his gift. But oh! my love,
When the hot fury of the fight would urge
To things that reason shrinks from; then, oh! then,
Think on Panthea:—think thou seest her left
A wretched widow sinking o'er the sod
That holds her only treasure; desolate,—
Alone upon the earth,—beyond the reach
Of comfort or of hope.
Panthea—hush—
The prince replied:—thy words distract my soul,—
Take off these glittering trappings, for my arm
Hath not a soldier's vigour—nor my heart
Doth beat with wonted energy to day.
The prince replied:—thy words distract my soul,—
Take off these glittering trappings, for my arm
Hath not a soldier's vigour—nor my heart
Doth beat with wonted energy to day.
Nay, then am I a traitress, smiling sweet,
The lovely fair-one cried;—and she assumed
A cheerfulness she felt not; for her heart
Was fill'd with sad forebodings, and her eye
Told of unspeakable pangs;—thou shalt not stain
Thy spotless reputation for the dream
Of silly fearful woman;—be thy arm
Strong as Leviathan amid the foe,—
Thy heart like the desert lion's:—better die
The hero's death, than live to taste of shame:—
Remember Cyrus—future fame—and past;—
And think sometimes on me.
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A cheerfulness she felt not; for her heart
Was fill'd with sad forebodings, and her eye
Told of unspeakable pangs;—thou shalt not stain
Thy spotless reputation for the dream
Of silly fearful woman;—be thy arm
Strong as Leviathan amid the foe,—
Thy heart like the desert lion's:—better die
The hero's death, than live to taste of shame:—
Remember Cyrus—future fame—and past;—
And think sometimes on me.
She said—and wiped
The tear-drops from her eye,—and round his arm
Circled a golden tress:—then to her breast
Strain'd with a long embrace the form beloved.
And kiss'd the lips she ne'er might kiss again.—
Nor less the prince with fervent ardour glow'd:—
He press'd her to his bosom, as though earth,
Nay Heaven itself had nought for him beside;—
Implored in silence Jove's protecting care,
And every blessing on her lovely head
That power supreme can give:—gazed on her face
All pale and sorrowful, where misery strove
To smile, but could not;—wiped away her tears;
Whisper'd fond words of comfort;—bade her think
Rather, how blest to meet again, than brood
O'er parting apprehensions:—strain'd her close;
And stood in silence looking in her eyes,
Vacant, and lost in torpitude of grief.
The tear-drops from her eye,—and round his arm
Circled a golden tress:—then to her breast
Strain'd with a long embrace the form beloved.
And kiss'd the lips she ne'er might kiss again.—
Nor less the prince with fervent ardour glow'd:—
He press'd her to his bosom, as though earth,
Nay Heaven itself had nought for him beside;—
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And every blessing on her lovely head
That power supreme can give:—gazed on her face
All pale and sorrowful, where misery strove
To smile, but could not;—wiped away her tears;
Whisper'd fond words of comfort;—bade her think
Rather, how blest to meet again, than brood
O'er parting apprehensions:—strain'd her close;
And stood in silence looking in her eyes,
Vacant, and lost in torpitude of grief.
But the voice of the trumpet came—and his eye
Lighten'd—and his face had the glow of morn,—
And like the tramp of a distant steed, his heart
Sounded.—“Oh! Jupiter!” he cried, and raised
To the blue vault his eyes,—“grant that this day
I may myself approve to such a king
An ever-grateful friend,—to such a wife
A not unworthy husband.”—Then he took
One short and last embrace,—and bounded up
With clattering arms into the shining car.—
The snorting horses struck their restless hoofs
Into the trembling earth.—Unable then
To touch the form adored, Panthea press'd
On the unconscious chariot where he rode
A kiss of love.—The circling wheels moved on;—
From the bright scythes thick flashing lightnings came:—
The hollow beat of the coursers' hoofs no more
Sounded upon the ear:—the glittering car
Grew every moment less:—amid the hosts
Of chariots and of horsemen soon it mix'd.
Lighten'd—and his face had the glow of morn,—
And like the tramp of a distant steed, his heart
Sounded.—“Oh! Jupiter!” he cried, and raised
To the blue vault his eyes,—“grant that this day
I may myself approve to such a king
An ever-grateful friend,—to such a wife
A not unworthy husband.”—Then he took
One short and last embrace,—and bounded up
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The snorting horses struck their restless hoofs
Into the trembling earth.—Unable then
To touch the form adored, Panthea press'd
On the unconscious chariot where he rode
A kiss of love.—The circling wheels moved on;—
From the bright scythes thick flashing lightnings came:—
The hollow beat of the coursers' hoofs no more
Sounded upon the ear:—the glittering car
Grew every moment less:—amid the hosts
Of chariots and of horsemen soon it mix'd.
Panthea press'd her aching eyes;—her heart
Was deadly sick:—she spake not, but her look
Grew wild and terrified:—among the tents
She wander'd vacantly, like one in sleep
Unknowing where he treads: then would she stop,
And seem to catch faint distant sounds, that shot
Like death chills o'er her face; her flashing eye
Starting and wild,—with open mouth, and brow
Knit as in pain. But she grew calmer soon,
And fell upon the earth, and sent to Heaven
Prayers silent and unceasing; till she heard
From the far plain, upon the breezes borne,
The awful hymn of battle chaunted loud
By Persia's ardent legions.—Then she knew
The crisis was at hand:—all pale she rose;
A moment listen'd to the inspiring sound
That seem'd to fill the concave of the sky:—
Clasp'd her white hands in agony;—look'd up
Imploringly to Heaven, with ashy lips
Parted, yet motionless, and eye that seem'd
Fix'd as in trance of death:—then from her brow
Dash'd the o'erhanging ringlets; seem'd to draw
In one full breath a resolution high;—
A moment longer listen'd to the swell
Of the fast closing hymn;—then drew her robe
Of virgin whiteness round her delicate limbs,
And paced with rapid step the deep trod road
Toward the direful field.
Was deadly sick:—she spake not, but her look
Grew wild and terrified:—among the tents
She wander'd vacantly, like one in sleep
Unknowing where he treads: then would she stop,
And seem to catch faint distant sounds, that shot
Like death chills o'er her face; her flashing eye
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Knit as in pain. But she grew calmer soon,
And fell upon the earth, and sent to Heaven
Prayers silent and unceasing; till she heard
From the far plain, upon the breezes borne,
The awful hymn of battle chaunted loud
By Persia's ardent legions.—Then she knew
The crisis was at hand:—all pale she rose;
A moment listen'd to the inspiring sound
That seem'd to fill the concave of the sky:—
Clasp'd her white hands in agony;—look'd up
Imploringly to Heaven, with ashy lips
Parted, yet motionless, and eye that seem'd
Fix'd as in trance of death:—then from her brow
Dash'd the o'erhanging ringlets; seem'd to draw
In one full breath a resolution high;—
A moment longer listen'd to the swell
Of the fast closing hymn;—then drew her robe
Of virgin whiteness round her delicate limbs,
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Toward the direful field.
As she moved on,
The solemn war-chaunt ceased; and in its stead
Shoutings and cries horrific struck her ear,
And a noise like distant thunder, or the coil
Of struggling waters;—and she felt the earth
Shake like a smitten drum;—for the horsemen then,
Ten times ten thousand, were in conflict join'd,
And the chariots were lightning on.
The solemn war-chaunt ceased; and in its stead
Shoutings and cries horrific struck her ear,
And a noise like distant thunder, or the coil
Of struggling waters;—and she felt the earth
Shake like a smitten drum;—for the horsemen then,
Ten times ten thousand, were in conflict join'd,
And the chariots were lightning on.
She spake not yet,
But her heart throbb'd fast and loud, and o'er her came
A chill like the touch of death:—her waving locks
Felt stiffening into motion, and her feet
Seem'd as they trod on air.—So on she sped
Till she had reach'd a hill, whose peak sublime
O'erlook'd the scene of carnage.
But her heart throbb'd fast and loud, and o'er her came
A chill like the touch of death:—her waving locks
Felt stiffening into motion, and her feet
Seem'd as they trod on air.—So on she sped
Till she had reach'd a hill, whose peak sublime
O'erlook'd the scene of carnage.
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As she climb'd,
Louder and louder came the din of fight,
Like a gathering tempest groaning in the air;
And soon the Assyrian banners caught her eye,
And the glare of brazen armour:—and still on,—
Too far for clear discernment, she beheld
Flashings of steel, and horsemen scouring on,
Pursuing or pursued, and clouds of dust
That seem'd to reach the sky:—yet paused she not,
Though now the golden Persian eagle raised
His glittering wings aloft; and she might see
Myriads of charging foot and tramping steeds:
Still toil'd she upward, till, the summit won,
Like a vast sea th' interminable vale
Lay spread before her view. Oh! what a sight
For woman's gentle eye! Like to the clouds
Of all devouring locusts, that at noon
With their innumerous legions load the air
And bring thick darkness,—so unnumber'd seem'd
Th' exterminating hosts.
Louder and louder came the din of fight,
Like a gathering tempest groaning in the air;
And soon the Assyrian banners caught her eye,
And the glare of brazen armour:—and still on,—
Too far for clear discernment, she beheld
Flashings of steel, and horsemen scouring on,
Pursuing or pursued, and clouds of dust
That seem'd to reach the sky:—yet paused she not,
Though now the golden Persian eagle raised
His glittering wings aloft; and she might see
Myriads of charging foot and tramping steeds:
Still toil'd she upward, till, the summit won,
Like a vast sea th' interminable vale
Lay spread before her view. Oh! what a sight
For woman's gentle eye! Like to the clouds
Of all devouring locusts, that at noon
With their innumerous legions load the air
And bring thick darkness,—so unnumber'd seem'd
Th' exterminating hosts.
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She closed her eyes,
For they felt on fire;—the air—the earth—the sky—
All seem'd in motion like the surge's heave.—
She sicken'd—sunk—and for a moment lost
Her senses and her misery.—But the shouts—
The clang of arms—the thousand trumpet notes
Bursting renew'd and terrible, aroused
To sense of life and agonizing dread.
For they felt on fire;—the air—the earth—the sky—
All seem'd in motion like the surge's heave.—
She sicken'd—sunk—and for a moment lost
Her senses and her misery.—But the shouts—
The clang of arms—the thousand trumpet notes
Bursting renew'd and terrible, aroused
To sense of life and agonizing dread.
The sun shone hot upon the plain:—his rays
Seem'd kindling into fire the myriad swords,
Helmets, and cuirasses—and plates of brass,
That flash'd upon her sight. Against Heaven's dome,
Seem'd to leap up, and echo back, the din
Of the unequall'd contest.—Like a dream,—
A horrible vision o'er her heart it came,
But yet she felt 'twas true. With piercing eye
She search'd the field; a thousand deaths she saw,—
But still her eye moved on:—here squadrons fled,—
There rallied—fled again—and rallied still,—
Nor drew Panthea's gaze:—the form she sought
Mingled not there,—and there her soul was not.
Seem'd kindling into fire the myriad swords,
Helmets, and cuirasses—and plates of brass,
That flash'd upon her sight. Against Heaven's dome,
Seem'd to leap up, and echo back, the din
Of the unequall'd contest.—Like a dream,—
A horrible vision o'er her heart it came,
But yet she felt 'twas true. With piercing eye
She search'd the field; a thousand deaths she saw,—
But still her eye moved on:—here squadrons fled,—
There rallied—fled again—and rallied still,—
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Mingled not there,—and there her soul was not.
In calmer hour how had one single death,—
One wound awaked a sympathizing pang
In her too tender breast!—now thousands fall;—
Horses and men in heaps—and o'er them tread
Thousands who fall in turn;—still sees she all,
Scarce noting of the carnage:—yet at times
The Persian shout of triumph struck her ear
And shot a thrill of transport,—quickly past.
One wound awaked a sympathizing pang
In her too tender breast!—now thousands fall;—
Horses and men in heaps—and o'er them tread
Thousands who fall in turn;—still sees she all,
Scarce noting of the carnage:—yet at times
The Persian shout of triumph struck her ear
And shot a thrill of transport,—quickly past.
Where—where is Abradates?—only him
Seeks she amid the hosts.—What sees she now?
She sees from far the lofty chariots whirl:—
She hears faint distant shoutings:—sure his plume,
His purple plume is there!—'tis lost again—
Again it gleams—and fades:—sure 'tis his voice
So clear and strong that cheers the fierce attack!—
How the swift horses spurn the scattering earth!
They come—they come—a long and dreadful front;
Three hundred ponderous chariots;—yoked to each
Eight barb'd and mighty coursers,—wrapp'd in flames
Incessant flashing from the iron wheels,
The brazen trappings of the foaming steeds,
The gilded breast-plates and the polish'd casques,
And the dire scythes, on which the burning sun
Trembles and glows in wreaths of living fire.
Aloft in every car, erect and bold,
The charioteer flies on, and whirls the lash,
And shakes the clattering reins.—
Seeks she amid the hosts.—What sees she now?
She sees from far the lofty chariots whirl:—
She hears faint distant shoutings:—sure his plume,
His purple plume is there!—'tis lost again—
Again it gleams—and fades:—sure 'tis his voice
So clear and strong that cheers the fierce attack!—
How the swift horses spurn the scattering earth!
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Three hundred ponderous chariots;—yoked to each
Eight barb'd and mighty coursers,—wrapp'd in flames
Incessant flashing from the iron wheels,
The brazen trappings of the foaming steeds,
The gilded breast-plates and the polish'd casques,
And the dire scythes, on which the burning sun
Trembles and glows in wreaths of living fire.
Aloft in every car, erect and bold,
The charioteer flies on, and whirls the lash,
And shakes the clattering reins.—
'Tis he again—
She knows him now:—Ah! better never known!
Pre-eminent above the rest he stands,
And points toward the foe. His voice she hears:—
He stoops and smites the steeds:—with tempest's force
They thunder on:—before the rest he flies:—
Alone upon the foe he comes:—wedged thick
With close-lock'd shields and spears protruding far,
Stands Egypt's phalanx firm!—vain! vain! he breaks,
Like the bolt of Jupiter through the dense clouds,
Deep—deep into their ranks. O'er all that stood
He rode resistless:—'neath the iron wheels,
Shields, helmets, crackled loud:—the spear in vain
'Gainst his mail'd horses struck;—emboss'd with foam,
And fiercely snorting, through the thick array
They hold their dreadful course:—beneath their feet
Whole hosts are trampled down.—As some tall ship
When the stiff tempest bellies every sail
And bends the groaning masts,—with sharpen'd prow
And breast capacious, through the whitening waves
Dashes her furious way,—so through the ranks
Rode the proud chariot on; and as the keel
Ploughs through the glowing deep,—the scythed wheels so
Cut through the sinking mass:—through shield—through mail—
Through flesh and cracking bone, the steel holds on,
And leaves the parted carcase in the dust
Gushing out floods of blood.—
She knows him now:—Ah! better never known!
Pre-eminent above the rest he stands,
And points toward the foe. His voice she hears:—
He stoops and smites the steeds:—with tempest's force
They thunder on:—before the rest he flies:—
Alone upon the foe he comes:—wedged thick
With close-lock'd shields and spears protruding far,
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Like the bolt of Jupiter through the dense clouds,
Deep—deep into their ranks. O'er all that stood
He rode resistless:—'neath the iron wheels,
Shields, helmets, crackled loud:—the spear in vain
'Gainst his mail'd horses struck;—emboss'd with foam,
And fiercely snorting, through the thick array
They hold their dreadful course:—beneath their feet
Whole hosts are trampled down.—As some tall ship
When the stiff tempest bellies every sail
And bends the groaning masts,—with sharpen'd prow
And breast capacious, through the whitening waves
Dashes her furious way,—so through the ranks
Rode the proud chariot on; and as the keel
Ploughs through the glowing deep,—the scythed wheels so
Cut through the sinking mass:—through shield—through mail—
Through flesh and cracking bone, the steel holds on,
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Gushing out floods of blood.—
Panthea's eye
Saw nought of this:—saw not,—heard not the shock,—
Though now the unimaginable charge,—
O'erwhelming and at once, of all that rank
Of horrid engines sent its din to Heaven,
Like crash of falling cities, when the earth
Heaves and recoils—and trembles in its rage;—
Throws prostrate mountains;—lifts the valleys up
In heavy surges;—splits the eternal rocks,
And makes the breezeless ocean dash the clouds.—
She saw not this;—saw not the mass condensed
Of Egypt's valiant warriors sinking down
As by the desert's death-blast:—nor the shouts
Heard she;—the cries of rage—of pain—despair—
The crash of shields—of armour—helms and spears,—
Splinter'd and crush'd beneath the grinding wheels:—
She knew not this:—on one alone her eye,
Her soul, her senses fix'd.
Saw nought of this:—saw not,—heard not the shock,—
Though now the unimaginable charge,—
O'erwhelming and at once, of all that rank
Of horrid engines sent its din to Heaven,
Like crash of falling cities, when the earth
Heaves and recoils—and trembles in its rage;—
Throws prostrate mountains;—lifts the valleys up
In heavy surges;—splits the eternal rocks,
And makes the breezeless ocean dash the clouds.—
She saw not this;—saw not the mass condensed
Of Egypt's valiant warriors sinking down
As by the desert's death-blast:—nor the shouts
Heard she;—the cries of rage—of pain—despair—
The crash of shields—of armour—helms and spears,—
Splinter'd and crush'd beneath the grinding wheels:—
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Her soul, her senses fix'd.
Still roll'd his car,—
The ranks still fell around:—but slower now,
Jaded with toil,—with blood bespatter'd o'er,
The blowing horses move.—With carnage clogg'd,
O'er heaps of slain the unsteady chariot drags,
Heaving and swaying:—still undaunted stands,
Though now was no retreat,—though far before,
And on each side the flood of foes was spread;—
Though round his head unnumber'd lances flew,
And succour near was none;—still in his car
Undaunted Abradates ply'd the scourge,
Still cheer'd his matchless coursers to their toil,—
Still dream'd of fame when nought but death was nigh.
Oh! then Panthea's agony came on:—
Her hands were clasp'd—her eyes seem'd balls of fire:—
She breathed not,—stirr'd not.—For a while she saw
The glittering chariot through the tide of men
Urging its fateful way:—but how it rocks!
Like ship amid the angry billows tost,
From side to side it swings:—rises—and sinks,—
And mounts again o'er hillocks of the slain.
It cannot last:—the intrepid charioteer
Heaves giddy to and fro:—with grasping hand
He clings a moment to the toppling car,—
Then headlong to the earth, with dreadful crash,
Chariot and charioteer are overthrown,
Never again to rise.—
The ranks still fell around:—but slower now,
Jaded with toil,—with blood bespatter'd o'er,
The blowing horses move.—With carnage clogg'd,
O'er heaps of slain the unsteady chariot drags,
Heaving and swaying:—still undaunted stands,
Though now was no retreat,—though far before,
And on each side the flood of foes was spread;—
Though round his head unnumber'd lances flew,
And succour near was none;—still in his car
Undaunted Abradates ply'd the scourge,
Still cheer'd his matchless coursers to their toil,—
Still dream'd of fame when nought but death was nigh.
Oh! then Panthea's agony came on:—
Her hands were clasp'd—her eyes seem'd balls of fire:—
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The glittering chariot through the tide of men
Urging its fateful way:—but how it rocks!
Like ship amid the angry billows tost,
From side to side it swings:—rises—and sinks,—
And mounts again o'er hillocks of the slain.
It cannot last:—the intrepid charioteer
Heaves giddy to and fro:—with grasping hand
He clings a moment to the toppling car,—
Then headlong to the earth, with dreadful crash,
Chariot and charioteer are overthrown,
Never again to rise.—
Panthea saw—
She heard th' exulting shouts—she shriek'd—convulsed,
Senseless and stiff she fell,—and misery
Awhile forebore its victim.
She heard th' exulting shouts—she shriek'd—convulsed,
Senseless and stiff she fell,—and misery
Awhile forebore its victim.
| The Last Days of Herculaneum | |