 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
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The Alpine gale, scudded the Christians' barque;
Night veiled Lucania's rugged shore, but oft
The dreadful radiance of the firemount hung
Upon the mightiest Apennines, and there
The giant cliffs, hoar forest trees, and glens
Haunted by endless midnight, and the foam
Of cataracts—glared upon the fear-charmed eye,
Distinct though distant; and Salernum's crags
Spurned the chafed sea that rushed before the prow.
“Lo! Pliny's galleys speed to aid at last!”
Said Pansa, gazing through the meteor light,
Towards the Sarnus and the victim host.
“All shall not perish; oars and sails bear on
The Roman armament—and now, in hope
Renewed exulting, from the dust upspring
A thousand prostrate shapes, and from the rocks
Lift their scorched hands, and shout (though we hear not)
The late rescuers on! yet many a heart
Will throb and thrill no more, but buried lie,
Like its own birthplace, till oblivion rests
On the Campanian cities and their guilt.
Salernum's rocks forever from our gaze
Hide the dark scene of trial, and we leave,
With swelling canvas, Rome's imperial realm,
Where Christian faith shall, like the sandal tree,
Impart its odour to the feller's axe,
To seek a heritage in wilds afar.
—Now, as we hasten, let our spirits soar
To Him who shelters when the Avenger slays!”
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |