 | The last night of Pompeii |  |
FOURTH VOICE.
Blaspheme not in thine anguish!
We may not hope to linger,—
Yet, quickly quenched, we shall not moan and languish
In wan disease—emaciating pain—
And living death—when e'en an infant finger
Would be a burden! oh, the fiery rain
We may not hope to linger,—
Yet, quickly quenched, we shall not moan and languish
In wan disease—emaciating pain—
And living death—when e'en an infant finger
Would be a burden! oh, the fiery rain
184
Comes down and withers and consumes
The mighty and the weak,
And not a voice from out yon horrid glooms,
That shroud the Sarnus and the sea
Replies to hearts that break
In agony.
Yet shut not out the hope elysian,
And fold not darkness to thy breast!—
—My babe! oh, sweet, most blest and briefest vision!
As at thy birthhour, here's thy home of rest—
My bosom was thy pillow—'t is thy tomb—
It gave thee life—and, in thine early death,
Thy latest throbs to mine—
—Oh, like harp thrillings in thy bliss and bloom,
While o'er my face stole soft thy odorous breath,
They touched my spirit with a joy divine!—
Thy latest throbs shall be
The warning that shall waft
My soul up through the starr'd infinity,
E'en where the nectar cup is by the Immortals quaff'd.
The mighty and the weak,
And not a voice from out yon horrid glooms,
That shroud the Sarnus and the sea
Replies to hearts that break
In agony.
Yet shut not out the hope elysian,
And fold not darkness to thy breast!—
—My babe! oh, sweet, most blest and briefest vision!
As at thy birthhour, here's thy home of rest—
My bosom was thy pillow—'t is thy tomb—
It gave thee life—and, in thine early death,
Thy latest throbs to mine—
—Oh, like harp thrillings in thy bliss and bloom,
While o'er my face stole soft thy odorous breath,
They touched my spirit with a joy divine!—
Thy latest throbs shall be
The warning that shall waft
My soul up through the starr'd infinity,
E'en where the nectar cup is by the Immortals quaff'd.
| The last night of Pompeii | |