 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
“Hear ye not now?” said Pansa. “Death is here!
Ye saw the avalanche of fire descend
Vesuvian steeps, and in its giant strength
Sweep on to Herculaneum; and ye cried,
‘It threats not us, why should we lose the sport?
Though thousands perish, why should we refrain?’
Your sister city—the most beautiful—
Gasps in the burning ocean—from her domes
Fly the survivors of her people, driven
Before the torrent floods of molten earth
With desolation red—and o'er her grave
Unearthly voices raise the heart's last cries—
‘Fly, fly! O horror! O my son! my sire!’
The hoarse shouts multiply; without the mount
Are agony and death—within, such rage
Of fossil fire as man may not behold!
Hark! the Destroyer slumbers not—and now,
Be your theologies but true, your Jove,
'Mid all his thunders, would shrink back aghast,
Listening the horrors of the Titans' strife.
The lion trembles; will ye have my blood?
Or flee, ere Herculaneum's fate is yours?”
Ye saw the avalanche of fire descend
Vesuvian steeps, and in its giant strength
Sweep on to Herculaneum; and ye cried,
‘It threats not us, why should we lose the sport?
Though thousands perish, why should we refrain?’
Your sister city—the most beautiful—
Gasps in the burning ocean—from her domes
Fly the survivors of her people, driven
Before the torrent floods of molten earth
With desolation red—and o'er her grave
Unearthly voices raise the heart's last cries—
‘Fly, fly! O horror! O my son! my sire!’
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Are agony and death—within, such rage
Of fossil fire as man may not behold!
Hark! the Destroyer slumbers not—and now,
Be your theologies but true, your Jove,
'Mid all his thunders, would shrink back aghast,
Listening the horrors of the Titans' strife.
The lion trembles; will ye have my blood?
Or flee, ere Herculaneum's fate is yours?”
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |