 | The last night of Pompeii |  |
THE VESTAL'S HYMN.
Zephyr of twilight! thine elysian breath
In spirit music steals through orange groves:
Bringst thou no memories from the home of death?
No whispered yearnings from departed loves?
Fann'd not thy wing, ere stars above thee glowed,
The pure pale brow that on my birth-hour smiled?
And bearst thou not from Destiny's abode
One kiss from mother to her vestal child?
Cold sleep the ashes of the heart that breathed
But for my bliss—when being's suns were few;
And hath the spirit no high hope bequeathed?
Or must it drink the grave's eternal dew?
In spirit music steals through orange groves:
Bringst thou no memories from the home of death?
No whispered yearnings from departed loves?
Fann'd not thy wing, ere stars above thee glowed,
The pure pale brow that on my birth-hour smiled?
And bearst thou not from Destiny's abode
One kiss from mother to her vestal child?
Cold sleep the ashes of the heart that breathed
But for my bliss—when being's suns were few;
And hath the spirit no high hope bequeathed?
Or must it drink the grave's eternal dew?
12
Hesper! the beauty of thy virgin light
Blossoms along the blue of yon sweet sky—
Yet vain my heart soars—from the deep of night
No voice or vision thrills my ear or eye.
From Vesta's vigil shrine no light ascends
Beyond this realm of sin, doubt, grief, and death;
Reveals no heaven where meet immortal friends,
Shadows no being victor over breath!
Sunlight and fragrance, dewbeam and still eve
Shed not their bliss and beauty on thine urn!
Has earth no hope time never can bereave?
No power again to bid the pale dust burn?
The rippling rills, the radiant morns, the flowers,
Bursting in beauty, showers of iris hues,
Starlight and love—the graces and the hours—
Each—all must vanish like the dial dews!
Budding to wither—lingering to impart
Life's hopeless pangs when thought shall sink in gloom—
Can song or mythos soothe the shuddering heart?
Or e'en the Thunderer's eye illume the tomb?
Blossoms along the blue of yon sweet sky—
Yet vain my heart soars—from the deep of night
No voice or vision thrills my ear or eye.
From Vesta's vigil shrine no light ascends
Beyond this realm of sin, doubt, grief, and death;
Reveals no heaven where meet immortal friends,
Shadows no being victor over breath!
Sunlight and fragrance, dewbeam and still eve
Shed not their bliss and beauty on thine urn!
Has earth no hope time never can bereave?
No power again to bid the pale dust burn?
The rippling rills, the radiant morns, the flowers,
Bursting in beauty, showers of iris hues,
Starlight and love—the graces and the hours—
Each—all must vanish like the dial dews!
Budding to wither—lingering to impart
Life's hopeless pangs when thought shall sink in gloom—
Can song or mythos soothe the shuddering heart?
Or e'en the Thunderer's eye illume the tomb?
13
Now from the mountain tent mid ilex woods
Or gay pavilions in the elysian vale,
Wandered, on twilight air, through clustering vines,
The cithern's music and the lute's soft strain
Echoed the soul of love-filled melody.
The hills seemed living with delight, for there
As Summer's burning solstice felt the breath
Of Autumn floating o'er its fires, retired,
From cities thronged with death, the wise and gay,
In fellowship or loneliness, to seek
Felicity or wisdom from the woods;
And there the dreams of Arcady—the thought,
That, in the elder days, inspired the soul
Of Phantasie and breathed through Nature's smiles
Elysian revelations, clothing earth
In mornstar robes of loveliness, became
The blest companions of the pure in heart.
The rose and purple radiance from the sky
Fled like Love's visions or the arrow's plume,
O'er the dim isles and sea of Italy,
Mid the dark foliage mingling like the hopes
Of earth with night-fears, when the shadows, cast
From thought, with high and pure revealments blend
Of beautiful existence far beyond
The mockery and the madness of this life.
Or gay pavilions in the elysian vale,
Wandered, on twilight air, through clustering vines,
The cithern's music and the lute's soft strain
Echoed the soul of love-filled melody.
The hills seemed living with delight, for there
As Summer's burning solstice felt the breath
Of Autumn floating o'er its fires, retired,
From cities thronged with death, the wise and gay,
In fellowship or loneliness, to seek
Felicity or wisdom from the woods;
And there the dreams of Arcady—the thought,
That, in the elder days, inspired the soul
Of Phantasie and breathed through Nature's smiles
Elysian revelations, clothing earth
In mornstar robes of loveliness, became
The blest companions of the pure in heart.
The rose and purple radiance from the sky
Fled like Love's visions or the arrow's plume,
O'er the dim isles and sea of Italy,
Mid the dark foliage mingling like the hopes
Of earth with night-fears, when the shadows, cast
From thought, with high and pure revealments blend
Of beautiful existence far beyond
The mockery and the madness of this life.
14
In shadowy grandeur lay the glorious sea,
Whose waters wafted spoils from orient realms,
And mirrored Nature's beauty, while dread war
Bathed Punic banners in the gore of Rome.
The evening isles of love and loveliness
Slept in the soothing solitude, wherein
The awful intellect of Rome sought peace
In grey philosophy while faction poured
Its hydra venom, or conspiracy
Walked the thronged Forum, dooming, at a glance,
The loftiest to extinction; here the bard
Unfolded earth's and heaven's mysteries,
Creating the world's creed and Fiction's brow
Wreathing with the immortal buds of truth.
Among the sanctities of groves and streams,
The worn and wearied bosom breathed again
Its birthlight bliss, and wisdom, born of woe,
Uttered its oracles to coming years;
And in the midst of all that thrills and charms,
Weds beauty unto grandeur, earth to heaven,
Here tyrant crime achieved, by nameless deeds,
The world's redemption from remorseless guilt.
Bland airs flew o'er the faded heavens, and streams,
That in the noonday dazzled, and e'en now
Drank the rich hues of eventide, purled on
Whose waters wafted spoils from orient realms,
And mirrored Nature's beauty, while dread war
Bathed Punic banners in the gore of Rome.
The evening isles of love and loveliness
Slept in the soothing solitude, wherein
The awful intellect of Rome sought peace
In grey philosophy while faction poured
Its hydra venom, or conspiracy
Walked the thronged Forum, dooming, at a glance,
The loftiest to extinction; here the bard
Unfolded earth's and heaven's mysteries,
Creating the world's creed and Fiction's brow
Wreathing with the immortal buds of truth.
Among the sanctities of groves and streams,
The worn and wearied bosom breathed again
Its birthlight bliss, and wisdom, born of woe,
Uttered its oracles to coming years;
And in the midst of all that thrills and charms,
Weds beauty unto grandeur, earth to heaven,
Here tyrant crime achieved, by nameless deeds,
The world's redemption from remorseless guilt.
Bland airs flew o'er the faded heavens, and streams,
That in the noonday dazzled, and e'en now
Drank the rich hues of eventide, purled on
15
With lovelier music, and the green still shores
Looked up to the blue mountains with the face—
The cherub face of sinless infancy—
With hope and joy perpetual in that look;
For, mid all changes, still the faded bloom
Shall be renewed—the slumbering heart revived.
And then the crescent streamed o'er air-winged clouds
With an ethereal lustre, and the stars,
The dread sabaoth of the unbounded air,
From the profound between each downy fold,
Gleamed like the eyes of seraphs, from the realms
Of immortality beholding earth.
Beneath the dying glories of the day,
And the unspeakable beauty of the night,
Yet in the haunt of peril—the dim home
Of dread and danger—looking o'er the domes
Of destined Pompeii—stood two shadowy Forms,
Pale, yet unfaltering—famished, yet in soul,
Fed from the altar of their risen God.
One—a tried warrior by his eye and brow
And dauntless port, leaned on the shattered ledge
Of a Vesuvian cavern, o'er which trailed
The matted and dark vines, and thickly hung
The cypress and dwarfed cedar, fleckering o'er
Looked up to the blue mountains with the face—
The cherub face of sinless infancy—
With hope and joy perpetual in that look;
For, mid all changes, still the faded bloom
Shall be renewed—the slumbering heart revived.
And then the crescent streamed o'er air-winged clouds
With an ethereal lustre, and the stars,
The dread sabaoth of the unbounded air,
From the profound between each downy fold,
Gleamed like the eyes of seraphs, from the realms
Of immortality beholding earth.
Beneath the dying glories of the day,
And the unspeakable beauty of the night,
Yet in the haunt of peril—the dim home
Of dread and danger—looking o'er the domes
Of destined Pompeii—stood two shadowy Forms,
Pale, yet unfaltering—famished, yet in soul,
Fed from the altar of their risen God.
One—a tried warrior by his eye and brow
And dauntless port, leaned on the shattered ledge
Of a Vesuvian cavern, o'er which trailed
The matted and dark vines, and thickly hung
The cypress and dwarfed cedar, fleckering o'er
16
The twilight of the vestibule with gloom,
And shutting from the inner vault, where slept
The banned and hunted Nazarenes, all beams
Of sunset, mornlight, and meridian, save
Light from the living fount of Deity.
Beside him, folding in Love's holiness
His wasted bosom, on his troubled brow,
Pouring the radiance of her dark eyes, stood
A Hebrew captive, dragged amid the spoils
And splendors of Moriah, when the hour
Of Desolation fell on Zion's towers,
To swell the victor's wild array and add
Another cup of vengeance and despair
To imperial, merciless, world-wasting Rome.
There Mariamne clung to Pansa's breast.
The melancholy loveliness of Love,
That dares the voiceless desert and inspires
The forest solitude, around her hung
Like star-gemmed clouds around an angel's form;
On her pale brow the very soul of faith
Rested as by its shrine; and earth's vain pride
And triumph from the vaulted refuge fled
Where Hope breathed Love's own immortality.
Like her, the sun-clothed vision, in whose crown
Gleamed the twelve orbs of glory as she stood
And shutting from the inner vault, where slept
The banned and hunted Nazarenes, all beams
Of sunset, mornlight, and meridian, save
Light from the living fount of Deity.
Beside him, folding in Love's holiness
His wasted bosom, on his troubled brow,
Pouring the radiance of her dark eyes, stood
A Hebrew captive, dragged amid the spoils
And splendors of Moriah, when the hour
Of Desolation fell on Zion's towers,
To swell the victor's wild array and add
Another cup of vengeance and despair
To imperial, merciless, world-wasting Rome.
There Mariamne clung to Pansa's breast.
The melancholy loveliness of Love,
That dares the voiceless desert and inspires
The forest solitude, around her hung
Like star-gemmed clouds around an angel's form;
On her pale brow the very soul of faith
Rested as by its shrine; and earth's vain pride
And triumph from the vaulted refuge fled
Where Hope breathed Love's own immortality.
Like her, the sun-clothed vision, in whose crown
Gleamed the twelve orbs of glory as she stood
17
Amid the floating moon's young shadowy light,
When the red sceptered Dragon cast from heaven
The blossomed beams of the universe, and watched
His spoil in breathless rapture; so, mid grief
And want and loneliness and danger stood
The daughter of the east, in every woe
Fearless, in every peril quick in thought
And action, whether dread calamity
Waited the wanderings of her wedded love,
Or through the clouds of fear upon her came.
Thoughts, winnowed from the gross and grovelling dust
Of earth, and glistering with the hues of heaven,
Passed o'er their mingled spirits in the depth
Of the hoar Appenines; [1] and thus the heart
Of the changed Roman spake, whose home had been
The tented battlefield, whose joy, the spoil
Of nations gasping 'neath the banner folds
Of conquest, ere amid the flames and shrieks
Of Solyma, he heard the Voice that fills
Infinity, with immeasurable awe,
And worshipped mid the scorn of pagan hands.
Relentless as the edict he obeyed,
His dauntless soul, in other years, had roamed
Through carnage, and, in triumph, mocked the moans
Of fallen mortality, as his fellows did,
When the red sceptered Dragon cast from heaven
The blossomed beams of the universe, and watched
His spoil in breathless rapture; so, mid grief
And want and loneliness and danger stood
The daughter of the east, in every woe
Fearless, in every peril quick in thought
And action, whether dread calamity
Waited the wanderings of her wedded love,
Or through the clouds of fear upon her came.
Thoughts, winnowed from the gross and grovelling dust
Of earth, and glistering with the hues of heaven,
Passed o'er their mingled spirits in the depth
Of the hoar Appenines; [1] and thus the heart
Of the changed Roman spake, whose home had been
The tented battlefield, whose joy, the spoil
Of nations gasping 'neath the banner folds
Of conquest, ere amid the flames and shrieks
Of Solyma, he heard the Voice that fills
Infinity, with immeasurable awe,
And worshipped mid the scorn of pagan hands.
Relentless as the edict he obeyed,
His dauntless soul, in other years, had roamed
Through carnage, and, in triumph, mocked the moans
Of fallen mortality, as his fellows did,
18
The legions of the loveless; but the faith,
Whose founder wept o'er doomed and ruthless foes,
Sunk on his bosom as the sunset sinks
Upon the wild and savage mountain peak,
Clothing its barrenness with beauty!—Thus
His saddened but serene mind communed now.
“Oh, the still, sacred, soothing light that bathes
The blue, world-studded heavens—while the breath
Of Antumn gushes music, and inspires
The purified and thrilled spirit with the power
To cast aside the thrall of flesh and soar
To converse with the seraphim and prayer
And sacrifice beneath the throne of God!
The madness and the misery, that rend
The heart no skill can renovate, come not
Within the bosom's temple that imbibes
The oracles of Truth in every breeze.
Thou needest not thy tephilim [2] to lift
Thy thoughts within the veil, nor seek I more
The prestiges of augurs to impart
The destined future, nor vain amulets
To guard what He, who gave, can well preserve.
Look, Mariamne! on the dimpled sea,
That slumbers like the jasper waters seen
In the apocalypse of Patmos, hang
The crowding sails of merchant barks delayed,
Whose founder wept o'er doomed and ruthless foes,
Sunk on his bosom as the sunset sinks
Upon the wild and savage mountain peak,
Clothing its barrenness with beauty!—Thus
His saddened but serene mind communed now.
“Oh, the still, sacred, soothing light that bathes
The blue, world-studded heavens—while the breath
Of Antumn gushes music, and inspires
The purified and thrilled spirit with the power
To cast aside the thrall of flesh and soar
To converse with the seraphim and prayer
And sacrifice beneath the throne of God!
The madness and the misery, that rend
The heart no skill can renovate, come not
Within the bosom's temple that imbibes
The oracles of Truth in every breeze.
Thou needest not thy tephilim [2] to lift
Thy thoughts within the veil, nor seek I more
The prestiges of augurs to impart
The destined future, nor vain amulets
To guard what He, who gave, can well preserve.
Look, Mariamne! on the dimpled sea,
That slumbers like the jasper waters seen
In the apocalypse of Patmos, hang
The crowding sails of merchant barks delayed,
19
The altars at their prows casting pale gleams,
While by the dagon deities of earth,
The terrible apotheoses, wrought
From desolating passions, vainly now
The mariners invoke the gale to bear
Their treasures to the imperial mart—and lo!
The living leaves stir not the gemdew, wept
By twilight o'er the forest, in reply.”
Rapt by the charm and majesty—the bloom
And dreamy verdure of the world and skies—
Yet looking far beyond them, thus replied
The High Priest's banished child unto the thought
Of the baptized and scorned Decurion.
“Methinks, my Pansa!—as we gaze around—
The shadows of the hoar and giant woods,
The sea's unearthly and hushed gleam, the eyes
Of the unlimited and soul-peopled heaven,
Thus calm and awful, and the silence, throned
Amid the universe, sink on my soul
With an unwonted dread, and throng my brain
Like breathless ministers of doom. Among
The woven cedar-boughs and oak canopies,
The pale green moss, thick shrubs and mazy vines
Of these dark rocks, a spirit seems to fill
While by the dagon deities of earth,
The terrible apotheoses, wrought
From desolating passions, vainly now
The mariners invoke the gale to bear
Their treasures to the imperial mart—and lo!
The living leaves stir not the gemdew, wept
By twilight o'er the forest, in reply.”
Rapt by the charm and majesty—the bloom
And dreamy verdure of the world and skies—
Yet looking far beyond them, thus replied
The High Priest's banished child unto the thought
Of the baptized and scorned Decurion.
“Methinks, my Pansa!—as we gaze around—
The shadows of the hoar and giant woods,
The sea's unearthly and hushed gleam, the eyes
Of the unlimited and soul-peopled heaven,
Thus calm and awful, and the silence, throned
Amid the universe, sink on my soul
With an unwonted dread, and throng my brain
Like breathless ministers of doom. Among
The woven cedar-boughs and oak canopies,
The pale green moss, thick shrubs and mazy vines
Of these dark rocks, a spirit seems to fill
20
The air with revelations none can hear,
Save they who, fearing God, fear not vain man.
Like the mysterious and unvoiced Name,
Upon the white gem written, which none beheld
But the anointed, fearful characters
Seem to my startled vision forming now
Among you dense and thought-winged thunder-clouds.
Whose dusky peaks ascend above the hills;
And, see! with what a brow of majesty
Vesuvius, through the bland transparent air,
And vivid moonlight, o'er our vigil bends!
Dwells there not terror in earth's breathlessness?
And peril in the slumber of the mount?”
Sadly the Roman turned his gaze below
Upon the fated city, gleaming now
With countless lights o'er pageantries and feasts,
That flared in mockery of the hallowed heaven,
Then answered mournfully his dreading bride.
“The happy deem not so—discern not ought
Beyond their splendor, fame and luxury;
For, knowing not the evil, which, as clouds
Impart a lovelier glory to the skies,
(Else dim with sultriness) invests all good
With loftier attributes; they cannot fear
Save they who, fearing God, fear not vain man.
Like the mysterious and unvoiced Name,
Upon the white gem written, which none beheld
But the anointed, fearful characters
Seem to my startled vision forming now
Among you dense and thought-winged thunder-clouds.
Whose dusky peaks ascend above the hills;
And, see! with what a brow of majesty
Vesuvius, through the bland transparent air,
And vivid moonlight, o'er our vigil bends!
Dwells there not terror in earth's breathlessness?
And peril in the slumber of the mount?”
Sadly the Roman turned his gaze below
Upon the fated city, gleaming now
With countless lights o'er pageantries and feasts,
That flared in mockery of the hallowed heaven,
Then answered mournfully his dreading bride.
“The happy deem not so—discern not ought
Beyond their splendor, fame and luxury;
For, knowing not the evil, which, as clouds
Impart a lovelier glory to the skies,
(Else dim with sultriness) invests all good
With loftier attributes; they cannot fear
21
The forfeiture of wealth, or any change
To adverse fortune; mark the gorgeous pomp,
The maskings, orgies, agonalia now
In mirth and madness echoing o'er our watch
From Pompeii's lava streets; her sculptured domes
Flash back the torchlights of the riot throng,
And countless chariots, rivalling their God
Of Morn, are hurled along the trembling side
Of this most awful mount, as if the fire
Had never wreathed to heaven and poured the heart
Of earth in blood-red torrents! By yon gate,
Towers the proud temple of the idol first
Made and adored by earth's first Rebel—him
Called Nimrod, and exalted to a God
By the debased and impious sons of Ham.—
There Parian columns and Mosaic floors
And golden shrines and lavers, and proud forms
Wrought by Praxiteles with godlike skill,
And pictures glowing with unshadowed charms
To tempt, or mythologic pomp to awe
The enthusiast and the sceptic, can attest
Idolatry's magnificence. Within,
The secret stair—the victim, whose wild shrieks
Are oracles—the flamen at his wine
Or darker deeds of sacrilege, while throngs
To adverse fortune; mark the gorgeous pomp,
The maskings, orgies, agonalia now
In mirth and madness echoing o'er our watch
From Pompeii's lava streets; her sculptured domes
Flash back the torchlights of the riot throng,
And countless chariots, rivalling their God
Of Morn, are hurled along the trembling side
Of this most awful mount, as if the fire
Had never wreathed to heaven and poured the heart
Of earth in blood-red torrents! By yon gate,
Towers the proud temple of the idol first
Made and adored by earth's first Rebel—him
Called Nimrod, and exalted to a God
By the debased and impious sons of Ham.—
There Parian columns and Mosaic floors
And golden shrines and lavers, and proud forms
Wrought by Praxiteles with godlike skill,
And pictures glowing with unshadowed charms
To tempt, or mythologic pomp to awe
The enthusiast and the sceptic, can attest
Idolatry's magnificence. Within,
The secret stair—the victim, whose wild shrieks
Are oracles—the flamen at his wine
Or darker deeds of sacrilege, while throngs
22
Of blind adorers, manacled without
By fear's inflicted madness, bend in awe
And pile first fruits and gold around her shrine—
These are the illusions and the destinies
Of Isis and her earthborn vassals, love!
Think they of aspects men believe they rule?
Think they of perils in their revelry?
Know they the God whose least respected works
They mock, as deities, by all excess
Loathsome and nameless to the human ear?”
“The destined hour of justice and despair,
When they shall gather wisdom, flings its shade
Upon the dial of the conqueror's doom.”
Thought hurried fast through Mariamne's soul.
“Said not the Christ from the bright Olive Mount,
Looking in sorrow on the temple clothed
With peerless glory, that the Holy Place
Should be defiled—the city trampled—all
Its princely dwellers captive, slain, or strewn
Like sear leaves o'er the unreceiving world,
Or scorned for uttering creeds the torture taught?
And not one stone upon another left
To mark where once the sanctuary stood?
Alas! she sleeps in desolation's arms,
By fear's inflicted madness, bend in awe
And pile first fruits and gold around her shrine—
These are the illusions and the destinies
Of Isis and her earthborn vassals, love!
Think they of aspects men believe they rule?
Think they of perils in their revelry?
Know they the God whose least respected works
They mock, as deities, by all excess
Loathsome and nameless to the human ear?”
“The destined hour of justice and despair,
When they shall gather wisdom, flings its shade
Upon the dial of the conqueror's doom.”
Thought hurried fast through Mariamne's soul.
“Said not the Christ from the bright Olive Mount,
Looking in sorrow on the temple clothed
With peerless glory, that the Holy Place
Should be defiled—the city trampled—all
Its princely dwellers captive, slain, or strewn
Like sear leaves o'er the unreceiving world,
Or scorned for uttering creeds the torture taught?
And not one stone upon another left
To mark where once the sanctuary stood?
Alas! she sleeps in desolation's arms,
23
The city of my childhood, and not one
Of all the pleasant haunts, the palmgrove plain
Of Sharon and Siloam's holy fount,
And Lebanon's pavilioned wood—which thought,
At morn or even twilight, sanctified,
Looks from the ruins of my home! but thou,
My Pansa! art my home and temple now,
And the Atoner, whom my people slew,
The God of this wrecked heart—wrecked when it felt
Its father slain, its race to bondage sold
Beneath the patriarch's Terebinth! alas!
That bigot faction—pride unquenched by woe—
And thanklessness and treachery and wrath,
Perpetuated by all punishment,
And, more than either, the one awful crime
That ne'er shall be forgiven, till the faith—
They mocked and shall mock, ages hence, the same
Without a country, law, chief, priest and home
They were, in glory, with them all—shall fill
Their dark and desolated minds with light—
That these led on the Roman to the spoil
And allied with his bands to our despair!
—But I do grieve thee, love! by selfish plaint,
And shut my soul to knowledge of the rites
And ministrations of thy monarch race.
Of all the pleasant haunts, the palmgrove plain
Of Sharon and Siloam's holy fount,
And Lebanon's pavilioned wood—which thought,
At morn or even twilight, sanctified,
Looks from the ruins of my home! but thou,
My Pansa! art my home and temple now,
And the Atoner, whom my people slew,
The God of this wrecked heart—wrecked when it felt
Its father slain, its race to bondage sold
Beneath the patriarch's Terebinth! alas!
That bigot faction—pride unquenched by woe—
And thanklessness and treachery and wrath,
Perpetuated by all punishment,
And, more than either, the one awful crime
That ne'er shall be forgiven, till the faith—
They mocked and shall mock, ages hence, the same
Without a country, law, chief, priest and home
They were, in glory, with them all—shall fill
Their dark and desolated minds with light—
That these led on the Roman to the spoil
And allied with his bands to our despair!
—But I do grieve thee, love! by selfish plaint,
And shut my soul to knowledge of the rites
And ministrations of thy monarch race.
24
Power and impunity with them, as all,
Forestall, I dread, their death-doom; yet again
As we behold Campania's loveliest realm
Unfolded far beneath us, let me learn
The polity and faith of Italy.
Yon vast pile, in the centre, looking o'er
The Appian with a mild magnificence”—?
“'Twas once, ere Freedom perished, and the car
Of conquest bore the tyrant to his throne,
The thronged and venerated home of Right,
Liberty's temple, where the tribune's voice
Forbade the consul's edict, and none dared,
Without their will, to decimate for war,
Or spoil, in peace, the conscious citizen.
Now, beautified by Parian colonnades,
And jetting fountains and immortal busts
Of Rome's immortal mind, when power, conferred
In peril, was resigned in safety's arms,
Mid the Mosaic corridors and halls,
And priceless trophies of the matchless thought
Of Zeuxis and Apelles, and the forms
Of Phidias, warrior statues, giant steeds,
And consuls stern in look, austere in life,
Dispensing bondage from the Capitol,
Forestall, I dread, their death-doom; yet again
As we behold Campania's loveliest realm
Unfolded far beneath us, let me learn
The polity and faith of Italy.
Yon vast pile, in the centre, looking o'er
The Appian with a mild magnificence”—?
“'Twas once, ere Freedom perished, and the car
Of conquest bore the tyrant to his throne,
The thronged and venerated home of Right,
Liberty's temple, where the tribune's voice
Forbade the consul's edict, and none dared,
Without their will, to decimate for war,
Or spoil, in peace, the conscious citizen.
Now, beautified by Parian colonnades,
And jetting fountains and immortal busts
Of Rome's immortal mind, when power, conferred
In peril, was resigned in safety's arms,
Mid the Mosaic corridors and halls,
And priceless trophies of the matchless thought
Of Zeuxis and Apelles, and the forms
Of Phidias, warrior statues, giant steeds,
And consuls stern in look, austere in life,
Dispensing bondage from the Capitol,
25
Or tributary diadems to earth—
Now o'er this pomp of intellect and might
The serpent spirit of a helot race,
Licking the dust of purple tyranny,
And crushing in its poison folds all thought
That dares be fetterless, and dreads but guilt—
Leaving the slime of ruin, with the hiss
Of shame and desolation, ever glides.
Mark the long pillared ranges to the east—
(A sceptered figure overtops the dome,
Her brazen scales are superfluities—)
In the Ausonian days ere heaven revoked
Its holiest gift to man; ere granite gods,
Sphynxes, cabiri, [3] apes and crocodiles
Became corrupted nature's deities,
There reigned Astraea, bright Aurora's child,
The Titan's seraph—gentle e'en to crime,
Radiant in beauty to the Good; the clouds
Of passion never darkened her sweet brow,
Revenge and hate and venal compact ne'er
Confronted her calm look of sanctity.
Then the Basilicæ were temples meet
For prayer and hymn to the Divinity,
And majesty and wisdom, peace and love
Dwelt with a sad yet just humanity.
Now o'er this pomp of intellect and might
The serpent spirit of a helot race,
Licking the dust of purple tyranny,
And crushing in its poison folds all thought
That dares be fetterless, and dreads but guilt—
Leaving the slime of ruin, with the hiss
Of shame and desolation, ever glides.
Mark the long pillared ranges to the east—
(A sceptered figure overtops the dome,
Her brazen scales are superfluities—)
In the Ausonian days ere heaven revoked
Its holiest gift to man; ere granite gods,
Sphynxes, cabiri, [3] apes and crocodiles
Became corrupted nature's deities,
There reigned Astraea, bright Aurora's child,
The Titan's seraph—gentle e'en to crime,
Radiant in beauty to the Good; the clouds
Of passion never darkened her sweet brow,
Revenge and hate and venal compact ne'er
Confronted her calm look of sanctity.
Then the Basilicæ were temples meet
For prayer and hymn to the Divinity,
And majesty and wisdom, peace and love
Dwelt with a sad yet just humanity.
26
Alas, for the brief vision! and alas
For the world's madness! giant evil rushed
Through wrecked hearts and crushed spirits and o'erspread
All realms with unmasked vice, impurities
Unnameable, atrocities beyond
The untaught conception of the savage, till,
Casting earth's soil and burden from her wings,
The goddess rose to the elysian throne
She left to meet derision and despair.
Then grovelling men, amid abasements, groped
Through sacrilege and malady and vice,
The agonies of guilt without its shame,
Remorselessness and misery, to their home—
The sepulchre of painted infamies!
Thus felt, though feigning, pagan Rome's best minds:
And since the fated hour when faction raised
The tyrant's beacon banner and the blood
Of Cæsar stained his rival's pillar, none
Have stayed the deluge of unpunished wrong.
The Ambracian waters [4] were not deeper dyed
Than judgment in yon courts; there's not a stone,
That bears not witness, to the soul, of woe,
Injustice, calumny and death; wrung tears
Have stained the Prætor's seat of perfidy;
And sighs unsolaced through the long arcades
Echoed like voices of accusing ghosts;
For the world's madness! giant evil rushed
Through wrecked hearts and crushed spirits and o'erspread
All realms with unmasked vice, impurities
Unnameable, atrocities beyond
The untaught conception of the savage, till,
Casting earth's soil and burden from her wings,
The goddess rose to the elysian throne
She left to meet derision and despair.
Then grovelling men, amid abasements, groped
Through sacrilege and malady and vice,
The agonies of guilt without its shame,
Remorselessness and misery, to their home—
The sepulchre of painted infamies!
Thus felt, though feigning, pagan Rome's best minds:
And since the fated hour when faction raised
The tyrant's beacon banner and the blood
Of Cæsar stained his rival's pillar, none
Have stayed the deluge of unpunished wrong.
The Ambracian waters [4] were not deeper dyed
Than judgment in yon courts; there's not a stone,
That bears not witness, to the soul, of woe,
Injustice, calumny and death; wrung tears
Have stained the Prætor's seat of perfidy;
And sighs unsolaced through the long arcades
Echoed like voices of accusing ghosts;
27
And hopeless shrieks ascended from the cells
Beneath the proud tribunal, where the will
Of one, that cannot be arraigned, dooms all
To endless anguish or unwitnessed death.
Alas, my Mariamne! while I gaze
On those most dreaded mansions, burning fears
Thrill my awed bosom, lest this mountain vault,
Dismal and dripping—the dark home of want—
And guiding to the abyss of flame or flood,
Perchance—may fail to shield us from the grasp
Of Diomede's apparitors! [5] forefend,
O Heaven! the hour of our betrayal! once
My stricken and stunned soul beheld the death—
Let us within, my love! my heart misgives
Even at the imagination of the power,
Ferocity and wantonness of him,
Whose sire—(and ne'er had father truer son)
Sejanus taught, Tiberius trusted in,
Caligula exalted; Nero loved
This subtle, quick Sicilian, and all since
Upon the imperial throne have left in place
Pompeii's Prætor—for his heart feels not!
Honored by these, what have not we to fear?
His minion's glance is ruin unto both!
My life, his prey, thy beauty—stand not so,
Beneath the proud tribunal, where the will
Of one, that cannot be arraigned, dooms all
To endless anguish or unwitnessed death.
Alas, my Mariamne! while I gaze
On those most dreaded mansions, burning fears
Thrill my awed bosom, lest this mountain vault,
Dismal and dripping—the dark home of want—
And guiding to the abyss of flame or flood,
Perchance—may fail to shield us from the grasp
Of Diomede's apparitors! [5] forefend,
O Heaven! the hour of our betrayal! once
My stricken and stunned soul beheld the death—
Let us within, my love! my heart misgives
Even at the imagination of the power,
Ferocity and wantonness of him,
Whose sire—(and ne'er had father truer son)
Sejanus taught, Tiberius trusted in,
Caligula exalted; Nero loved
This subtle, quick Sicilian, and all since
Upon the imperial throne have left in place
Pompeii's Prætor—for his heart feels not!
Honored by these, what have not we to fear?
His minion's glance is ruin unto both!
My life, his prey, thy beauty—stand not so,
28
Beyond the shadow of the precipice!
His seekers are abroad—the assassin games
Of you vast amphitheatre will feast,
Ere long, the merciless idolaters!
Enter the cavern, Mariamne! hark!
Some lichens fell from the steep rocks o'erhead—
A sandal hath dislodged them—yet no eye
Of mortal may discern us from the crag
That beetles there—again! I hear the fall
Of guarded steps—so, softly, love! within!”
Darkness along the rugged crypt—(wherein
The pard had sorted with the serpent, ere
The Roman Convert made his home there, sought
By the fierce demon of the idol faith)—
Floated in wreaths, and round the jutting rocks,
Whence trickled the hill fountains, drop by drop,
Mocking the pulses of each lingering hour,
Hung in its home of centuries; but now
Gloom e'en more terrible from thunder clouds
Rushed on the tempest's wings o'er every star
Of bright blue ether and the laughing earth,
(Breathed o'er by Zephyr from his vesper throne,
Late, when the oreads danced upon the mount,)
And winds in moaning gusts, like spirits doomed,
His seekers are abroad—the assassin games
Of you vast amphitheatre will feast,
Ere long, the merciless idolaters!
Enter the cavern, Mariamne! hark!
Some lichens fell from the steep rocks o'erhead—
A sandal hath dislodged them—yet no eye
Of mortal may discern us from the crag
That beetles there—again! I hear the fall
Of guarded steps—so, softly, love! within!”
Darkness along the rugged crypt—(wherein
The pard had sorted with the serpent, ere
The Roman Convert made his home there, sought
By the fierce demon of the idol faith)—
Floated in wreaths, and round the jutting rocks,
Whence trickled the hill fountains, drop by drop,
Mocking the pulses of each lingering hour,
Hung in its home of centuries; but now
Gloom e'en more terrible from thunder clouds
Rushed on the tempest's wings o'er every star
Of bright blue ether and the laughing earth,
(Breathed o'er by Zephyr from his vesper throne,
Late, when the oreads danced upon the mount,)
And winds in moaning gusts, like spirits doomed,
29
Swept through the cavern; and the giant trees
Through their vast canopies their voices cast
Upon the whirlwind; and the Appenines
Loomed through the ghastly midnight, shadowing forms
Like earth-gods in the revel of their wrath,
Limitless and robed in vengeance hoarded up
Through ages of quick agony; and, whirled
In fury o'er the crags, huge boughs and leaves
And dust, leaving the gnarled grotesque roots bare,
Quivered along the sky; and lightning leapt
O'er cloven yet contending woods, from mass
To mass of all the surging sea of clouds,
That rioted amid the firmament,
Flashing like edicts from the infinite Mind
Of Godhead; and from sea, shore, cliff and vale
A deep wild groan in shuddering echoes passed
Through the earth's heart, and met the crash and howl
Of momentary thunders in mid air.
In silence from the moss couch of their cell,
Mid the deep arches of the grotto, prayer
Ascended from the pale lips but tried hearts
Of earth's unfriended exiles—heaven's redeemed;
And there, as o'er their voiceless orisons
The wild tornado's music rushed, the Faith
Through their vast canopies their voices cast
Upon the whirlwind; and the Appenines
Loomed through the ghastly midnight, shadowing forms
Like earth-gods in the revel of their wrath,
Limitless and robed in vengeance hoarded up
Through ages of quick agony; and, whirled
In fury o'er the crags, huge boughs and leaves
And dust, leaving the gnarled grotesque roots bare,
Quivered along the sky; and lightning leapt
O'er cloven yet contending woods, from mass
To mass of all the surging sea of clouds,
That rioted amid the firmament,
Flashing like edicts from the infinite Mind
Of Godhead; and from sea, shore, cliff and vale
A deep wild groan in shuddering echoes passed
Through the earth's heart, and met the crash and howl
Of momentary thunders in mid air.
In silence from the moss couch of their cell,
Mid the deep arches of the grotto, prayer
Ascended from the pale lips but tried hearts
Of earth's unfriended exiles—heaven's redeemed;
And there, as o'er their voiceless orisons
The wild tornado's music rushed, the Faith
30
Sublime, which through all torture and all dread
The Christian martyr in heaven's triumph bore,
Pervaded every thought that soared beyond
The doubt and fear and anguish of their fate.
The first vast masses of dark vapor poured
Their deluge, and the torrents from ravines
And precipices hurried, in wild foam,
To channels bright with verdure and dry beds
Of mountain lakes, flinging their turbid floods
Down the deep boiling chasm and with the sea,
Now hurling its tumultuous waves along
The echoing shores and up the promontories,
Conflicting for the masterdom. Each glen,
Tangled with thorns and shrubs, and each defile,
O'erhung with jagged cliffs, to the dread hymn
Of the night storm, shouted their oracles;
And from the summit of Vesuvius curled
A pyramid of dusky vapor, tinged
With a strange, smothered and unearthly light.
Portents and prophecies more awful fell
On every vigilant and awed sense than e'er,
From Pythia shrieking on the tripod, sent
Terror and madness to the undoubting heart.
But, while the hollow dirge of the strong blast
Startled the dreaming world, the unruffled minds
The Christian martyr in heaven's triumph bore,
Pervaded every thought that soared beyond
The doubt and fear and anguish of their fate.
The first vast masses of dark vapor poured
Their deluge, and the torrents from ravines
And precipices hurried, in wild foam,
To channels bright with verdure and dry beds
Of mountain lakes, flinging their turbid floods
Down the deep boiling chasm and with the sea,
Now hurling its tumultuous waves along
The echoing shores and up the promontories,
Conflicting for the masterdom. Each glen,
Tangled with thorns and shrubs, and each defile,
O'erhung with jagged cliffs, to the dread hymn
Of the night storm, shouted their oracles;
And from the summit of Vesuvius curled
A pyramid of dusky vapor, tinged
With a strange, smothered and unearthly light.
Portents and prophecies more awful fell
On every vigilant and awed sense than e'er,
From Pythia shrieking on the tripod, sent
Terror and madness to the undoubting heart.
But, while the hollow dirge of the strong blast
Startled the dreaming world, the unruffled minds
31
Of the disciples with the Paraclete
Communed, and gathered from the cross new power
O'er famine, danger, loneliness and death.
“Thou fear'st not now, my Pansa! though the Mount
Unquenchable beneath us quakes; thy dread
Of human wrath—consorts it with thy trust
In God? thine eye shrinks not when all the heavens
Blaze, and thine ear shuts not when thunders burst,
Shocking the immensity; why fear'st thou man?”
“I know him; knowledge brings to all or hate
Or scorn or apprehension, as his deeds
Or our own nature waken: He, who died
For crime not his, hath taught my else fierce heart
Humility; derision and revenge
Assail me not, and, therefore, fear invades
My too acquainted spirit when the shade
Of Diomede along my lone thoughts stalks.
But from his revelations I do know
The Maker, and his loftiest name is Love,
And that consists not with the sceptic's dread.
Man, gifted with a might above all law,
With every passion by impunity
And rivalry of imperial guilt inflamed.
Communed, and gathered from the cross new power
O'er famine, danger, loneliness and death.
“Thou fear'st not now, my Pansa! though the Mount
Unquenchable beneath us quakes; thy dread
Of human wrath—consorts it with thy trust
In God? thine eye shrinks not when all the heavens
Blaze, and thine ear shuts not when thunders burst,
Shocking the immensity; why fear'st thou man?”
“I know him; knowledge brings to all or hate
Or scorn or apprehension, as his deeds
Or our own nature waken: He, who died
For crime not his, hath taught my else fierce heart
Humility; derision and revenge
Assail me not, and, therefore, fear invades
My too acquainted spirit when the shade
Of Diomede along my lone thoughts stalks.
But from his revelations I do know
The Maker, and his loftiest name is Love,
And that consists not with the sceptic's dread.
Man, gifted with a might above all law,
With every passion by impunity
And rivalry of imperial guilt inflamed.
32
(And such is this proconsul) must become
A dreaded despot, and the helpless heart,
That weds a persecuted faith and loves
A banished mortal, who on earth to him
Is as elysium, must from peril quail,
And shudder e'en at shadows menacing.”
“Yet paynim hate but hurls our thoughts to heaven,”
(Said Mariamne, e'en in woe like hers,
Thinking the thoughts which Miriam from the shores
Of Egypt's sea breathed o'er the tyrant host,)
“Their fountain first and final home, as feigned
Thy poet, of the Titans, thrown to earth
By might supernal, yet unconquering:
They from the bosom of their mother sprung
With renovated strength and added wrath
And hourly towering majesty of mien.
Man may destroy, but cannot desecrate;
May mock, but never can make vain our faith;
And if our hopes, like Christ's own kingdom, are
Not of this world, why should we linger on
In this unworthy fear, and shun the crown
Laid up for martyred witnesses of truth?
Let the worst come in the worst agonies!
We shall not part, my love! but for an hour;
A dreaded despot, and the helpless heart,
That weds a persecuted faith and loves
A banished mortal, who on earth to him
Is as elysium, must from peril quail,
And shudder e'en at shadows menacing.”
“Yet paynim hate but hurls our thoughts to heaven,”
(Said Mariamne, e'en in woe like hers,
Thinking the thoughts which Miriam from the shores
Of Egypt's sea breathed o'er the tyrant host,)
“Their fountain first and final home, as feigned
Thy poet, of the Titans, thrown to earth
By might supernal, yet unconquering:
They from the bosom of their mother sprung
With renovated strength and added wrath
And hourly towering majesty of mien.
Man may destroy, but cannot desecrate;
May mock, but never can make vain our faith;
And if our hopes, like Christ's own kingdom, are
Not of this world, why should we linger on
In this unworthy fear, and shun the crown
Laid up for martyred witnesses of truth?
Let the worst come in the worst agonies!
We shall not part, my love! but for an hour;
33
Nor shall we leave—the spoil of heathen scorn—
Bright sons and gentle daughters to endure
Inherited affliction, homeless need,
Perpetuated vengeance; round our hearts,
In the dread trial hour of tortured flesh,
The parent's matchless and undying love,
With all its blest endearments, and the charms
Of budding childhood's rainbow pleasantries,
Gushings of the soul's springtime, falling o'er
Maturer years, like sunbright dews of heaven,
Will never cling and chain our daunted minds
To earth's vain interests. We shall depart
Like sunbows from the cataract, renewed
By luminaries that have no twilight—where
Winter and hoar age, doubt, care, strife and fear,
The desert and the samiel, the realm
Of flowers and pestilence, the purple pomp
And tattered want of human life are not.
What say the Greek and Latin sages, love?
What Judah's peerless monarch, [6] mid the wealth,
The radiance and the perfumes and the power,
The majesty of thrones and diadems,
And the excess of mortal pleasure, said
In his immortal wisdom (how 't was soiled
By passion, in his age, for idol charms,
Bright sons and gentle daughters to endure
Inherited affliction, homeless need,
Perpetuated vengeance; round our hearts,
In the dread trial hour of tortured flesh,
The parent's matchless and undying love,
With all its blest endearments, and the charms
Of budding childhood's rainbow pleasantries,
Gushings of the soul's springtime, falling o'er
Maturer years, like sunbright dews of heaven,
Will never cling and chain our daunted minds
To earth's vain interests. We shall depart
Like sunbows from the cataract, renewed
By luminaries that have no twilight—where
Winter and hoar age, doubt, care, strife and fear,
The desert and the samiel, the realm
Of flowers and pestilence, the purple pomp
And tattered want of human life are not.
What say the Greek and Latin sages, love?
What Judah's peerless monarch, [6] mid the wealth,
The radiance and the perfumes and the power,
The majesty of thrones and diadems,
And the excess of mortal pleasure, said
In his immortal wisdom (how 't was soiled
By passion, in his age, for idol charms,
34
Heaven knows and sorrows o'er humanity,)
Ambition, pride, pomp, pleasure—all
Are but the vanities that tempt man on
To shame, satiety and death—or worse,
Reckless dishonor and shunned solitude,
Living with dire remembrances of joy.”
“The God, my Mariamne! that for guilt,
Incurred in other states or other worlds,
Ere the great cycles brought our being here,
(As some have deemed, if erring or inspired
I know not) clothed our spirits in this robe
Of frail flesh, subject to necessities
From birth to burial, ne'er debased the mind
Unto the body's weakness, yet left not
Thought, at all seasons, master of our clay.
Wander not oft the wisest? sink not oft
The strong? and blench the fearless? and delay
To reason with blasphemers the most skilled?
And tamper with temptation, the most pure?
In the imparted strength of heaven I trust,
When the last trial of my faith shall come,
That the disciple will not prove apostate.
But having thee, my bride! e'en from the mouth
Of this wild Cacus vault, that looks beneath
Ambition, pride, pomp, pleasure—all
Are but the vanities that tempt man on
To shame, satiety and death—or worse,
Reckless dishonor and shunned solitude,
Living with dire remembrances of joy.”
“The God, my Mariamne! that for guilt,
Incurred in other states or other worlds,
Ere the great cycles brought our being here,
(As some have deemed, if erring or inspired
I know not) clothed our spirits in this robe
Of frail flesh, subject to necessities
From birth to burial, ne'er debased the mind
Unto the body's weakness, yet left not
Thought, at all seasons, master of our clay.
Wander not oft the wisest? sink not oft
The strong? and blench the fearless? and delay
To reason with blasphemers the most skilled?
And tamper with temptation, the most pure?
In the imparted strength of heaven I trust,
When the last trial of my faith shall come,
That the disciple will not prove apostate.
But having thee, my bride! e'en from the mouth
Of this wild Cacus vault, that looks beneath
35
Into the chaos of the mountain gorge,
The air, the forest, the blue glimmering waves,
The meadows with their melodies, the cliffs
Curtained by countless waving vines, or dark
With desolate magnificence, o'erwhelm
My soul with grandeur, love and beauty, till,
Uttering to thee the bliss which nature breathes,
And thrilled by her seraphic eloquence,
I mingle with the tenderness and bloom,
The music, majesty, and loveliness
Of her unfolded scenes, and shrink to meet
The power that rends away these charms—this love
So sternly proved through each uncertain hour
Since from the sanctuary wreathed with flame
I snatched thee, as the Judge of that wild night
Did from the dark faith of the Pharisee.
Life pure amid corruption, will to bear
Protracted evil, gratitude for all
The gifts of God, and prayer and praise in grief,
May prove a sacrifice to heaven not less
Than all the tortures of the martyrdom.
The tempest passes, and the night wears on;
The dome of heaven is filled with prophecies!
With voices low, but heard where breathless thoughts
Are oft the most accepted music, let
Our evening hymn ascend, and then to rest.”
The air, the forest, the blue glimmering waves,
The meadows with their melodies, the cliffs
Curtained by countless waving vines, or dark
With desolate magnificence, o'erwhelm
My soul with grandeur, love and beauty, till,
Uttering to thee the bliss which nature breathes,
And thrilled by her seraphic eloquence,
I mingle with the tenderness and bloom,
The music, majesty, and loveliness
Of her unfolded scenes, and shrink to meet
The power that rends away these charms—this love
So sternly proved through each uncertain hour
Since from the sanctuary wreathed with flame
I snatched thee, as the Judge of that wild night
Did from the dark faith of the Pharisee.
Life pure amid corruption, will to bear
Protracted evil, gratitude for all
The gifts of God, and prayer and praise in grief,
May prove a sacrifice to heaven not less
Than all the tortures of the martyrdom.
The tempest passes, and the night wears on;
The dome of heaven is filled with prophecies!
With voices low, but heard where breathless thoughts
Are oft the most accepted music, let
Our evening hymn ascend, and then to rest.”
[1]
Note 1, p. 17.—The hoar Apennines:
I have represented Mount Vesuvius throughout the poem as a
portion of the Campanian hills.
[2]
Note 2, p. 18.—Thou needest not thy tephilim—
The prestiges of Augurs.
Charms in Hebrew and pagan worship, the tricks of jugglers
and imaginary protections against evil spirits and earthly
calamities.
[4]
Note 4, p. 26.—The Ambracian waters were not deeper dyed.
The battle of Actium, fought upon the Ambracian gulf, for
ever decided the fate of Roman liberty. The glory of Octavius
Cæsar rose from the blood of that fearful day, and most fearfully
did it glow till barbarian retribution made Italy's charms a curse.
[5]
Note 5, p. 27.—Diomede's apparitors.
I have appropriated to the chief Ruler of Pompeii the name
of its wealthiest citizen. It has been asserted, by some, that he
was only a freedman, yet the Emperors seldom hesitated to confer
their judicial or fiscal offices upon any who scrupled not to
embrace the most oppressive means in the irresponsible administration
of power. His character, therefore, as I have attempted
to depict it, would synchronize with the condition of the age and
the avowed crimes of Pompeii. Apparitors were officers of justice
or injustice—bailiffs—so called from their suddenly appearing
when undesired.
| The last night of Pompeii | |