Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
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POMPEII. |
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 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
POMPEII.
The heralds of thy ruin and despair
Thickened and quickened as thy time drew nigh.
What prodigies of sound convulsed the air!
How many a death-flag was unfurled on high!
The sullen sun went down—a globe of blood,
Rayless, and colouring every heart with gloom,
Till even the dullest felt and understood
The coming of an overwhelming doom—
The presage of a destiny and fall,
A shock, a thunder-shock, for thee, for them—for all.
Thickened and quickened as thy time drew nigh.
What prodigies of sound convulsed the air!
How many a death-flag was unfurled on high!
The sullen sun went down—a globe of blood,
Rayless, and colouring every heart with gloom,
Till even the dullest felt and understood
The coming of an overwhelming doom—
The presage of a destiny and fall,
A shock, a thunder-shock, for thee, for them—for all.
The sullen sun went down—a globe of blood,
Rayless, and colouring every soul with gloom;
And men's imagination, prone to brood
Over the worst, and summon from the womb
Of unborn Time, the Evil and the Dark,
Launched forth in fear upon that shoreless ocean,
Whose whirlpool billows but engulf the bark—
Conjectured Dread, and each fresh-felt emotion,
Like spectral figures on a magic mirror,
Seemed wilder than the last, and stronglier strung with terror.
Rayless, and colouring every soul with gloom;
And men's imagination, prone to brood
Over the worst, and summon from the womb
Of unborn Time, the Evil and the Dark,
Launched forth in fear upon that shoreless ocean,
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Conjectured Dread, and each fresh-felt emotion,
Like spectral figures on a magic mirror,
Seemed wilder than the last, and stronglier strung with terror.
We shrink within ourselves when Night and Storm
Are darkly mustering; for, to every soul
Heaven here foreshadows character and form
Of Nature's death-hour. Doth the thunder roll,
The wild wave boil, the lightning stream or strike,
Flood, fire, and earthquake devastate, in vain?
Or is there not a voice which peals alike
To all from these, conjuring up that train
Of scenes and images that shall be born
In living, naked might upon the Judgment morn?
Are darkly mustering; for, to every soul
Heaven here foreshadows character and form
Of Nature's death-hour. Doth the thunder roll,
The wild wave boil, the lightning stream or strike,
Flood, fire, and earthquake devastate, in vain?
Or is there not a voice which peals alike
To all from these, conjuring up that train
Of scenes and images that shall be born
In living, naked might upon the Judgment morn?
If thus we cower to tempest and to night,
How feltest thou when first the red bolt broke,
That seventeen suffocating centuries might
Enshroud thine ashes in Time's midnight cloak?
Where wert thou in that moment? Was thy power
All a funeral phantom? Thy renown
An echo? Thine the triumph of an hour?
Enough!—I rave—when empires, worlds, go down
Time's wave to dissolution—when they bow
To Fate, let none ask where, but simply—what wert thou?
How feltest thou when first the red bolt broke,
That seventeen suffocating centuries might
Enshroud thine ashes in Time's midnight cloak?
Where wert thou in that moment? Was thy power
All a funeral phantom? Thy renown
An echo? Thine the triumph of an hour?
Enough!—I rave—when empires, worlds, go down
Time's wave to dissolution—when they bow
To Fate, let none ask where, but simply—what wert thou?
The desolated cities which of yore
Perished by flooding fire and sulphury rain,
Where sleeps the Dead Sea's immemorial shore,
Lie, blasted wrecks, below that mortar plain.
They fell—thou fellest—but, renounced of Earth,
Blotted from being to eternal years,
Their image chills the life-blood—thine gives birth,
Even while we shudder, to some human tears.
Hadst thou less guilt? Who knows? The book of Time
Bears on each leaf alike the broad red stamp of crime.
Perished by flooding fire and sulphury rain,
Where sleeps the Dead Sea's immemorial shore,
Lie, blasted wrecks, below that mortar plain.
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Blotted from being to eternal years,
Their image chills the life-blood—thine gives birth,
Even while we shudder, to some human tears.
Hadst thou less guilt? Who knows? The book of Time
Bears on each leaf alike the broad red stamp of crime.
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |