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Fairfield, Sumner Lincoln, 1803-1844 [1832], The last night of Pompeii: a poem (, New York) [word count] [eaf090]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
'Tis night in autumn, and, methinks, the clouds, That waft the storms of equinox, along The sunset seas of troubled light, uplift Their countless shapes of mystery and might, On which the watcher of Endymion now Not e'en a glimpse of her wan beauty casts,— As erst, they rose o'er Athens, when, condemned By all profaneness and impure desires, The Titan evils of a rebel time, The Attic sage, (41) amid the sobbed farewells Of his disciples, drank the hemlock cup. His spirit, for his birthage and the men That by their deeds blasphemed it, all too pure, Shrined in its sanctuary thoughts revealed Unto no other in dim heathendom;
And as his calm benign eyes through the folds Of the earth brooding tempest saw the realms Where immortality to one sole God Hymned anthems in felicity of love, He blessed the few who dared be just when Hate, (Deferred, till from the holy Delian Isle, Which neither birth nor death might desecrate, The pilgrim barque brought the Theori home), Reigned, amid idols, with archdæmon power. Then, with the gentle sadness of the good, His soul forgave the foes that wrought his fate, Callias, Anytus and the viper bard Famed Aristophanes—and prayed in peace! Thus, casting from his tried and weary heart Sorrow and sin, and giving back to earth The passions born of dust, the Martyr Sage Ascended unto Being's fountain stream To meet the mercy he so greatly gave. With such a night around me, let me tread, In these far years, his path, and clothe my thought With a forbearing patience under wrong, Neglect, rebuke and ill rewarded toil, That so, like the aurelia, I may rise From dust, and be a winger of the air!
Bereavement's lone lamenting tears and gleams Cast from the memory of the dead, were all The rainbows of my childhood: harsh behest And bitter blame begot in solitude The mood of melancholy; shadowed rills And forests mantled with fantastic vines And peaks the lightning made its home, became The accustomed haunts of boyhood that ne'er knew In bondage the free sunny thoughts of youth. (Hate's serpent tongue hath ever on me shed Its poison, and with lidless vigilance Storied the trials of the fatherless In the dark volume of its deep revenge.) Then, with but one in all the world to love, I burst the thraldom of my orphan days, And wandered forth to live in antique lore; Yet anxious present, pale remembrance, clouds Prophetic gloomed along the deathless page And hoarded in my heart their oracles. From the magnificence of power, the charm Of poesy and visions of old pomp, I woke to feel the friendlessness of earth And know myself a homeless pilgrim here. Then manhood came; the world stirred round my way, And Time's ambition, eagle-eyed, I saw Was man's one worshipped idol, yet I sought
No fellowship, but shunned the strife that sears Youth's bosom with the torch that guides to fame. Fame! 'tis the dew-hour's solitary dream, The sighed breath of the midnight, heard alone By mocking phantoms whose reply is—death! Fame! 'tis the madness of consuming thought, Toiling in tears, aspiring in despair, That steals in Love's delirium, o'er the brain, And, while it buries childhood's purest joys, Wakes manhood's dreamy agonies to life! Fame! 'tis the voice of sepulchres, to earth Uttering the praises of the gone—the hymn Of the dust shrouded, over pale decay, And sounding to the spheres the name of him Who loved unloved and trusted traitor hearts, Whose bread was bitterness, whose years, a curse! Fame! 'tis the sunbow o'er the abyss of Time— A glance can melt it into showers of tears! A glacier, hanging from a shattered peak— A breath can bring the glittering ruin down! A dream of glory with the seraphim— Death's shadows gather round it in the dawn! Therefore, I sought not power but peace, and love Was my heart's paradise—the guiltless home
Of all my wandering and tumultuous thoughts. But that was blighted by the breath of hate, And the relentless perjuries of men O'erspread the mirrored mind with tempest clouds. The hues of morn and evelight, virgin buds Kissed by Aurora, woods, beneath whose wings The fragrance and the music of glad life Breathed, and the myriad charms that solitude Folds mid the throbs of its deserted heart, Yet o'er me hold dominion; but the light Of their first beauty and the tenderest voice Of Nature, throned in holy ministries, That, in my earlier days, fell on my soul Like seraphim revealings, wear not now The magic loveliness which memory feels. Torrents of wrongs and calumnies, hurled out From the Gehenna of revenge to fall Upon the Hinnom of the world, have raised In me the spirit of a dreadless scorn And multiplied contempt of human thoughts, And these with thee, O Nature! mingle not. But time hath its atonement though I sink Beneath the burden of blaspheming speech, And die beneath the Upas in my youth; And to the Avenger of far ages now
I do devote the ruined shrine, and raise The incense of a spirit dimmed by tears, Yet visited in loneliness by hymns Of heaven and stars of glory wandering down. But now the shadows of the buried move Around me—beautiful and haughty forms— Waked from the sleep of centuries to endure, Again, the vanities of earth's best joys, The certainties of evil—(mind restores The dead)—and havoc cries ascend the heavens From Pompeii's waiting thousands, while the groans Of the convulsed volcano answer them. The feeble and the famishing and slaves, Whose toil a thousand years cannot reveal, Alone are seen upon the public ways; And every face is chronicled with care, Loathing the lingering lapse of wasted breath, The purposeless continuance of low toil And want and thankless servitude, amid The meshes of a wan and dim despair. All else find pastime in the savageness Of games where smiles and shouts are bought with blood. Quæstor and ædile, senator and knight, Censor and flamen, vestal and courtesan,
Noble and commoner, commingling, meet Amid the portent horrors of the day, Whose shuddering light to Pompeii bids farewell, In torture to seek rapture, in the pangs Of gladiators gored and Christians gashed And mangled to proclaim their ecstacies! The dicer in the midst suspends his skill, Tested by spoil wrung from the heart of want, To witness and applaud the guiltier tests Of science; and the banqueter forsakes The wanton wassail of the flesh to seek The richer revel of the bandit mind. The spotless vestals the electric fire Of Vesta's shrine desert and through their veils Gaze, from the podium (42) of patrician pride, On sinless blood poured o'er the trampled sand From the hot veins of causeless strife; the judge Bears from the Forum the remorseless thoughts, Which, petrified by usage, have become His Nature, never thrilled by mercy's voice. The matron, whom dishonor dares not name; The virgin in her beauty angel pure; The warrior, who, like Blenhiem's victor, ne'er The stategy of pale retreat had learned In the swift triumph of his bannered march;
The merchant, whose integrity no thought Assails; the poet from his dreams of eld, Elfland and wizardy and fabled gods; Sages, by their disciples canonized, Who from Saturnian visions, feigning power Without oppression and republics stained By no corruptions, bosomed mid the bowers Of the Evening Isles or Orcades—arise To look upon the agonistes' face Imaging hell, and with the Circus' shouts Mingle the fiats of philosophy! (43) And augurs to perfect their oracles Come now to gaze upon the cloven heart And watch the spasms of Nature's utter throes. And Pompeii's might and affluence await The Prætor's voice, and the vast fabric gleams With million glances and with million cries Echoes, as from the tribune now the word Of Power commands—“Lo! let the games begin!” Cheered by the charioteers, who proudly stand, Reining their fury, round the battlement Rush the barbed chargers, like the samiel cloud O'er Zara when the tropic burns with death; And breathless watchers, who, upon the race, Risk many a talent, when they would deny
The alms of one poor obolus to woe, Hang waiting sudden triumph or despair. One wins, the prelude closes, and the host, Like winds amid a wilderness of leaves, Sink down and to the dread arena turn. The trumpet summons—awful silence floats Over the multitudes who fix their gaze Upon the portals of the cells beneath. They open and the gladiators move Round the thronged circle to display their forms Athlete and strong, and with the voice of death Salute the ruthless Genius of the Games. (44) From many a kingdom thralled they come—from realms Spoiled by the locust hordes of Rome; the Gaul, The Briton and the Thracian and the Frank, The Wehrmanne and the Hebrew and the Celt, Every clime's vanquished—every age's wreck, All codes and creeds, strangers or friends, contend Here in assassin strife to please their lords. One deep wild shout like breaking billows swells, Hailing the victims of the carnage fiend, And on the sands two stalwart forms alone Remain; and now Sigalion, voiceless god Of Memphian mysteries, of all the host
Seems sovereign, such a quivering stillness hangs Over the thousands, who await the fray With eyes electric as the ether fires, Lips sealed by passion, hearts, like lava, still In their intensest rapture! Bickering swords Clash quickly, yet, with matchless skill, each blow Or thrust falls on the flashing steel; and long, With fixed eyes dropping not their folded lids, And marble lips, and brows whereon the veins Burn like the storm bolt o'er ice pinnacles, And heaving bosoms, naked in their strength, And limbs in every attitude of grace And power—they struggle, not in hope of fame, To win dominion, or achieve revenge; But by their toil and agony and blood To amuse the languid masters of the world. From the free forest where he walked a king, From his hearth's altar where he stood a priest, Hither, in manacles, was guiltless man Dragged for a mockery and gory show! An erring glance—and o'er a prostrate form Of beauty stands the unrejoicing foe, Sternly receiving from the merciless The still command to slay! and now he lifts His serried sabre purpled to the hilt
With that heart's blood he might have deeply loved! One groan—a gasp—a shudder—and a soul Hath gone to join the myriad witnesses Who in the winds of northern wilds invoke The Desolators to avenge their doom. While o'er the sands they drag the dead, and strew The place of carnage with uncrimsoned dust, Mirth reigns and voices mingle everywhere, Lauding the skill of the barbarian's strife And the fine anguish of the dying slave. Some talk of Titus, deeming him too just And mild and generous while conspiracy Mutters Domitian and Locasta's cup. (45) And some relate, looking upon the mount, Traditions of volcanoes direr far Than aught they have to fear in latter days; The depths of mountains boiling—valleys filled With o'erthrown hills—and islands through the floods Of ocean, apparitions, to the stars Casting the torrid terrors of their birth. Some say, the Prætor, when the lustrum ends, Will govern Syria, and the sage surmise That confiscation in Campania bought The Senate's will that he should rule the east.
Wine, love, the dance, war, wealth, ambition, hate, Earthquake, plague, priesthood, revel, rival sects In faith or knowledge—yesterday's delights, To-morrow's deeds—each, all, in various speech, Absorb the mind until the trumpet sounds. Again, scarce breathing stillness falls—again The gladiators enter, and the strife, Protracted but to close in death, goes on. A Briton, from the land of Caradoc, Whose daily breath had been Plinlimmon's breeze, Beneath the weapon of the Gaul pours out Blood glowing with the soul of liberty, And dies, to Druid altars in the realm Of Mona, breathing back his heart, whose voice Andraste, (46) in her home of vengeance, hears. Triumphant shouts and quick expiring shrieks, Dread silence and hurrahs and agonies Succeed each mortal fray; and oft the sands, Dabbled by gory fingers, trampled o'er By feet that fail beneath the crushing strength Of the grim joyless victors—are fresh strewn To bury blood which sunk not into earth, But from beholding heaven drew down the wrath That made almighty Rome, to every land,
A curse, a mockery and a shuddering jest. “Three spirits wander by the spectre stream! Are the great people glutted with the gore?” Said Diomede, for Pansa's trial hour With an exulting patience waiting long. “Sound for the Christians and the desert king! It darkens hurriedly and lava hail Hurtles amid the ashes! we may rob The God of Triumph of the Apostates' blood, Or lose the rapture of their agonies. Throw wide the portals! let the Christians come!” The mitred ministers of idol rites Came on in bannered pomp and conscious power, Circling the arena; and the lictor guard Followed with Pansa, and another form That shrunk and faltered as ten thousand eyes Searched out the fear that harrowed his pale heart. Slow to the wail of Lydian flutes and blast Of clarions breathing death, with looks of awe Feigned and drooped eyes of mystery, around Moved the procession; and the Præsul's (47) gaze Wandered, in haughty majesty, along The risen and revering host he blessed. Few think, for thought is born of pain, and night
Hath not repose, nor day, free bliss to him Whose spirit's rapt; yet all can feel and fear, For that is flesh—the earth-born shadows cast Around them by their destinies; and they, Who dwell in earth's abundance and from domes, Stately and glistering, issue to receive Guerdons of gold for oracles of wrath, Illume not, save with fires of hell, the gloom That curtains the black portal of the grave. Virtue needs no interpreter, and vice, Like palace tombs, mocks its own turpitude, When painted o'er with saintly imageries; But Faith, that searches not, dreads every dream, Becoming to itself a hell, and seeks Heaven through the pontiff, who, in secret doubt Of joys elysian, craves earth's richest gifts, And at his votary's phantom banquet smiles. Before the image—wrought by Phidias, when His faithless country unto rival realms Banished his genius—of the supreme Jove, The Præsul paused, and with adoring zeal Cast incense on the altar; and soft wreaths Of perfumed vapor round the eagle's beak, The lifted sceptre and most godlike brow,
(The artist's mind was the sole deity) Curled as in homage, and one blended voice Burst from the thousands—“Supreme Jove is God!” Then all the priests from every fane and all The accolytes and soldiers incense flung, And the proud statue proudly seemed to smile. Next, bent and trembling, blind and dumb with fear, A Christian came (from noisome catacombs Dragged forth to prove his feebleness of faith,)— Like the great Pisan (48) who from midnight heavens Could summon the eternal stars and fill His angel spirit with their glories, yet Abjured, in fear, before his bigot foes, All the magnificence of thought, and knelt, A hoar apostate, in the dust, to win The lingering torture of a few sad hours, And live—a monument of mind dethroned! Onward he came with tottering childhood's step, And with a face to all but terror dead. He loved the light, adored the truth, yet dared Meet not the perills it revealed; and now Unto the altar's horns he clung and gasped His panic breath, and gazed beseeching round In utter horror's wilderment, and groped Amid the shrine lights for the frankincense,
With quivering fingers hurriedly; but Fear Had quenched soul, feeling, sense—and, as his hand Moved o'er the porphyry with a mindless aim, And the wild pantings of his bosom spread Hues ghastlier than death's along his cheek, A stern centurion, with a frown of scorn And sickened pity, from the censer took The idol odor and upon the palm Of the apostate threw it with a curse; And ere the lapse of thought, his worship flashed On the stern aspect of the demon god! And, onward borne triumphantly, he passed To meet, through every hour of haunted time, Derision for denial of his Lord! Hate on his brow and in his heart revenge, (By bigot pride, scorned power and baffled lust Engendered like the serpent on the waste) Diomede glared upon the lofty form That now before the awful statue stood. No pride, lightening defiance, in his eye, Dared the despair of fortune; no wild faith Waited for miracles; but there he stood, Beautiful in the magnificence of Truth, Before the haughty scorners of chained beings, The mightiest and most merciless of earth,
His thought above the proudest of them all, (For Roman mind to Christian creed was wed) And on the countless eyes, that watched him, looked With the sublime serenity unknown To natures weak or terrible as hours And their events decree. No joy, no pain, Changed the fixed features of a calm resolve; No glance betrayed a triumph in his fate, Or doubt that might avert his martyrdom. Upon the still crowd rose his gentle eyes Blue and translucent as the heaven, as erst The sungod, gliding up the glacier steeps Of Hæmus, o'er the tossed ægean cast His deathless smile among the Cyclades. Pure in his faith and passionless in truth, He never sought to seal with agony The creed of the Anointed, but, instead, Shunned Paynimrie's resort and dwelt in wilds, Distrusting the infirmities that oft O'ersway the spirit; but the fated hour Had not passed by—the one deep love, that chained His heart to earth, was parted, it might be To welcome him to paradise, if not, To meet his welcome there; and now, beyond The tyrant passions of the world, he stood
Dauntless mid heathendom, and thus, in tones Strong as the ocean's, in whose utter deeps The Alps may sink, yet leave vast deeps above, He to the image of the Thunderer spake. “Thou breathless Mocker of the humbled mind! Thou Idol Image of remorseless power! Shall being, quickened by the glowing blood, In worship bow to thee, a sculptured block? Shall intellect, illumed and magnified, Whose home is ether, whose immortal hope Is deathless glory, render unto thee The adoration of the Deity? Oh, how should men be just when they have throned Amid the universe, o'erswaying all, A supreme vengeance—demon deified? Whose common and commended deeds would crown A mortal with the curses of the world, And round him spread a solitude of hate Haunted alone by grovelling infamies! Well wast thou fabled—son of Earth and Time! For all impurities and ills are thine, Transformed despoiler! e'en thy votaries mock Yet mimic thee, as well they may, the work Of their own lusts! Canst thou call forth one star
Of all that blossom in the boundlessness Of that undying heaven unknown to thee? Will Mazzaroth or Mythra soar or sink? Or terrible behemoth leave his depths? Or the proud desert bird feel nature's love? Because thou bidst? doth thine own eagle fear The power men quail at? or the tempest float Along Olympus, hurling arrowy fires, In reverence to thy hest? yet why is this? Methinks, I wander back to Pagan faith, Thus questioning the hewn marble, which portrays The apotheosis of man's worst revenge! Beneath the unimaged, unimagined God, Who hath no temple but infinity, Where the great multitude of stars adore, Flying along their glorious spheres—I stand Here in thy home (it fits thy nature well) And, without awe or exultation, dare Deny thee incense, prayer, love, fear and faith!” Not louder in its burning temple roared The dread volcano when the firestorm came, And earth's abysses quivered in their wrath, Than now the voices of the phrenzied host. “Tear the blasphemer! let the wild beasts forth
To rend his limbs and gnash his living heart! Impale the accursed! chain him within the fire! Saw him asunder! cast his viper tongue Into the serpents' den to poison them!” Thus thousands shrieked—yet now the shoutings changed. “Hark! Jove the Avenger answers! lo! the heavens With shuddering clouds are filled and lightnings leap Through their gored bosoms and the thunder shaft Bickers along the air—great Jove beholds And hears—now wither, thou blaspheming slave!” Awed yet untrembling, Pansa calm replied. “Ye hear no thunder—but Destruction's howl! Ye see no lightning—but the lava glare Of desolation sweeping o'er your pride! Death is beneath, around, above, within All who exult to inflict it on my heart, And ye must meet it, fly when where ye will, For in the madness of your cruelties Ye have delayed till every hope is dead. Let the doom come! our faiths will soon be tried. Gigantic spectres from their shadowy thrones, With ghastly smiles to welcome ye, arise. The Pharaohs and Ptolemies uplift Their glimmering sceptres o'er ye—bidding all
Bare their dark bosoms to the Omniscient God: And every strange and horrid mythos waits To fold ye in the terrors of its dreams. —For thee, proud Prætor! throned on human hearts And warded by thy cohorts from the arm Of violated virtue and spurned Right, And suffering's madness—though thy regal tomb Cepolline proudly stand, thy scattered dust Shall never sleep within it; years shall fade And nations perish and ten thousand kings With all their thrice ten thousand victories Rest in oblivion, and the very earth Change with the changes of her children, yet The empty mansion of thy vain renown Shall stand that generations unconceived May ask the deeds of him who was cast out By vengeance from his fathers' sepulchres!” “Let loose the wild beasts on him! why are we Thus left to bear the traitor's arrogance? The convict's scorn? the gladiator's speech? Let loose the only foe that fits his faith; The Mauretanian's arguments are meet And suit his mystic cabala. Throw wide The cells and let the lion make reply.”
“The outer corridors,” the Lanista said, “Are filled with ashes, and within the vaults Arches have fallen and no power can ope The portal of the Atlas beast, my lord!” “Bring a ballista, then, and shatter it! For by the eternal Fates and all the Gods! This darer and blasphemer shall not scape. Let none depart! why, would the people shun The luxury of this despiser's pangs, Or doth his airy talk infect your souls And sway your thoughts by oracles of woe? Spare Nazarenes! who would o'erturn the creed And code of Rome, and on the throne of earth Exalt the image of a felon God! Gather your wisdom, men!—so, dash to earth The portal and goad on the savage king!” Still by Jove's altar standing, Pansa looked Upon the fluctuating host around, Some with fear trembling, some with baffled hate, Some silent in excess of passion, some Most earnest to behold the game of death, And thus, like a cathedral knell, he spake. “I show ye mercy none will show to me!
Fly! ere the banners of the galleys wave Beyond the cape! fly, ere the earth and air Become the hell that fiction fables! fly Ere carnage shrieks amid the torrent fire! For me 't is nought—for you, 't is all—away!” Yet, mocking truth and justice, all from flight Turned back, and in the joy of shedded blood Leaned o'er the arena. From the shattered cell The famished lion sprung, with coiling mane And fiendish eyes and jaws that clashed for gore. “Take thy sword, Christian! at thy foot it lies— And let the heathen, as thou callest them, mark And laud thy skill in combat! take thy sword!” A demon smile convulsed the Prætor's lip, Yet Pansa, in the deep unshaken voice Of Truth's immortal sanctity replied. “The Martyr needs no weapon: his defence, Shield, sabre, helm, spear, banner, all are one. A breath from the Eternal—a quick ray From the immortality of God—he lives But in His mercy, dies but when He wills. —Thou mightiest monarch of the forest beasts! Who from the heights of Atlas, on the brow
Of perpendicular precipice alone Planting thine armed foot, hast looked o'er sea And waste, fearing no equal; or among The haunted wrecks of Carthage, in the pangs Of hunger revening, hast found no food Where a great nation died that Rome might reign. Thou fiercest terror of the wilderness! Who, without contest, dost consume thy foe, And walkst the earth a conqueror and a king! Upon thee—though the extreme of famine gnaws Thy vitals now—and thy flesh burns with stripes Given to madden thee, and round and round With Titan limbs thou leapst in bitter joy Of human banquet, watching, with fierce eyes, Terrible as is the simoom of thy clime, The moment of thy certain victory— Upon thee now I fix the eye, whose light Was born of God's Eternity, and while Destruction from the face of Deity Lours o'er creation, I do bid thee kneel There in the gory dust! ay, by the Power Of Him who made thee, monster! I command.” A roar, as if a myriad thunders burst, Now hurtled o'er the heavens, and the deep earth
Shuddered, and a thick storm of lava hail Rushed into air to fall upon the world. And low the lion cowered, (49) with fearful moans And upturned eyes and quivering limbs and clutched The gory sand instinctively in fear. The very soul of silence died, and breath Through the ten thousand pallid lips unfelt Stole from the stricken bosoms; and there stood With face uplifted and eyes fixed on air, (Which unto him was thronged with angel forms) The Christian—waiting the high will of heaven. A wandering sound of wailing agony, A cry of coming horror o'er the street Of Tombs arose, and all the lurid air Echoed the shrieks of hopelessness and death. Then through the gates and o'er the city rushed A ghastly multitude, naked and black With sulphur fumes and spotted o'er with marl That clung unto the agonizing flesh Like a wronged orphan's curse. In terror blind, They rushed, in dreadful companies, along The solitary Appian Way, and e'er Their awful voices howled the horrors forth. “Destroyed! wrecked in its beauty—all destroyed!
Billows of lava boil above the towers Of Herculaneum! we alone are left! The lovely city! all our happy homes! Buried in blackness 'neath a sea of fire! The deluge came along the shattering rocks— We fled and met another—yet again We turned dismayed and a third fiery flood Came down in ruin's grandeur on our path! Between the mountain and the sea we scaped. Oh, many a corse beneath the depths hath mixed With the consumed, consuming clay, and lo! A Solfatara o'er our city rolls, Boiling in deeps of blackness! on—away! What fated madness holds the death-games now? Rise, Pompeii! fly, the Fates delay not here!” Down to the dark convulsive sea they rushed, O'er them the volcano, and beneath, The earthquake, and around, ruin and death. “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 survivers 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?” Vesuvius answered: from its pinnacles Clouds of far-flashing cinders, lava showers, And seas, drank up by the abyss of fire To be hurled forth in boiling cataracts, Like midnight mountains, wrapt in lightnings, fell. Oh, then, the love of life! the struggling rush, The crushing conflict of escape! few, brief, And dire the words delirious fear spake now—
One thought, one action swayed the tossing crowd. All through the vomitories madly sprung, And mass on mass of trembling beings pressed, Gasping and goading, with the savageness That is the child of danger, like the waves Charybdis from his jagged rocks throws down, Mingled by fury—warring in their foam. Some swooned and were trod down by legion feet; Some cried for mercy to the unanswering gods; Some shrieked for parted friends for ever lost; And some, in passion's chaos, with the yells Of desperation did blaspheme the heavens; And some were still in utterness of woe. Yet all toiled on in trembling waves of life Along the subterranean corridors. Moments were centuries of doubt and dread; Each breathing obstacle a hated thing: Each trampled wretch, a footstool to o'erlook The foremost multitudes; and terror, now, Begat in all a maniac ruthlessness, For in the madness of their agonies Strong men cast down the feeble who delayed Their flight, and maidens on the stones were crushed, And mothers maddened when the warrior's heel Passed o'er the faces of their sons! The throng
Pressed on, and in the ampler arcades now Beheld, as floods of human life rolled by, The perfect terrors of the destined hour. In gory vapors the great sun went down; The broad dark sea heaved like the dying heart, 'Tween earth and heaven hovering o'er the grave, And moaned through all its waters; every dome And temple, charred and choked with ceaseless showers Of suffocating cinders, seemed the home Of the triumphant desolator Death. One dreadful glance sufficed—and to the sea, Like Lybian winds, breathing despair, they fled. Nature's quick instinct, in most savage beasts, Prophecies danger ere man's thought awakes, And shrinks in fear from common savageness, Made gentle by its terror; thus, o'erawed E'en in his famine's fury by a Power Brute beings more than human oft adore, The Lion lay, his quivering paws outspread, His white teeth gnashing, till the crushing throngs Had passed the corridors; then, glaring up His eyes imbued with samiel light, he saw The crags and forests of the Appenines Gleaming far off, and with the exulting sense
Of home and lone dominion, at a bound, He leapt the lofty palisades and sprung Along the spiral passages, with howls Of horror through the flying multitudes Flying to seek his lonely mountain lair. From every cell shrieks burst; hyænas cried Like lost child stricken in its loneliness: The giant elephant with matchless strength Struggled against the portal of his tomb, And groaned and panted; and the leopard's yell And tyger's growl with all surrounding cries Of human horror mingled; and in air, Spotting the lurid heavens and waiting prey, The evil birds of carnage hung and watched, As ravening heirs watch o'er the miser's couch. All awful sounds of heaven and earth met now; Darkness behind the sungod's chariot rolled, Shrouding destruction, save when volcan fires Lifted the folds to gaze on agony; And when a moment's terrible repose Fell on the deep convulsions, all could hear The toppling cliffs explode and crash below, While multitudinous waters from the sea In whirlpools through the channelled mountain rocks
Rushed, and, with hisses like the damned's speech, Fell in the mighty furnace of the mount. Tyrant not dastard, daring in his guilt And fearless of its issues, Diomede Frowned on the panic flight and in his wrath Man, earth and heaven, demons and gods defied. “The craven people—e'en my very slaves Have fled as dust-born vassals ever flee, And I am left alone with marble gods And howling savageness, mid showers of flame. Gods! I trust not elysium feigned by them Who make the earth a very mock of hell. Ay, roar, yell, struggle till your fierce hearts burst! And with thy thousand thunders shake the throne Of Jove, Vesuvius! and the world confound! I have not loved nor sought the love of man, And higher than his nature I know not, Nor lower; and alone I sit to laugh At mortal fear and dare immortal hate, For, if aught die not, 't is revenge and pain.” “Hath memory wed with madness that thou sayst `Alone,' proud Prætor? one yet looks on Jove And sees no deity; one yet awaits
The pleasure of Campania's haughty lord. The hour and scene fit well the deadly fight, Yet I behold no foe; what wouldst thou more?” Pansa stood motionless and spake in scorn. “Thou damned Nazarene! the imperial law Shall forge new fetters for thy treacheries, Thy necromancies and apostate deeds. Meantime exult, thank, praise and bless thy God, Convict redeemer, buried deity, That my condition fits not contest now With thine, or wolves should ravine on thy limbs And eagles' talons bear to mountain cliffs Thy heart yet quivering with the pulse of fear. Some fiendish potence foils me now; again Thou shalt not win fire-fiends unto thy aid: Yet, Pompeii shall acclaim thine agonies— Again, thou shalt not scape though hell arise!” “Again we shall not meet in all the realms Of universal being—all the hours That linger on eternity! we part For ever now, each to his deathless doom. But had not other creed than vengeance filled A Roman's mind with mercy, words like thine,
Now thy prætorians leave us twain, the one With all to lose, the other, all to gain, Would bring a direr parting hour, howe'er Thy Punic blood and Volscian pride revolt. Oh, thou mayst scoff! thou wouldst outdare the fiends And mock in Orcus sin's undying moans; But here we part, proud victim! so, farewell! Jehovah's wrath is o'er thee—o'er us all— The shocked earth cries unto the blackened heavens, The mighty heart of earthly being bursts. And thou shalt quickly know what Hebrew awe Trembled to hear, El Shaddai—'t is a name The phantoms ye adore and curse have borne Vainly—yon mount is its interpreter— The Almighty looks in lightning from His throne. Jove's shrine is covered with the lava shower, The ashes gather round me! oh, farewell!” Through deepening cinders, tossing sulphur clouds, And victims shrieking in their agonies, The Prætor sought his way. His harnessed steeds Maddened by fear, had with his chariot flown, The charioteer had perished 'neath the wheels: And haughtily through all the Appian Way, Among the whirlpool waves of human life,
And lighted by destruction's breath of flame, He struggled tow'rd his palace, to the wrath Of heaven fronting defiance, e'en while Death Dwelt in the bosom of all elements And the world trembled! hastening to his dome, Of power in Syrian splendors and a fame Immortal as the flatterer's pander verse, He dreamed; and bearing to the vaulted crypt, Whose labyrinths wandered far beneath the hills, His gold and gems, he on his household closed The marble door, deeming their safety won, Whose strangled death cries rose unheard—whose bones The daily sunlight of a thousand years Ne'er visited beneath the deeps of death. Pansa, meantime, in gladiator guise. By other paths had hurried from the scene, And now beneath the skies, where billowy clouds Rolled in the awful volcan light, beheld The fabric of destruction vast and lone. Vesuvius poured its deluge forth, the sea Shuddered and sent unearthly voices up, The isles of beauty, by the fire and surge Shaken and withered, on the troubled waves Looked down like spirits blasted; and the land
Of Italy's once paradise became The home of ruin--vineyard, grove and bower, Tree, shrub, fruit, blossom—love, life, light and hope, All vanishing beneath the fossil flood And storm of ashes from the cloven brow Of the dread mountain hurled in horror down. The echoes of ten thousand agonies Arose from mount and shore, and some looked back Cursing, and more bewailing as they fled, With glowing marl or ashes on their heads. “Thou one great Spirit of all being! here, Where power is helplessness and hope, a dream, Here in the horror of the havoc, breathe Thy smile upon my soul, and time and death, With all their anguish, shall o'erawe me not!” Imploring thus, the Christian held his way Through the wild scene, with undefined impulse, Nor shunning death, nor daring it, but filled With emanations of undying faith. A voice, whose tones, like music heard when youth Lives in the visions of the blue blest heaven, Thrilled the quick heart of Pansa, from the gloom Of a lone street came forth, and bended forms
Stole from the hutted refuge of despair, And tow'rd the Appian by the Forum fled. And through the night the voice of age went up.(50) “Tarry not, daughter! for these aged limbs, Dust they soon must be—though the world revered— And, if my hour be come, the woe is past. But hasten, daughter! moments have become Ages—the air, the earth, the ocean blend Their agonizing energies—away! Beneath the o'erhung rocks—where fishers wont To moor their boats, now stranded on the beach, The pinnace lies I spake of—and the word Is Marcion! Thither, without let or fear, Hasten: a Christian from Tergeste (51) holds Command, and ere an hour its oars and sails Shall waft you far from ruin round us now.” “Nay, father! to the shadow of your roof I hurried when the violater's wrath Burned o'er me—and thine own familiar fears Denied me not a refuge! we shall sleep Mid fire together or together flee. Yet more—no barque shall bear me from the beach Till the last hope expires that from his bonds
Pansa may burst to bear us company. Perchance, among the fugitives, e'en now He flies, and wanders by the ocean marge”— On through the death-storm the Decurion sprung. “No, Mariamne! my beloved restored! Here, in the home of desolation, here, I fold thee spotless to my happy heart! And find my paradise in ruin's arms! But here we pause not to pour out our souls. A pinnace lies beneath the cliffs, sayst thou? Thy hoary wisdom hath redeemed us, sage! Stay thy weak limbs upon my strength! on! on! I snatched the slaughtered gladiator's helm— Cast o'er your heads your mantles—so, away!” Down the steep path unto the moaning sea They passed with quickened steps, and upward glanced The maiden of the vaults of Isis, once, Eyes floating in the farewell tears of love, As by the black and desolated home Of all her childhood's innocence and bliss, They fled like shades and to the ramparts came, Upon them, by the fiend-light full revealed, Wandered the hoary idol priest of Jove
In maniac horror; and amidst the roar, The riot and the wreck of earth and heaven, Thus rose his awful voice in prophecies.
Mocking, press down The accursed crown Which shall not cease to bleed as conquered men have bled!” Thy monarchs, slaves to every lust and crime, Shall fall as they have fallen by the sword Or Colchian chalice, and unweeping time O'erthrow the deities by dust adored, And leave but ruin to lament O'er pillar, shrine and battlement, And solitude o'er desert realms to moan, Where warriors mocked chained kings and called the world their own! The coal black petrel and the grey curlew Shall wing thy waters and see not thy sail; From trembling towers the stork shall watch the blue Of the lone heavens and hear no human hail: For in the vales that bask in bloom, The Pontine's flowers, the bright Maremma's green, Shall dwell the shadow of the tomb, In Love's voluptuous arms, the tyrant death unseen! And Nero's golden house shall be The pallid serf's abode, And tombs imperial, soaring from the sea,
Shall guide the corsair through his night of blood. Despair with folded wings, Where the Eagle's pinions hung, Shall cower beneath the throne of kings, Who o'er the Alps the curse of hell have flung, Woe to the beautiful! the barbarian comes! Woe to the proud! the peasant lays thee low! Woe to the mighty! o'er your kingly domes The savage banner soars—the watchfires glow; Triumph and terror through the forum rush, Art's trophies vanish—learning's holy lore,— Alaric banquets while red torrents gush, Attila slumbers on his couch of gore! And there the eye of Ruin roams O'er guilt and grief and desolation; And there above a thousand homes The voice of Ruin mourns a buried nation. Buried. O Rome! not like Campania's cities, To wake in beauty when the centuries flee, But in the vice and coward shame none pities, The living grave of guilt and agony! Alas! for Glory that must close in gloom! Alas! for Pride that loves the tyrant's scorn! Alas! for Fame that from the Scipios' tomb
Rises to look on infamy and mourn! But Vengeance, wandering long, With many a battle hymn and funeral song, Shakes Fear's pale slumber from earth's awestruck eyes, And bids Sarmatia's hordes redeem her agonies! Yet not alone the civic wreath, The conqueror's laurel, the triumpher's pride Shall wither 'neath the samiel eye of Death; On Rome's old mount of glory shall abide, Tiar'd and robed like the Orient's vainest kings, The hoar devoter of earth's diadems; (52) His glance shall haunt the heart's imaginings— His footfall shall be felt where misers hoard their gems! And from the palace of the Sacred Hill The thrice crown'd pontiff shall to earth dispense The awful edict of his mighty will, And reign o'er mind in Fear's magnificence. Prince, peasant, bandit, slave shall bow Beneath his throne in vioceless adoration, And years of crime redeem by one wrung vow; And age on age shall die—and many a nation Sink in the shadow of the tyrant's frown And disappear, Without a song or tear,
While clarion'd conquerors tread In hymned triumph o'er the dead; And wild barbarian hordes, Whose faith and fealty glitter with their swords, Shall feel the mellowing breath of human love, And dwell entranced amid romance and lore; Yet from the awful Vatican no dove Shall bear freewill to any earthly shore! But he, the Rock amid the ruins old Of mythologic temples, shall o'ersway The very Earth, till thrones and kingdoms sold And cmpires blasted in the blaze of day— Awake the world—and from the human heart The crushing mountain of Oppression cast; Then man shall bid all tyrannies depart, And from the blue blest heavens elysium dawn at last!” “How like the gusty moans of tempest nights O'er the broad winter wilderness, that voice Ascends; and what a horrid gleam is flung Along that face of madness, as it turns From sea to mountain, and the wild eyes burn With revelations of the unborn time! We may not linger—shelter earth denies— The very heavens like a gehenna lour—
And ocean is our refuge—on—on—on! Yet hark! the wildest shriek of death! and lo! The priest falls gasping from the ramparts now— The breath of oracles upon his lips, The Future's knowledge in his dying heart, He reels—pants—gazes on the sulphur light— (How like the glare of hell it wraps his form!) Expiring, mutters woe—and falls to sleep Shroudless in the red burial of the doomed! On to the ocean! and, far o'er its waves, To Rhætia's home of glaciers—if God wills— Look not behind! a moment gains the shore!” So Pensa cried and windlike was their flight. The pinnace cleaves the waters; heaving, black And desolate, the dismal billows groan And swell the dirges of the earth and sky. Upon the bosom of the sea, the barque Sweeps on in darkness, save when furnace light Flares o'er the upturned floods; and now they pass The promontory's cliffs, and o'er the deeps Fly like a midnight vision.—From the shores Voices in terror cry, and countless shapes Now in the lava blaze appear—and now Vanish in the fell night, and, far away,
Pliny's lone galleys, dimly from their prows Casting their watchlights through the fitful gloom, Hear not the implorings of the fugitives.
Who bids us sink resigned? Who bids us bless the Slayer? And mid the storm of ruin, blind, Scorched—blasted—dying—breathe again the spurned-back prayer? Let the Creator in his vengeance take The life he heaped on men— No sigh—no voice—no tear shall slake The almighty hatred that could thus condemn! He made us but to die— To die yet see our city's burial first— And he shall feast upon no wailing cry From me:—take what thy wrath has cursed! I yet have power to hate and scorn the might That strews the earth with dead in Desolation's night!
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.
Wail o'er thy doom, fair boy! Shriek thy last sorrow, maiden! for the doom, That o'er earth's tearless joy Rolls gory mid the shadows of the tomb! The tomb! there shall be none Save dark-red shroudings of the lava sea— The fire shall quench the agonizing groan— Moments become—eternity! And must we perish so? Sink, shuddering, thus and gasp our breath in flame? And o'er our unremembered burial flow The pomps and pageants of a worthless name? At wonted feasts, no voices shall salute— In temple hymns, no soul-breathed strain awake Our memories from the realms for ever mute— But o'er our graves barbarian kings shall slake Their demon thirst of gore— And redcross slayers march in bandit ranks, From Alp and sea and shore, To stain the Asian sands with hordes of slaughtered Franks! Wail for the joy that never more shall breathe! Wail for the lore and love, the bloom and bliss That to the ocean world of fire bequeathe Their paradise of hope! and this
Must be our only trust—to quickly die— And leave the pleasant things of earth behind; Through thousand ages unremembered lie Unknown to sunbeam smile or breath of summer wind!”
The billow in the horrid light careering. Like a spirit that hath passed The glacier and the Lybian blast, It feels not human fearing! It flies toward the promontory now— The torrent fire of ruin hangs above— And earthly forms are standing by the prow, Clasped in the arms of love! O Hell of Thought! and must I—in the fame Of sumless wealth and power—sink down and die, And, helpless, hopeless, leave the Prætor's name To moulder with the herd's beneath The mountain monument of death, And be a doubt, or mock and scorn To fierce barbarians, yet unborn, When in the spoiler's lust, they seek the Italian sky? Ay, curse the gods who in their hate created The serpent death that gnaws your core of life! E'en in your childhood's beauty, ye were fated To writhe, howl, shudder, perish in the strife Of elemental agonies, As were your sires by ghastly wan disease; And wrath, shame, guilt, despair, remorse and pain, Their heritage and testament, have swept
Your hearts as vultures sweep the battle plain! Then by the tears unpitied grief hath wept, By lone bereavement's wail, And Evil's dark ovations, Bid universal Ruin hail! And swell Death's monarch march o'er buried nations! For me—as fits the Roman lord, When hopeless peril darkens on his way, I crave no lingering tortures with the horde Who gasp and grovel in the slave's dismay, And to the sick and sulphurous air, Where Gloom and Fire and Horror dwell, Pour out to fiction's gods the unheard prayer, And seek in clouds a heaven, to find on earth a hell! Thou one Omnipotent Despair! Whose shadow awes the prostrate world, Thou kingly Queller of lamenting care! Oblivion's voiceless home prepare, And let Extinction's lightning bolt be hurled! Banished, yet dauntless, doomed but undismayed, Least willing, yet without a groan or sigh, I go—dark Nemesis! thou art obeyed! Thou awful Cliff! the billow's funeral cry
Thrills through my quickened sense, That feels with life intense, Yet, ere a moment's lapse, this soul shall sleep— This form, a sweltering corse, beneath the unsounded deep!” Thus to the proud heart's last throb breathing out Defiance and blaspheming wrath—though wrecked And ruined, hurling his terrific thoughts Of baffled vengeance to the shuddering heavens— A monumental Memnon, sending up Death's music to the burning hills of death— Upon the extremest edge of awful cliffs, That beetled o'er the blackened billows now Howling their dirges o'er the expected dead, The haughty Prætor stood alone, and flung His agonizing spirit's deadliest glance, The farewell execrating look of pride, Unquenched by horror, unsubdued by death, O'er hill, shore, forest, ocean—earth and heaven; Then, towering like a rebel demigod, And to the fierce volcano turning quick His brow of fearful beauty, while his lips Curved with convulsive curses, o'er the rocks— Down—down the void, black depths, like a bann'd star,
(That tosses through the universe, a hell,) Or demon from a meteor mountain's brow, He plunged and o'er him curled the shivering floods! Meantime, charred corses in one sepulchre Of withering ashes lay, and voices rose, Fewer and fainter, and, each moment, groans Were hushed, and dead babes on dead bosoms lay, And lips were blasted into breathlessness Ere the death kiss was given, and spirits passed The ebbless, dark, mysterious waves, where dreams Hover and pulses throb and many a brain Swims wild with terrible desires to know The destinies of worlds that lie beyond. The thick air panted as in nature's death, And every breath was anguish; every face Was terror's image, where the soul looked forth, As looked, sometimes, far on the edge of heaven, A momentary star the tempest palled. From ghastlier lips now rose a wilder voice, As from a ruined sanctuary's gloom, Like savage winds from the Chorasmian waste Rushing, with sobs and suffocating screams: And thus the last despair had utterance.
“It bursts! it bursts! and thousand thunders blent, From the deep heart of agonizing earth, Knell, shatter, crash along the firmament, And new hells peopled startle into birth. Vesuvius sunders! pyramids of fire From fathomless abysses blast the sky; E'en desolating Ruin doth expire, And mortal Death in woe immortal die, Torrents like lurid gore, Hurled from the gulf of horror, pour, Like legion fiends embattled to the spoil, And o'er the temple domes, And joy's ten thousand homes, Beneath the whirlwind hail and storm of ashes boil. The surges, like coil'd serpents, rise From midnight caverns of the deep, And writhe around the rocks, That shiver in the earthquake's shocks, And through the blackness of fear's mysteries, Chained Titans from their beds of torture leap, And o'er the heavens Eumenides Seek parting souls for prey—
Oh God! that on these dark and groaning seas Would soar one other day! Vain is the mad desire, Darkness, convulsion, fire, Infernal floods, dissolving mountains, fold The helpless children of woe, sin and Time— O'er fiery wrecks hath Desolation rolled, The Infinite Curse attends the finite crime! No melancholy moon to gaze With dim cold light remote! No star, through stormy spheres, with holy rays, O'er dying eyes, like hope of heaven, to float! No spot—the oasis of the waste above— Whose still, sweet beauty glistens Through clouds that heave and riot in wild masses, Breaks on the breaking heart! no seraph listens In blue pavilions, while the spirit passes, And o'er the dreariest waters bears, Beyond the unburied's desert shore, To skies ambrosial and elysian airs, Where e'en the awful Destinies adore! No tenderness from lips, Blackened and swoln and gasping, steals Amidst the soul's eclipse;
Each, in the solitude of misery, feels, Ineffable, his own despair, And sinks unsolaced, unsolacing, down, O'ercanopied by sulphurous air, Palled, tombed by seas that terror's last cry drown! Oh, still the piteous cry Mounts up the heavens—“fly! fly!” “Whither?” the billows roar Among the wrecks and rent crags of the shore. “Whither?” the Volcano's voice Repeats, bidding pale death rejoice. Oh, Hope with madness dwells, And love of life creates the worst of deaths; Hark! world to world ten thousand voices swells— “Resign your breaths!” We die; the sinner with the sinless dies, The bud, the flower, the fruit corruption wastes, Childhood and hoar age blend their agonies, Destruction o'er the earth—the missioned slayer hastes.” Swiftly along the Pæstan gulf before 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 Of cataracts—gleamed on 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 on 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 for ever from our gaze Hide the dark scene of trial, and we leave, With swelling canvass, Rome's imperial realm, Where Christian faith shall, like the sandal tree, Impart its odor to the feller's axe, To seek a hermitage in wilds afar. —Now, as we hasten, let our spirits soar To Him who shelters when the avenger slays!”
Pillowed, O Christ! thy holy head, No crown, but thorns, Thy temples wreathed, Yet Thou the Death King captive led, And through the tomb a glory breathed! The scorner all Thy love reviled, Thy path was pain, thy kingdom, shame, Yet sorrow on thine aspect smiled, E'en Death revered Thy deathless name! The bittern moans where Zion stood, The serpent crawls where nations trod— Be with us on the mountain flood! Fill our dim hearts with light from God!
On starlight wings, through blooming air, Hope unto heaven bears human love; Doubt, grief, lone tears, remorse, despair Haunt not the soul's own home above. My chill heart cheered by thoughts like these, Far from my ruined bowers I roam; Thy love lights up the midnight seas, Thy smile is earth's most heavenly home!
Yet darker ruin must descend, Which man alone on man may rain, And locust king and harlot fiend With the heart's wrecks strew mount and plain. Away! the grave's wild shadows swim O'er my pale eve of autumn days; Away! the wild to harp and hymn Like sphere-voiced choirs, shall breathe, O Christ! Thy love and praise!” 'T is summer's tenderest twilight, and the woods Glow like an inner glory of the mind, And rills, veining the verdure, and among Vines, rose-lipp'd flowers and odorous shrubs in mirth And music dancing, purl from fountains known But to the gnomes and kobalds of the Alps— Mysterious springs, o'er which eternal night Watches and weeps in solitude, her tears Mingling, at last, with the green ocean deeps. Brightness and beauty, love and blessedness Breathe on each other's bosoms, while afar, From jagged cliffs the torrent cataract Hymns the Omnipotent; and from the brows Of desolate peaks ice-diademed, which thought Alone may climb, the mountain avalanche,
Vast Ruin, falls and with it ruin bears. All else is loneliness, beauty and love, Peace and a hallowed stillness, and the souls Of the lone mountain dwellers, in the hush Of solitude and nature's majesty, Partake the sanctity and power around. The sunbow o'er precipitated floods— The ice-lakes, and ravines where chaos dwells And desolation; flowers beneath snow-hills, Where the great sun looks wan—the mightiest pines, Rooted in chasms, that o'er the unfathomed gorge Hang, wave and murmur—vales of paradise, That smile upon suspended horror—all With memories and oracles and dreams, Time's hopes, eternity's imaginings, Infinity's vast grandeur, the meek love Of birthplace home,—the boundlessness of power, The holiness of earth's reliance—fill The awed and yet exultant intellect! Flowered fields and harvests bloom around the door Of a lone forest cottage, and amidst The Eden of the wild a hoary head Is lifted and the wan lips move in prayer. Around, three beings kneel in thought o'erawed,
Vesper responses breathing from high hearts, The ordeal of the paynim sternly proved— And Echo whispers in the clefted rocks. From meek adorings and communing love, Then rose they, not as worshippers arise In latter days of evil, with proud eyes And minds revenge corrodes, but violet-like, And gentle as the dawn breath of sweet May, Patient, serene and robed in holy thoughts. Dayspring and dewbeam, thus, year after year, Dawned and departed, and the seasons had Their own peculiar joys in Pansa's home. And there—the Roman Convert's testament— The storm-nursed heritors of Faith, blasphemed, Throned Liberty on Alpine pinnacles, And bade her temple be the Switzer hills. There in love worshipped, there with hoar hairs died The Christians, but the deathless spirit Rome Gave to her son, and Mariamne's heart, Bequeathed—in Freedom and God's holy Law, With tyrant Wrong warred through Guilt's thousand years. |
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