70 Vesuvius. 



Once fair the scene, but discord long concealed, 



From age to age his fiery wrath revealed, 



Scathing the verdure of its pristine bloom, 



And vailing beauty 'neath dark ruin's gloom. 



Where now the bounteous fields, the gladsome bowers. 



That erst beguiled Italians infant hours? 



And hast thou then, proud vision, sped away 



Nor left a lingering trace to tell thy day, 



To speak the mirth that flushed thy countenance, 



Ere yet it blanch'd at Jove*s death- dooming glance ? 



The verdant robes that mantled thee of yore 



Are changed for ever for that sterile shore, 



O'er which, as on the tomb where loved ones sleep, 



Fresh flowers are scattered by the friends that weep ; 



Fond nature strews her tender ornaments, 



And bids them bloom amid thy rude ascents. 



Nor distant far the birdless lake reclines, 



Where Silence sits enthroned, and rock combines 



With rock, and waters dark through caverns roam, 



The dismal portals of Old Pluto's home. 



E'en now, as from the height one looks along, 



And marks the fabled streams, renowned in song. 



Slow stealing on their melancholy way, 



Trembling to wake the echoes of the day ; 



He sighs to think the shady grove is gone, 



The forest deep the golden branch that shone 



In gloomy Tartarus a palm of peace 



To Proserpine, fair donor of release 1 



When the bold hero from the realms of light, 



To find his father, sought the realms of night ^ 



Fearing nor gnome, nor spirit of the dead, 



Through regions sunless, desolate, he sped. 



But lost is fable where high reason sways. 



We ask thyself the tale of other days : 



Proud mount of wonders ! thou who spak'st in ire. 



And pour'd on harass'd cities floods of fire ; 



Now tell thy tale in peace ; yes, silently 



Reveal the truth, the truth that's hid in thee. 



The record of the past is opening wide, 



As mortal hands roll back the lava tide 



Along the fields, that thousand years agone 



Look'd up and blessed bright Phoebus as he shone. 



See yonder towers and crested walls arise, 



Where column'd grandeur meets the wondering eyes I 



A stately city sleeps ; bright morn returns ; 



It slumbers still, and yet life's taper burns. 



Ah no ! 'tis but the semblance ; yet no art 



Of man was e'er so perfect. Mark each part, 



Each feature, attitude, and say if Time 



Can name a single work, howe'er sublime, 



Whose power could rival this ? No ! painters yield ; 



The statue is a block ; proud Egypt's shield 



Of spices lends but feeble aid : 'Tis thine 



To shelter safe, and bid them shine, 



Bright as of yore, the Courtly Hall, the street 



Where merchants mingle and gay nobles meet. 



Mighty magician ! thou but speak*st the word. 



And straightway to earth's centre it is heard j 



