124 POMPEII. 



Oh ! for one breath of that reviving gale, 

 That swept at dewy morn along the vale ! 

 For one sad glance of their beloved sky, 

 To soothe, though vain, their parting agony ! 

 Yon mother bows in vain her shuddering form, 

 Her babe to shield from that relentless storm : 

 Cold are those limbs her clasping arms constrain, 

 Even the soft shelter of her breast is vain ! 

 Gaze on that form ! 'tis Beauty's softest maid, 

 The rose's rival in her native shade; — 

 For her had Pleasure rear'd her fairest bowers. 

 And Song and Dance had sped the laughing hours : 

 See ! o'er her brow the kindling ashes glow. 

 And the red shower o'erwhelms her breast of snow ; 

 She seeks that lov'd one — never false till then ; — 

 She calls on him — who answers not again ; 

 Loose o'er her bosom flames her golden hair, 

 And every thrilling accent breathes despair ! 

 Even the stem priest, who saw with raptur'd view, 

 The deathless forms of Heaven's ethereal blue, 

 Who drank, with glowing ear, the mystic tone, 

 That clothed his lips with wonders not their own. 

 Beheld the immortal marble frown in vain. 

 And fires triumphant grasp the sacred fane, 

 Forsook at last the unavailing shrine, • 

 And curs'd his faithless gods — no more divine ! 



Mom came in beauty still — and shone as fair. 

 Though cold the hearts that hail'd jts radiance there, 

 And Evening, crown'd with many a starry gem. 

 Sent down her softest smile — though not for them ! 

 Where gleam'd afar Pompeii's graceful towers, 

 Where hill and vale were clothed with vintage-bowers, 

 O'er a dark waste the smouldering ashes spread, 

 A pall above the dying and the dead. 



Still the dim City slept in safest shade. 

 Though the wild waves another Queen obey'd. 

 And sad Italia, on her angry shore, 

 Beheld the nortli its ruthless myriads pour ; 

 And Nature scattered all her treasures round, 

 And grac'd with fairest hues the blighted ground. 

 There oft, at glowing noon, the village maid 

 Sought the deep shelter of the vineyard shade ; 

 Beheld the olive bud — the wild-flower wave, 

 Nor knew her step was on a People's grave ! 

 But see ! once more beneath the siniles of day, 

 The dreary mist of ages melts away ! 

 Again Pompeii, 'mid the brightening gloom, 

 Comes forth in hearty from her lonely tomb. 



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