POMPEII. 125 



Lovely in ruin — graceful in decay, 



The silent City rears her walls of grey : 



The clasping ivy hangs her faithful shade, 



As if to hide the wreck that Time had made ; 



The shatter'd column on the lonely ground, 



Is glittering still, with fresh acanthus crown'd; 



And where her Parian rival moulders near, 



The drooping lily pours her softest tear ! 



How sadly sweet with pensive step to roam 



Amid the ruin'd wall, the tottering dome ; 



The path just worn by human feet is here; 



Their echoes almost reach the listening ear : 



The marble hall with rich mosaic drest; 



The portal wide that woos the lingering guest : 



Altars, with fresh and living chaplets crown'd, 



From those wild flowers that spring fantastic round. 



The unfinish'd painting, and the pallet nigh, 



Whose added hues must fairer charms supply : 



These mingle here, until th' unconscious feet 



Roam on, intent some gathering crowd to meet; 



And cheated Fancy, in her dreamy mood, 



Will half forget that all is solitude ! 



Yes, all is solitude ! fear not to tread 

 Through gates unwatch'd the City of the Dead, 

 Explore with pausing step th' unpeopled path, 

 View the proud hall — survey the stately bath. 

 Where swelling roofs, their noblest slielter raise; 

 Enter! no voice shall check th' intruder's g-aze! 

 See ! the dread legion's peaceful home is here. 

 The signs of martial life are scatter'd near. 

 Yon helm, unclasp'd to ease some Warrior's brow, 

 The sword his weary arm resign'd but now, 

 Th' unfinish'd sentence traced along the wall, 

 Broke by the hoarse Centurion's startling call : 

 Hark ! did their sounding tramp reecho round ? 

 Or breath'd the hollow gale that fancied sound ? 

 Behold ! where 'mid yon fane, so long divine. 

 Sad Tsis mourns her desolated shrine ! 

 Will none the mellow reed's soft music breathe ? 

 Or 'twine from yonder flowers the victim's wreath ? 

 None to yon altar lead with suppliant strain 

 The milk-white * monarch of the herd again ? 

 All, all is mute I save sadly answering nigh 

 The nigh third's shriek, the shrill cicala's cry. 

 Yet may you trace along the furrow'd street, 

 The chariot's track — the print of frequent feet, 



* Hinc albi, Clitiimne, i;rcges, et maxima tannis 

 Victinia. Virgil. Georg. ii. 156. 



