LVII.-THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM.-Atherstone.
A Roman soldier, for some daring deed
That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low
Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough,
But generous, and brave, and kind.
He had a son,-'twas a rosy boy,
A little faithful copy of his sire.
In face and gesture. In her pangs she died
That gave him birth; and ever since, the child
Had been his father's solace and his care.
The father shared and heightened. But at length
The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned
To fetters and to darkness.
He felt in all its bitterness:-the walls
Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh
And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched
His jailer with compassion;-and the boy,
Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled
His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm
With his loved presence, that in every wound
Dropt healing. But, in this terrific hour,
He was a poisoned arrow in the breast,
Where he hath been a cure.
Of that first day of darkness and amaze,
He came. The iron door was closed-for them
Never to open more! The day, the night,
Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard
The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air
Grew hot at length and thick; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by; nor would he wake
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state. On his low couch
The fettered soldier sunk—and with deep awe
Listened the fearful sounds:-with upturned eyes
To the great gods he breathed a prayer;-then strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep:-
His body burned with feverish heat;-his chains
Clanked loud, although he moved not: deep in earth
Groaned unimaginable thunders:—sounds,
Fearful and ominous, arose and died
Like the sad moanings of November's wind
In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled
His blood that burned before;-cold clammy sweats
Came o'er him-then, anon, a fiery thrill
Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk,
And shivered as in fear :-then upright leaped,
As though he heard the battle-trumpet sound,
And longed to cope with death!
A troubled dreamy sleep.
Never to waken more!
But terrible his agony.
Well, had he slept
His hours are few,
Burst forth the lightnings glanced :-the air
Shook with the thunders! They awoke ;-they sprung
Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed
A moment as in sunshine-then was dark :-
Again a flood of white flame fills the cell;
Dying away upon the dazzled eye
In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound
Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear. Silence,
And blackest darkness!-With intensest awe
The soldiers frame was filled; and many a thought
Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind,
As underneath he felt the fevered earth
Jarring and lifting, and the massive walls
Heard harshly grate and strain :-yet knew he not,
While evils undefined had yet to come
Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound
Fate had already given. Where, man of woe!
Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou call'st
His name in vain:-he cannot answer thee!
Loudly the father called upon his child:
No voice replied! Trembling and anxiously
He searched their couch of straw :—with headlong haste
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent,
Groped darkling on the earth:-no child was there!
Again he called:-again, at farthest stretch
Of his accursed fetters-till the blood
Came barsting from his ears, and from his eyes
Fire flashed:-he strained, with arm extended far,
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch
Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil!
Yet still renewed :-still round and round he goes,
And strains, and snatches-and with dreadful cries
Calls on his boy! Mad frenzy fires him now;
He plants against the wall his feet;-his chain
Grasps;-tugs with giant strength to force away
The deep-driven stape,—yells and shrieks with rage:
—But see! the ground is opening—a blue light
Mounts, gently waving-noiseless:-thin and cold
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame:
But, in its lustre, on the earth outstretched,
Behold the lifeless child!-his dress singed,
And over his serene face, a dark line
Points out the lightning's track!
The father saw-
And all his fury fled :-a dead calm fell
That instant on him :-speechless, fixed he stood,
And, with a look that never wandered, gazed
Intensely on the corse. Those laughing eyes
Were not yet closed-and round those pouting lips
The wonted smile returned!
The father stands :-no tear is in his eye:-
The thunders bellow-but he hears them not :-
The ground lifts like a sea-he knows it not :-
The strong walls grind and gape-the vaulted roof
Takes shapes like bubble tossing in the wind-
See! he looks up and smiles ;—for death to him
Is happiness. Yet, could one last embrace
Be given, 'twere still a sweeter thing to die!
It will be given. Look how the rolling ground,
At every swell, nearer and still more near
Moves towards the father's outstretched arms his boy:-
Once he has touched his garment;-how his eye
Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fear!
Ha! see! he has him now!-he clasps him round-
Kisses his face-puts back the curling locks
That shaded his fine brow-looks in his eyes-
Grasps in his own, those little, dimpled hands-
Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont
To lie when sleeping-and, resigned, awaits
Undreaded death!
And death came soon, and swift,
And pangless. The huge pile sunk down at once
Into the opening earth. Walls-arches-roof-
And deep foundation stones-all mingling fell!
LVIII. THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.-Gerald Griffin.
THE joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide,
The fresh wind is singing along the sea-side;
The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers,
And the harp-strings are trembling in all the glad bowers.
Swell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum!
'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendour they come !
The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide,
For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride.
What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight,
The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight!
What blissful caresses shall fortune bestow,
Ere those dark flowing tresses fall white as the snow!
Before the high altar young Maud stands arrayed:
With accents that falter her promise is made-
From father and mother for ever to part,
For him and no other to treasure her heart.
The words are repeated, the bridal is done,
The rite is completed-the two, they are one;
The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart,
That must not be broken till life shall depart.
Hark! 'mid the gay clangour that compassed their car,
Loud accents in anger come mingling afar!
The foe's on the border! his weapons resound
Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found!
As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold,
When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold,
So rises already the Chief in his mail,
While the new-married Lady looks fainting and pale.
"Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife,
For sister and mother, for children and wife!
O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain,
Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!"
Farrah! to the battle!-They form into line-
The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine!
Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue-
On, burgher and yeoman! to die or to do!
The eve is declining in lone Malahide :
The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride;
She marks them unheeding-her heart is afar,
Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war.
Hark! loud from the mountain-'tis victory's cry
O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky!
The foe has retreated! he flees to the shore;
The spoiler's defeated-the combat is o'er!
With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come-
But why have they muffled the lance and the drum ?
What form do they carry aloft on his shield?
And where does he tarry, the lord of the field?
Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning, the star of the day;
Now, weep for the lover-his triumph is sped,
His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead!
But, oh! for the maiden who mourns for that chief,
With heart overladen and rending with grief!
She sinks on the meadow :-in one morning-tide,
A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!
Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole!
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul:
True true, 'twas a story for ages of pride;
He died in his glory-but, oh, he has died!
The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now,
And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow;
That glance may for ever unaltered remain,
But the bridegroom will never return it again.
The death-bells are tolling in sad Malahide,
The death-wail is rolling along the sea-side;
The crowds, heavy hearted, withdraw from the green,
For the sun has departed that brightened the scene!
How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed,
Before on that morning, death's chalice was filled!
Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply-
Thus joy has its measure-we live but to die!
LIX.-VIRGINIA-A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME.-Macaulay.
OVER the Alban mountains, the light of morning broke;
From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curled the thin wreaths of smok The city gates were opened; the Forum, all alive
With buyers and with sellers, was humming like a hive:
Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing,
And blithely o'er her panniers the market-girl was singing:
And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home-
Ah! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Rome.
With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm,
Forth she went bounding to the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm.
She crossed the Forum shining with the stalls in alleys gay,
And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day,
When up the varlet Marcus came; not such as when, erewhile,
He crouched behind his patron's wheels, with the true client smile:
He came with lowering forehead, swollen features, and clenched fist,
And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist:
Hard strove the frighted maiden, and screamed with look aghast-
And at her scream from right and left the folk came running fast;
And the strong smith Muræna gave Marcus such a blow,
The caitiff reeled three paces back, and let the maiden go:
Yet glared he fiercely round him, and growled, in harsh, fell tone,
"She's mine, and I will have her: I seek but for mine own.
She is my slave, born in my house, and stolen away and sold,
The year of the sore sickness, ere she was twelve hours old.
I wait on Appius Claudius; I waited on his sire:
Let him who works the client wrong, beware the patron's ire !"
-But ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the maid,
Who clung tight to Muræna's skirt, and sobbed, and shrieked for aid,
Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius pressed,
And stamped his foot, and rent his gown, and smote upon his breast,
And beckoned to the people, and, in bold voice and clear,
Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to hear.
"Now by your children's cradles, now, by your fathers' graves,
Be men to-day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves!
Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den?
Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten?
Oh, for that ancient spirit which curbed the Senate's will!
Oh, for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill!
In those brave days, our fathers stood firmly side by side;
They faced the Marcian fury, they tamed the Fabian pride:
They drove the fiercest Quintius an outcast forth from Rome;
They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home.
But what their care bequeathed us, our madness flung away
All the ripe fruit of three-score years is blighted in a day.
Exult, ye proud Patricians! the hard-fought fight is o'er:
We strove for honour-'twas in vain: for freedom-'tis no more.
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