Pompeii Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

Pompeii! city of the dead,—entombed
Two thousand years in clouds of ashes,—still
Remains to tell of long forgotten times,
When those high halls the nations honored, and
Thy priests made rulers tremble; even Pansa,—
The haughty Edile—he who sought thy favor
By banquets fit for Gods—he, the purse-proud,—
Has swept along thy gorgeous floors the robe
Rich with the Tyrian dye,—and Glaucus—
The praised, the god-like Glaucus—here, perchance,
Amid these shattered halls has knelt before
Ione's shrine and worship'd;—can we e'er
Forget Arbaces, and the mystic spell
Surrounding Isis, thy great Idol-God?—
The shrine—the temple—and the midnight hour
When nature's mantle shrouded deeds too dark
For day to look on—then th' o'erflowing bowl,
Wreathed with the flowers which Phœbus loved,
And rites unhallowed by most foul intemperance,
Mixed with voluptuous dance and syren song,
Beguiled the hours and ushered in the morn;—
There fell the young—the fair—the chaste—entranced
With music and faint semblance of a faith
Far holier and of better promise.
Ione too—the loved Ione—she
Who lived in her transparent thoughts, whose soul
Was fraught with poetry—whose being glowed
With th' high and ideal images which flung
Around her every word and tone a soft
Enchantment,—she too felt an awe, a dread,
When great Arbaces spoke; persuasion hung
Around his lips and lured her spell-bound on.
She longed to view the temple where were held
Those mystic rites which Isis still required;
Nor feared, in her own purity secure,
Within the walls to enter and alone
To seek her priest,—nor knew his fell intent.—
But virtue was protected by the Fates
Which shook the altar with avenging hand,
And terror saved where mercy was not heard.
And where was Glaucus? truant to his love?
Ah! no—he was denied,—suspicion lurked
Within the breast of her who was his all,
Traduced by treachery monstrous—her heart
Wept for him—she feared he was not worthy;
But pride taught her a sad lesson:—within
Her room she sat,—none could divine the cause.
Till Nydia—Flora's child—with nature's sweets
Pleaded for Glaucus, nor did plead in vain:
The rose—it bore a message from her love;—
He sued—he gained admittance and he knelt
To her who was the essence of his thoughts;
And soon she knew—for quickly comes such knowledge—
Her Glaucus could not, would not, use deceit.
Alas! for Nydia—doomed to sorrow—child
In years—in all—save in affection deep—
Has thy young heart sent forth its early bloom
To wither in neglect and droop and die,
Without one ray to cheer its lonely sweets?—
So have I seen, beneath the woodland shade,
A twining wild flower raise its drooping head,
And strive to grasp the tenant of the glade;
But 'mid the gloom the sun was never seen
To shed a beam, and the frail humble plant
Pined in its solitude, and strove in vain
To raise its prostrate stem—and when the storm
Swept on and shook the lofty oak, the proud
Unbending pine, this creeping fragile flower,
Torn up and riven, was for ever lost:
None missed its lonely beauty, its pale hue;
It never basked in sunshine, never felt
The glow which dwelt around and lighted up
Its sister flow'rets,—theirs a happier lot.
And would'st thou, haughty Fulvia, gain the love
Ione had inspired?—Oh! try not art
And potent spell—there danger may be found.
Think of thy father's house, thou beauteous girl,
Yet vain as beautiful—think—wilt thou bring
Dishonour to thy hearth, and shame thy name
And break thy father's heart, by wiles like these?
Forbid it, Fulvia—trust not the fell power,
Which sorcerers use to bind and chain the mind,
For Glaucus never will thy empire own;
He lives but for Ione—all his hope,
His being is bound up with hers—and day
And night pass all unknown, unregistered,
If not with her who marks his destiny.
And must the gath'ring storm burst o'er their heads,
In flame sulphureous—the burning soil
Heave 'neath their steps and blackest darkness reign,
While showers of ashes scorch th' affrighted crowd?
Ah! none can tell the anguish of that night—
The sickness of despair—the rending cries
That desolation woke;—the youngest born,
The brute creation, all partook of fear.
On, onward, still they fly,—and Nydia too
Is in their train,—they reach the wish'd for shore,
They hail a barque, and now are on the sea.
Farewell, Pompeii! See the lurid sky,
The burning lava, like a sheet of fire,
Spreads o'er thy plains; and now a cloud more dense
Has burst o'er thy devoted head.—Farewell!
Ione, Glaucus, Nydia, sail, sail on
The bright, bright sea—yet one shall never land!
With noiseless step blind Nydia gains the place
Where slept unconscious Glaucus. On his brow
She prints a burning kiss, breathes a fond prayer;
And ere her suff'ring broke the sufferer's heart
The waves had wrapt her in eternal sleep.
Far better thus to die—Farewell, farewell!