Shrieking, falls she on her chosen- Ah! she cannot wake the dead ;- Soon those limbs all chill and frozen
To the funeral flame are sped.
She hears the loud Brahmin-she hears the death songShe runs-and she raves-and she pierces the throng— "Who art thou?—what hurries him hence to the dead?"
Before the bier her form she throws, And her wailings rend the air- "Give me back my lovely spouse— On the pile I'll seek him there. And to ashes must they fall,
Those dear limbs, so heavenly bright? Mine he was! mine, more than all ! Ah! one only blissful night."
But sternly the priest sings!" We carry the old, Long wasting in wanness, and chilling in cold- We carry the young from gay youth's giddy flight."
"To the Brahmin's lore give ear— This was ne'er thy husband true— Liv'st thou still a Bayadere, Wedded rights are not thy due. Shade alone with substance flies To the darkling realms of night- Wife alone with husband dies- 'Tis her glory-'tis her right.
Then sound the loud timbrels!-the holy plaints ring! Oh, take him, ye Gods!-take the pride of the spring! Oh take the fair youth to celestial light!"
At the choir's unpitying shout,
Deeper woe her bosom wrings;
With streaming hair and arm stretched out,
Midst the flaming death she springs
Lo! above the flames they hover
Youth and maid together rise
In his arms, the immortal lover
Bears her with him to the skies.
Bright joy fills the gods for the souls they reclaim-- The lost sons of error, on pinions of flame,
Immortally soar to repose in the skies.
From Atherstone's Last Days of Herculaneum.
Soon cover'd all things ;-and the close, hot air, Felt suffocating. Some who linger'd still, Or ere retiring to their sleepless beds, Look'd out into the night, saw on the sky, Tow'rds where Vesuvius rear'd his giant head, A crimson tinge :-and in the stilly air The deep and soften'd thunder-mutterings heard.
A night of gloom and horrors !-Not a breath Of air was felt:-the thick hot atmosphere Came on their parching lips, as from the mouth Of opening furnace. Darkness, like a pall
Of deepest shade, hung o'er :-no heaven, no earth, No faintest outline of the temple's form
Against the sky :-the uplifted hand was viewless :- Scarce could the clogg'd and heavy air transmit The labouring sound: scarce could the torch's flare Pierce through the gloom; and he who by its red And dusky light then wander'd through the streets, Lonely and sad, saw not the earth he press'd. Oh! for the tempest now! the clattering hail! Whirlwinds! tornadoes! deluge-bringing rain! Aught but this heavy-pressing firmament- This thick and torrid air-this tomblike night!
Who sleeps within the city?-He, the sire, Who, labouring hard for breath, with burning brow, And tense and blood-shot eye,-yet fans the cheek Of his convulsed and gasping child?
The wretched mother, who the fiery skin
Of her delirious infant laves ;-the lips
That can no longer drain the dried-up breast, Wets with the water from the once cool well, Itself now scarce less burning?
The new-made bridegroom, by the virgin bride Outstretch'd,-who prays, though with unmoving lips, For aid in their last hour of agony?
Reposes she, the lovely youthful maid Before whom lies, in his last pangs convulsed, The aged sickly parent? His pale cheek Has ta'en a purple flush-his eye is wild- His wither'd hands he tosses to and fro- Wheezes and snorts for breath-and seems to catch At shadows. "Water," then he feebly cries ;- She puts it to his lips-she bathes his brow She sprinkles o'er his venerable face :-
"Hot-hot-" he murmurs-"no, 'tis burning hot-" "Oh! water-cold-cold water." Muttering thus, His eye-balls fix-he stiffens-gasps-and dies.
Who sleeps within the city?
Sleep who shall wake no more.
The crushing ruin :-who by the red bolt
Perish'd-the fear-slain wretch who where he died
Still sits erect and cold-and stiff: with eye
Staring and fix'd-looking upon the night
The dead sleep in the city.
Drag on the hours: a year of common life Less slow than such a night.-What is it waves At intervals along the inky sky
Like a dark blood-red flag? It casts no light By which to see ;-yet 'tis not for the time That depth intense of blackness, but a dim And dusky red obscurity:-such tinge As sometimes on the low and heavy clouds Of midnight by th' horizon trembling hangs
Scarce seen-from some far distant watch-fire thrown.
"'Tis the vast flame that through the sea of smoke From high Vesuvius' black and sulphurous mouth Bursts for an instant forth,-then sinks again, In that dense vapour quench'd.-They who behold, Marvel and fear-yet know not whence it is.
Whence come those distant thunder-breathings deep, That fall with gentlest touch upon the ear,
Yet seem to fill the heavens--and reach earth's centre ?
'Tis from that mountain's vast and hollow womb, Now first conceiving subterranean fire,
And belching earthly thunders.-Thousands hear That warning voice-yet none its meaning know.-
What is it moves with gentle heave the ground; Like softest swell of ocean in a calm-
Now rests-then comes again with tremblings soft, As from the rumbling of a loaded wain--
Felt, tho' not heard?-All know the earthquake's tread, And would, but cannot, flee.-
Oh! when will morning come?-the tapers all That measure out the hours are long since spent But yet there is no day. Is the great sun Consumed too,-or darken'd?-this the time, So oft foretold, when nature shall expire,- The heavens be blotted out-and earth in flames Shall pass away?
Such thoughts o'er many came
As, slowly yielding now, the pall of night Changed to a dingy red:-like a vast arch Of iron look'd the heavens when first the heat, Deep penetrating, to a lurid tinge
Begins to turn its blackness:-redder now- And redder still the awful concave glows- Till in its bloody, but uncertain glare,
The bolder may walk forth..-Man meets with man, And starts as at a fiend :-for from the hot And fiery sky all things have caught their hue :- No sweet varieties of colour here
As in the blessed sunshine :-no soft tints
Like those of sweet May-morn,-when day's bright god Looks smiling from behind delicious mists;
Throwing his slant rays on the glistening grass,
Where, 'gainst the rich deep green, the cowslip hangs His elegant bells of purest gold :-the pale,
Sweet perfumed primrose lifts its face to heaven Like the full, artless gaze of infancy:-
The little ray-crown'd daisy peeps beneath When the tall neighbour grass, heavy with dew,
Bows down its head beneath the fresh'ning breeze ;- Where oft in long dark lines the waving trees Throw their soft shadows on the sunny fields: Where in the music-breathing hedge, the thorn And pearly white May blossom full of sweets, Hang out the virgin flag of spring, entwined With dripping honeysuckles whose sweet breath Sinks to the heart-recalling with a sigh Dim recollected feelings of the days
Of youth and early love.-Oh! none of these, Nature's too oft unprized treasures, bless'd That scene of woe. The pure white marble shaft
That bears aloft the princely portico
Of the proud palace-the black dungeon gate:- The pallid statue o'er some honour'd tomb
That ever drooping hangs ;-and the bronze Mars That bares his blood-stain'd sword:-the solemn tree That o'er the sepulchre his dark green boughs Hangs melancholy;—and the vivid flower That in its course still looks upon the sun :- The deep brown earth, and the fresh garden tints Of emerald, with flowers of every stain
The rainbow's dye can give ;-the beggar's rags, And the cerulean blue of beauty's robe ;- All in one undistinguishable hue
Are clad, of lurid redness. In the streets Thousands of fire-tinged figures roam amazed And fearful. "Is this morn?" they ask,
“Oh! what a night we've passed!-but is this morn? "And what is that, high in the gory clouds, "That orb of brighter crimson?" On it gaze Unnumber'd wide and wistful eyes. By heavens ! It is the sun in his meridian fields!
Where hath his morning splendor slept unseen? -In that dense sea above of vapour, fire, Darkness, and storms-his morning splendor slept, And soon again he'll sink. Devoted race! Your last bright sun has set:-gaze while ye may Even on that dark red orb :-fast close around Th' impenetrable clouds :-sulphureous fogs Roll on-light feathery ashes mix, and fill Th' unwholesome air: the firmament grows dark, The sun's red disk seems melting in the clouds. Look-miserable mortals!-look your last: A faint dim outline only can ye trace:
What see ye now?-rests he behind a cloud ?— No! no-ye gaze in vain !—his beam is quench'd!— Το you for ever quench'd! High in the heavens He rides sublime in his immortal course, And shall for ever roll; but to your eyes His beams return no more. Far different lights Must gild your few remaining hours:—the flash Of the death-dealing lightning-the red glare Of populous streets in flames-the sparkles dread Of moony meteors-and an atmosphere With burning cinders fill'd-and rocks of fire.
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