Chapter CXV: The Last Days of Herculaneum. (401)

Edwin Atherstone, 1788-1872, was born at Nottingham, England, and became known to the literary world chiefly through two poems, "The Last Days of Herculaneum" and "The Fall of Nineveh." Both poems are written in blank verse, and are remarkable for their splendor of diction and their great descriptive power. Atherstone is compared to Thomson, whom he resembles somewhat in style. ###

There was a man, 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; it was a rosy boy, A little faithful copy of his sire, In face and gesture. From infancy, the child Had been his father's solace and his care.

Every sport The father shared and heightened. But at length, The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned To fetters and to darkness.

The captive's lot, 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 Dropped healing. But, in this terrific hour, He was a poisoned arrow in the breast Where he had been a cure.

With earliest morn 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 sank, and, with deep awe, Listened the fearful sounds: with upturned eye, 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 mornings 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; now, upright leaped, As though he heard the battle trumpet sound, And longed to cope with death.

He slept, at last, A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well had he slept Never to waken more! His hours are few, But terrible his agony.

Soon the storm 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--and 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.

With intensest awe, The soldier's 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 and 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 can not 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 Seemed bursting 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 staple; yells and shrieks with rage: And, like a desert lion in the snare, Raging to break his toils,--to and fro bounds. 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 by its luster, on the earth outstretched, Behold the lifeless child! his dress is singed, And, o'er his face serene, a darkened 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 ruby lips The wonted smile returned.

Silent and pale 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 shape 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, 't were still a sweeter thing to die.

It will be given. Look! how the rolling ground, At every swell, nearer and still more near Moves toward the father's outstretched arm his boy. Once he has touched his garment:--how his eye Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears! 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 sank down at once Into the opening earth. Walls--arches--roof-- And deep foundation stones--all--mingling--fell!

NOTES.--Herculaneum and Pompeii were cities of Italy, which were destroyed by an eruption of Vesuvius in the year 79 A. D., being entirely buried under ashes and lava. During the last century they have been dug out to a considerable extent, and many of the streets, buildings, and utensils have been found in a state of perfect preservation.