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CXV. THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM.

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,

The iron door was closed

He came.
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 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; 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.

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