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 He had a son; it was a rosy boy, A little faithful copy of his sire, In face and gesture. From infancy, the child Every sport The father shared and heightened. But at length, 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 father's lingering hours, and brought a balm With earliest morn Of that first day of darkness and amaze, The iron door was closed He came. Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw On his low couch The fettered soldier sank, and, with deep awe, 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 As though he heard the battle trumpet sound, 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 A moment as in sunshine-and was dark: In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound With intensest awe, The soldier's frame was filled; and many a thought Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind, 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 Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou call'st Loudly the father called upon his child: No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously He searched their couch of straw; with headlong haste Of his accursed fetters, till the blood Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil! Mad frenzy fires him now. He plants against the wall his feet; his chain Raging to break his toils,—to and fro bounds. 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: |