The Last Days of Pompeii

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII

IV

It comes! it comes! Lo! it sweeps, The Wind we invoke the while!

And crackles, and darts, and leaps The light on the holy pile!

It rises! its wings interweave

With the flames — how they howl and heave! Toss’d, whirl’d to and fro,

How the flame-serpents glow! Rushing higher and higher, On — on, fearful Fire!

Thy giant limbs twined With the arms of the Wind!

Lo! the elements meet on the throne Of death — to reclaim their own!

V

Swing, swing the censer round — Tune the strings to a softer sound! From the chains of thy earthly toil, From the clasp of thy mortal coil,

From the prison where clay confined thee, The hands of the flame unbind thee!

O Soul! thou art free — all free! As the winds in their ceaseless chase,

When they rush o’er their airy sea, Thou mayst speed through the realms of space,

No fetter is forged for thee! Rejoice! o’er the sluggard tide

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Of the Styx thy bark can glide,

And thy steps evermore shall rove

Through the glades of the happy grove;

Where, far from the loath’d Cocytus,

The loved and the lost invite us.

Thou art slave to the earth no more!

O soul, thou art freed! — and we? —

Ah! when shall our toil be o’er?

Ah! when shall we rest with thee?

And now high and far into the dawning skies broke the fragrant fire; it flushed luminously across the gloomy cypresses — it shot above the massive walls of the neighboring city; and the early fisherman started to behold the blaze reddening on the waves of the creeping sea.

But Ione sat down apart and alone, and, leaning her face upon her hands, saw not the flame, nor heard the lamentation of the music: she felt only one sense of loneliness — she had not yet arrived to that hallowing sense of comfort, when we know that we are not alone — that the dead are with us!

The breeze rapidly aided the effect of the combustibles placed within the pile. By degrees the flame wavered, lowered, dimmed, and slowly, by fits and unequal starts, died away — emblem of life itself; where, just before, all was restlessness and flame, now lay the dull and smouldering ashes.

The last sparks were extinguished by the attendants — the embers were collected. Steeped in the rarest wine and the costliest odorous, the remains were placed in a silver urn, which was solemnly stored in one of the neighboring sepul-

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chres beside the road; and they placed within it the vial full of tears, and the small coin which poetry still consecrated to the grim boatman. And the sepulchre was covered with flowers and chaplets, and incense kindled on the altar, and the tomb hung round with many lamps.

But the next day, when the priest returned with fresh offerings to the tomb, he found that to the relics of heathen superstition some unknown hands had added a green palm-branch. He suffered it to remain, unknowing that it was the sepulchral emblem of Christianity.

When the above ceremonies were over, one of the Praeficae three times sprinkled the mourners from the purifying branch of laurel, uttering the last word, “Ilicet!’ — Depart! — and the rite was done.

But first they paused to utter — weepingly and many times — the affecting farewell, “Salve Eternum!” And as Ione yet lingered, they woke the parting strain.

Salve Eternum

I

Farewell! O soul departed!

Farewell! O sacred urn!

Bereaved and broken-hearted,

To earth the mourners turn.

To the dim and dreary shore,

Thou art gone our steps before!

But thither the swift Hours lead us,

And thou dost but a while precede us,

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Salve — salve!

Loved urn, and thou solemn cell, Mute ashes! — farewell, farewell!

Salve — salve!

II

Ilicet — ire licet — Ah, vainly would we part!

Thy tomb is the faithful heart. About evermore we bear thee;

For who from the heart can tear thee? Vainly we sprinkle o’er us

The drops of the cleansing stream; And vainly bright before us The lustral fire shall beam.

For where is the charm expelling Thy thought from its sacred dwelling? Our griefs are thy funeral feast,

And Memory thy mourning priest. Salve — salve!

III

Ilicet — ire licet!

The spark from the hearth is gone Wherever the air shall bear it; The elements take their own — The shadows receive thy spirit.

It will soothe thee to feel our grief,

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CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH AN ADVENTURE

HAPPENS TO IONE

While some stayed behind to share with the priests the funeral banquet, Ione and her handmaids took homeward their melancholy way. And now (the last duties to her brother performed) her mind awoke from its absorption, and she thought of her allianced, and the dread charge against him. Not — as we have before said — attaching even a momentary belief to the unnatural accusation, but nursing the darkest suspicion against Arbaces, she felt that justice to her lover and to her murdered relative demanded her to seek the praetor, and communicate her impression, unsupported as it might be. Questioning her maidens, who had hitherto — kindly anxious, as I have said, to save her the additional agony — refrained from informing her of the state of Glaucus, she learned that he had been dangerously ill: that he was in custody, under the roof of Sallust; that the day of his trial was appointed.

“Averting gods,” she exclaimed; “and have I been so long forgetful of him? Have I seemed to shun him? O! let me hasten to do him justice — to show that I, the nearest relative of the dead, believe him innocent of the charge. Quick! quick! let us fly. Let me soothe — tend — cheer him! and if they will

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not believe me; if they will not lead to my conviction; if they sentence him to exile or to death, let me share the sentence with him!”

Instinctively she hastened her pace, confused and bewildered, scarce knowing whither she went; now designing first to seek the praetor, and now to rush to the chamber of Glaucus. She hurried on — she passed the gate of the city — she was in the long street leading up the town. The houses were opened, but none were yet astir in the streets; the life of the city was scarce awake — when lo! she came suddenly upon a small knot of men standing beside a covered litter. A tall figure stepped from the midst of them, and Ione shrieked aloud to behold Arbaces.

“Fair Ione!” said he, gently, and appearing not to heed her alarm: “my ward, my pupil! forgive me if I disturb thy pious sorrows; but the praetor, solicitous of thy honour, and anxious that thou mayest not rashly be implicated in the coming trial; knowing the strange embarrassment of thy state (seeking justice for thy brother, but dreading punishment to thy betrothed) — sympathizing, too, with thy unprotected and friendless condition, and deeming it harsh that thou shouldst be suffered to act unguided and mourn alone — hath wisely and paternally confided thee to the care of thy lawful guardian. Behold the writing which intrusts thee to my charge!”

“Dark Egyptian!” cried Ione, drawing herself proudly aside; “begone! It is thou that hast slain my brother! Is it to thy care, thy hands yet reeking with his blood, that they will give the sister Ha! thou turnest pale! thy conscience smites thee!

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CHAPTER X

WHAT BECOMES OF NYDIA IN THE HOUSE OF ARBACES.

THE EGYPTIAN FEELS

COMPASSION FOR GLAUCUS. COMPASSION IS OFTEN

A VERY USELESS VISITOR TO

THE GUILTY

It will be remembered that, at the command of Arbaces, Nydia followed the Egyptian to his home, and conversing there with her, he learned from the confession of her despair and remorse, that her hand, and not Julia’s, had administered to Glaucus the fatal potion. At another time the Egyptian might have conceived a philosophical interest in sounding the depths and origin of the strange and absorbing passion which, in blindness and in slavery, this singular girl had dared to cherish; but at present he spared no thought from himself. As, after her confession, the poor Nydia threw herself on her knees before him, and besought him to restore the health and save the life of Glaucus — for in her youth and ignorance she imagined the dark magician all-powerful to effect both — Arbaces,

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with unheeding ears, was noting only the new expediency of detaining Nydia a prisoner until the trial and fate of Glaucus were decided. For if, when he judged her merely the accomplice of Julia in obtaining the philtre, he had felt it was dangerous to the full success of his vengeance to allow her to be at large — to appear, perhaps, as a witness — to avow the manner in which the sense of Glaucus had been darkened, and thus win indulgence to the crime of which he was accused — how much more was she likely to volunteer her testimony when she herself had administered the draught, and, inspired by love, would be only anxious, at any expense of shame, to retrieve her error and preserve her beloved? Besides, how unworthy of the rank and repute of Arbaces to be implicated in the disgrace of pandering to the passion of Julia, and assisting in the unholy rites of the Saga of Vesuvius! Nothing less, indeed, than his desire to induce Glaucus to own the murder of Apaecides, as a policy evidently the best both for his own permanent safety and his successful suit with Ione, could ever have led him to contemplate the confession of Julia.

As for Nydia, who was necessarily cut off by her blindness from much of the knowledge of active life, and who, a slave and a stranger, was naturally ignorant of the perils of the Roman law, she thought rather of the illness and delirium of her Athenian, than the crime of which she had vaguely heard him accused, or the chances of the impending trial. Poor wretch that she was, whom none addressed, none cared for, what did she know of the senate and the sentence — the hazard of the law — the ferocity of the people — the arena and the lion’s

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