Haste, Famine, haste, to urge the destined close,
And lull the horrid scene to stern repose.

Yet ere, dire Fiend, thy lingering tortures cease,
And all be hushed in still sepulchral peace,
Those caves shall wilder, darker deeds behold
Than e'er the voice of song or fable told,
Whate'er dismay may prompt, or madness dare,
Feasts of the grave, and banquets of despair.-
Hide, hide the scene; and o'er the blasting sight
Fling the dark veil of ages and of night.

Go, seek Pompeii now ;-with pensive tread
Roam through the silent city of the dead.
Explore each spot, where still, in ruin grand,
Her shapeless piles and tottering columns stand,
Where the pale ivy's clasping wreaths o'ershade
The ruined temple's moss-clad colonnade,
Or violets on the hearth's cold marble wave,
And muse in silence on a people's grave.

Fear not.-No sign of death thine eyes shall scare,
No, all is beauty, verdure, fragrance there.

A gentle slope includes the fatal ground

With odorous shrubs and tufted myrtles crowned;
Beneath, o'ergrown with grass, or wreathed with
flowers,

Lie tombs and temples, columns, baths, and towers.
As if in mockery, Nature seems to dress

In all her charms the beauteous wilderness,
And bids her gayest flowerets twine and bloom
In sweet profusion o'er a city's tomb.

With roses here she decks the untrodden path,
With lilies fringes there the stately bath;

*

The acanthus spreading foliage here she weaves
Round the gay capital which mocks its leaves;
There hangs the sides of every mouldering room
With tapestry from her own fantastic loom,
Wallflowers and weeds, whose glowing hues supply
With simple grace the purple's Tyrian dye.

*The capital of the Corinthian pillar is carved, as is well known, in imitation of the acanthus. Mons. de Chateaubriand, as I have found since this Poem was written, has employed the same image in his Travels.

*

The ruined city sleeps in fragrant shade,
Like the pale corpse of some Athenian maid,
Whose marble arms, cold brows, and snowy neck
The fairest flowers of fairest climates deck,
Meet types of her whose form their wreaths array,
Of radiant beauty, and of swift decay.

Advance, and wander on through crumbling halls,
Through prostrate gates and ivied pedestals,
Arches, whose echoes now no chariots rouse,
Tombs, on whose summits goats undaunted browse.
See where yon ruined wall on earth reclines,
Through weeds and moss the half-seen painting shines,
Still vivid midst the dewy cowslips grows,

Or blends its colours with the blushing rose.
Thou lovely, ghastly scene of fair decay,
In beauty awful, and midst horrors gay,

Renown more wide, more bright shall gild thy name,
Than thy wild charms or fearful doom could claim.
Immortal spirits, in whose deathless song
Latium and Athens yet their reign prolong,
And from their thrones of fame and empire hurled,
Still sway the sceptre of the mental world,
You in whose breasts the flames of Pindus beamed,
Whose copious lips with rich persuasion streamed,
Whose minds unravelled nature's mystic plan,
Or traced the mazy labyrinth of man:

Bend, glorious spirits, from your blissful bowers,
And broidered couches of unfading flowers,

While round your locks the Elysian garlands blow
With sweeter odours, and with brighter glow.
Once more, immortal shades, atoning Fame
Repair the honours of each glorious name.
Behold Pompeii's opening vaults restore
The long-lost treasures of your ancient lore,
The vestal radiance of poetic fire,
The stately buskin and the tuneful lyre,
The wand of eloquence, whose magic sway
The sceptres and the swords of earth obey,

*It is the custom of the modern Greeks to adorn corpses profusely with flowers.

And every mighty spell, whose strong control
Could nerve or melt, could fire or soothe the soul.
And thou, sad city, raise thy drooping head,
And share the honours of the glorious dead.
Had fate reprieved thee till the frozen North
Poured in wild swarms its hoarded millions forth,
Till blazing cities marked where Albion trod,
Or Europe quaked beneath the scourge of God,*
No lasting wreath had graced thy funeral pall,
No fame redeemed the horrors of thy fall.
Now shall thy deathless memory live entwined
With all that conquers, rules, or charms the mind.
Each lofty thought of Poet or of Sage,
Each grace of Virgil's lyre or Tully's page.
Like theirs whose genius consecrates thy tomb,
Thy fame shall snatch from time a greener bloom,

Shall spread where'er the Muse has rear'd her throne,
And live renowned in accents yet unknown;
Earth's utmost bounds shall join the glad acclaim,
And distant Camus bless Pompeii's name.

*The well-known name of Attila.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

[Henry the Fourth, on his accession to the French crown, was opposed by a large part of his subjects under the Duke of Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and Savoy. In March, 1590, he gained a decisive victory over that party at Ivry. Before the battle, he addressed his troops, << 'My children, if you lose sight of your colours, rally to my white plume-you will always find it in the path to honour and glory." His conduct was answerable to his promise. Nothing could resist his impetuous valour, and the leaguers underwent a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the rout, Henry followed, crying-"Save the French!" and his clemency added a number of the enemies to his own army.-Aikin's Biographical Dictionary.]

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, oh! pleasant land of France.

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy

walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of

war;

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish

spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land,

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest;

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord,

the King."

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he mayFor never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray— Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.”

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin !

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.