Yet with her sister Nereids she from out the flood arose, [woes. And to her glorious son pour'd forth her unavailing Lo! all the Gods and goddesses lament with plain tive cry, The Beautiful, that it must fade-the Perfect, doom'd to die. To hear the mournful strains of Love may soothe the shades below [go. The vulgar herd to Orcus must unwept, unhonour'd Pompeji und Herkulanum. "THE glories of the ancient world," says Hoffmeister, " are bere brought to the senses through the impression made on the poet's own mind by the contemplation of these once buried and now disinterred cities. All is vivid fancy-painting without so much as one general sentiment or abstract idea. The facility of comprehending the picture is promoted by the natural aptitude of arrangement. After the poet has taken his first general survey, he looks successively at the portico, the theatre, the triumphal arch, the forum-then enters the domestic asylum, where his eyes are saluted by the view of the internal decorations, the pictures, household utensils, and properties of past ages, even to the jewel boxes. In the Museum, or Library, he beholds book-rolls, styles and waxen tablets-finally the Penates, and the altars of the Gods ready prepared for sacrifice. Thus, as in the Götter Griechenlands he poured forth the longings of his soul after the lost Hellenic world, and as in the Sänger der Vorwelt he had breathed his wishes for the return of the extinct popular feeling for Beauty and Art, so here he joyfully welcomes the resuscitation, as it were by miracle, of those very scenes and objects the loss of which he had first deplored. And here we have a striking example of the diversity between the two great poets of Germany which consists in Goethe's rarely bringing before the reader's eyes any objects but such as he had previously seen with his own, while Schiller, by the mere force of study, aided by his wonderful powers of conception, succeeds in producing such representations of things unseen as it is impossible to mistake." WHAT miracle is this? We pray for springs to quench our thirst Of thee, O Earth! what gifts are these thy silent womb has nurs'd? Does life yet stir in the abyss? Beneath the Lava plain Dwells a new race conceal'd?-returns the past to life again? Greeks! Romans! come-oh see! Pompeii's an cient wall behold [unfold. Restor❜d anew! Herculean towers again their pride Roof over roof ascends-the spacious Portico spreads wide Its arch-Oh hither haste, to swell the people's rushing tide! The Theatre its doors expands-its seven wide mouths invite The expectant crowd fast pouring in to view the gala sight. Where are ye, Mimes?-Come hither—haste! The sacrifice-the Furies' Chorus dog Orestes' feet. Yon arch of triumph-whither leads?—the Forum, is it there? What are those reverend forms that sit upon curule chair? the Bear, Lictors, bear the axe before!-the Prætor bid ascend The Judgment-seat-the Witnesses-the Accuser near attend. The cleanly streets stretch far and wide-the narrow footpaths, flank'd With silent dwellings, wind along, on causeways high embank'd. The roofs, for shelter form'd and shade-the chambers fair to see That range along the lonely court in social privacy. Quick! open wide the shutters-bid the long-clos'd gates give way, And on the night of ages pour the vivid flood of day! See! round the border rang'd, trim benches spread their lengthen'd rows— How glittering bright with chequer'd stones the storied pavement glows! The walls all freshly varnish'd shine with tints of brilliant dye Where is the Artist? "Twas but now he laid his pencil by. The gay festoon, with swelling fruits and blushing flow'rets dight, Encanopies fair forms of art, that charm the gazer's sight. L With basket heavy-laden here a Cupid trips along; There Genii tread the purple press in busy circling throng; High bounds the Bacchant in the dance—or softly slumbering lies, [sated eyes; While stands the laughing Faun to gaze with neverHere, at full speed, on one knee pois'd, she the swift Centaur guides, And with her Thyrsus sharply goads his neck and panting sides. Come, boys! the vessels all are rang'd—why stand ye idly still? Haste, maidens! draw the water forth, your Tuscan urns to fill. Stands not the genial tripod here, on wings of sphinxes plac'd? Quick-stir the fire-be quick, ye slaves! prepare the hearth with haste. Go buy! I give you coins new struck, great Titus' stamp that bear: The scales are in their place-and not a weight found missing there. Now let the fair-wrought candlestick receive the burning light The lamp be fill'd with glimmering oil that blazes pure and bright. What may this casket hold? Oh see! gifts from the bridegroom sent— Thrice happy Maiden!-clasps of gold, and studs for ornament. Into the fragrant bath conduct the Bride! Here unguents rare, Here curious pigments still we see in crystal vases fair. But where the Men?-the elders, where?—In close Museum stor'd, More precious treasures still are pil'd-rare learning's sacred hoard. Styles ready for the writer's use, and waxen tables by; -There's nothing lost. Earth yet hath kept her trust right faithfully. The household guardians too are rang'd-the Gods their forms display, As in the olden time-but wherefore do the priests delay? His Caducéus Hermes waves, high pois'd on instep light, And pluméd Victory 'scapes the hand that would impede her flight. The altars-still they stand. Oh come! oh offer to the skies The Gods have long unworshipp'd been the kindled sacrifice! |