The loud and voluble talker is therefore an excellent shelter for those of weaker nerves, and will be found a useful ingredient in all mixed companies. W. CHAMBERS. 101. The Last Days of Herculaneum. 'Twas noon - yet night: In thicker showers the flaky ashes fell; Louder and deeper swelled the thunder's voice; With stronger throes the laboring earthquake heayed: Hotter and hotter grew the breathless air. What thought can reach, What language can express, the agonies — The horrors of that hour! An earth beneath an atmosphere That threatened to devour That burned and choked - ashes that fell for rain Thunders that roared above-thunders that groaned That like an ocean of black waters whelmed And pressed upon the earth! So passed the time; Still fell the ashy showers; still rocked the earth; Still with increasing rage Vesuvius spoke In thunders; still a pitchy darkness hung Had perished; thousands gasped 'twixt life and death: But miserable above all were they, The dungeon captives, by their ponderous chains Chained to the ground, helpless and hopeless; far From aid of man, or kindly sympathy, Cheering though vain; their subterranean cells Only to show the swaying walls, — the earth Cracking and closing back; the arched roofs There was a man, A Roman soldier, for some daring deed That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low He had a son; 'twas a rosy boy, A little faithful copy of his sire In face and gesture. She died that gave him birth; and since, 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 jailer with compassion; and the boy, Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm He was a poisoned arrow in the breast With earliest morn Of that first day of darkness and amaze, - He came. The iron door was closed for them Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw His body burned with feverish heat; his chains 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, A troubled, dreamy sleep. He slept at last, 102. The Same, continued. Burst forth; the lightnings Amazed upon their feet. SOON the storm glanced; the air A moment as in sunshine-then was dark ; In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound 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 callest ; - he cannot answer thee. Loudly the father called his child; upon No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously He searched their couch of straw; with headlong haste Groped darkling on the earth; no child was there. Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes And strains and snatches and with dreadful cries Calls on his boy. Mad frenzy fires him now; Raging to break his toils to and fro bounds. 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 pouting 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; Be given, 'twere still a sweeter thing to die It will be given. Look! how the rolling ground, Moves towards the father's outstretched arm his boy. 6L6 |