DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.* A ROAR, as if a myriad thunders burst, Now hurtled o'er the heavens, and the deep earth Shudder'd, and a thick storm of lava hail Rush'd into air, to fall upon the world. And low the lion cower'd, with fearful moans And upturn'd eyes, and quivering limbs, and clutch'd The gory sand instinctively in fear. The very soul of silence died, and breath Through the ten thousand pallid lips, unfelt, Stole from the stricken bosoms; and there stood, With face uplifted, and eyes fix'd on air, (Which unto him was throng'd with angel forms,) The Christian—waiting the high will of Heaven. A wandering sound of wailing agony, A cry of coming horror, o'er the street Of tombs arose, and all the lurid air Echo'd the shrieks of hopelessness and death. Death is [here! "Hear ye not now?" said PANSA. Ye saw the avalanche of fire descend Vesuvian steeps, and, in its giant strength Sweep on to Herculaneum; and ye cried, It threats not us: why should we lose the sport? Though thousands perish, why should we refrain ?' Your sister city-the most beautiful— Gasps in the burning ocean-from her domes Fly the survivors of her people, driven Before the torrent-floods of molten earth, With desolation red-and o'er her grave Unearthly voices raise the heart's last criesFly, fly! O, horror! O, my son! my sire!' The hoarse shouts multiply; without the mount Are agony and death-within, such rage Of fossil fire as man may not behold! Hark! the destroyer slumbers not-and now, Be your theologies but true, your Jove, Mid all his thunders, would shrink back aghast, Listening the horrors of the Titan's strife. The lion trembles; will ye have my blood, Or flee, ere Herculaneum's fate is yours?" Vesuvius answer'd: from its pinnacles Clouds of far-flashing cinders, lava showers, And seas, drank up by the abyss of fire, To be hurl'd forth in boiling cataracts, Like midnight mountains, wrapp'd in lightnings, fell. O, then, the love of life! the struggling rush, The crushing conflict of escape! few, brief, And dire the words delirious fear spake now,— One thought, one action sway'd the tossing crowd. All through the vomitories madly sprung, And mass on mass of trembling beings press'd, Gasping and goading, with the savageness That is the child of danger, like the waves Charybdis from his jagged rocks throws down, Mingled in madness-warring in their wrath. Some swoon'd, and were trod down by legion feet; Some cried for mercy to the unanswering gods; Some shriek'd for parted friends, forever lost; And some, in passion's chaos, with the yells Of desperation, did blaspheme the heavens; From "The Last Night of Pompeii." This scene follows the destruction of Herculaneum. PANSA, a Christian, condemned by DIOMEDE, is brought into the gladiatorial arena, when a new eruption from Vesuvius nuses a suspension of the proceedings. And some were still in utterness of wo. Nature's quick instinct, in most savage beasts, From every cell shrieks burst; hyenas cried, Like lost child, wandering o'er the wilderness, That, in deep loneliness, mingles its voice With wailing winds and stunning waterfalls; The giant elephant, with matchless strength, Struggled against the portal of his tomb, And groan'd and panted; and the leopard's yel!, And tiger's growl, with all surrounding cries Of human horror mingled; and in air, Spotting the lurid heavens and waiting prey, The evil birds of carnage hung and watch'd, As ravening heirs watch o'er the miser's couch. All awful sounds of heaven and earth met now; Darkness behind the sun-god's chariot roll'd, Shrouding destruction, save when volcan fires Lifted the folds, to glare on agony; And, when a moment's terrible repose Fell on the deep convulsions, all could hear The toppling cliffs explode and crash below,While multitudinous waters from the sea In whirlpools through the channel'd mountain rocks Rush'd, and, with hisses like the damned's speech, Fell in the mighty furnace of the mount. VISIONS OF ROMANCE. WHEN dark-brow'd midnight o'er the slumbering world Mysterious shadows and bewildering throws, [walls, The steel-clad champion on his vaulting steed, Sink into dust, when reason's searching glance Like lightning hurtled o'er the lurid skies, AN EVENING SONG OF PIEDMONT. AVE MARIA! 't is the midnight hour, Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love, Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer, Of hush'd communion with ourselves and Heaven, When our waked hearts their inmost thoughts declare, High, pure, far-searching, like the light of even; That bids our pride before the Omniscient kneel, Ave Maria! soft the vesper hymn Floats through the cloisters of yon holy pile, Ave Maria! let our prayers ascend RUFUS DAWES. [Born 1803. Died 1859.] THE family of the author of "Geraldine" is one of the most ancient and respectable in Massachusetts. His ancestors were among the earliest settlers of Boston; and his grandfather, as president of the Council, was for a time acting governor of the state, on the death of the elected chief magistrate. His father, THOMAS DAWES, was for ten years one of the associate judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, and was distinguished among the advocates of the Federal Constitution, in the state convention called for its consideration. He was a sound lawyer, a man of great independence of character, and was distinguished for the brilliancy of his wit, and for many useful qualities.* RUFUS DAWES was born in Boston, on the twenty-sixth of January, 1803, and was the youngest but one of sixteen children. He entered Harvard College in 1820; but in consequence of class disturbances, and insubordination, of which it was afterward shown he was falsely accused, he was compelled to leave that institution without a degree. This indignity he retaliated by a severe satire on the most prominent members of the faculty-the first poem he ever published. He then entered the office of General WILLIAM SULLIVAN, as a law-student, and was subsequently admitted a member of the Suffolk county bar. He has however never pursued the practice of the legal profession, having been attracted by otheTM pursuits more congenial with his feelings. of Chief Justice CRANCH, of Washington. It 1830 he published "The Valley of the Nashaway, and other Poems," some of which had appeared originally in the Cambridge « United States Literary Gazette;" and in 1839, Athenia of Damas cus," "Geraldine," and his miscellaneous poetical writings. His last work, "Nix's Mate," an historical romance, appeared in the following year. With Mr. DAWES poetry seems to have been a passion, which is fast subsiding and giving place to a love of philosophy. He has been said to be a disciple of COLERIDGE, but in reality is a devoted follower of SWEDENBORG; and to this influence must be ascribed the air of mysticism which pervades his later productions. He has from time to time edited several legal, literary, and political works, and in the last has shown himself to be an adherent to the principles of the old Federal party. As a poet, his standing is yet unsettled, there being a wide difference of opinion respecting his writings. His versification is generally easy and correct, and in some pieces he exhibits considerable imagination. In the winter of 1840-41, he delivered a course of lectures in the city of New York, before the American Institute, in which he combated the principles of the French eclectics and the Transcendentalists, contending that their philosophy is only a sublimated natural one, and very far removed from the true system of causes, and genuspirituality. In 1829 he was married to the third daughterine LANCASTER. THE Queen of May has bound her virgin brow, And hung with blossoms every fruit-tree bough; The sweet Southwest, among the early flowers, Whispers the coming of delighted hours, While birds within the heaping foliage, sing Their music-welcome to returning Spring. O, Nature! loveliest in thy green attire― Dear mother of the passion-kindling lyre; Thou who, in early days, upled'st me where The mountains freeze above the summer air; Or luredst my wandering way beside the streams, To watch the bubbles as they mock'd my dreams, Lead me again thy flowery paths among, To sing of native scenes as yet unsung! Dear Lancaster! thy fond remembrance brings Thoughts, like the music of Eolian strings, He is classed by Mr. KETTELL among the American poets; and in the Book of "Specimens" published by u are given some passages of his Lav given n Sr," published in Boston in 1777. When the hush'd wind breathes only as it sleeps, In lite s dull dream, when want of sordid gain Clings to our being with its cankering chain. When lofty thoughts are cramp'd to stoop below The vile, rank weeds that in their pathway grow, Who would not turn amidst the darken'd scene, To memoried spots where sunbeams intervene; And dwell with fondness on the joyous hours, When youth built up his pleasure-dome of flowers? Now, while the music of the feather'd choir Rings where the sheltering blossoms wake desire, When dew-eyed Love looks tenderness, and speaks A silent language with his mantling cheeks; I hink of those delicious moments past, Which joyless age shall dream of to the last As now, though far removed, the Muse would tell, Lo! I am with you now, the sloping green, O thou who journeyest through that Eden-clime, The wood-nymphs sport and naiads plash thy wave, Far down the silent stream, where arching trees 'Tis night! the stars are kindled in the sky, And hunger wakes the famished she-wolf's cry, While, o'er the crusted snow, the careful tread Betrays the heart whose pulses throb with dread; Yon flickering light, kind beacon of repose! The weary wanderer's homely dwelling shows, Where, by the blazing fire, his bosom's joy Holds to her heart a slumbering infant boy; While every sound her anxious bosom moves, She starts and listens for the one she loves;Hark! was't the night-bird's cry that met her ear, Curdling the blood that thickens with cold fear? Again, O God! that voice,-'tis his! 'tis his!" She hears the death-shriek and the arrow's whiz, When, as she turns, she sees the bursting doo Roll her dead husband bleeding on the floor. Loud as the burst of sudden thunder, rose The maddening war-cry of the ambush'd foes; Startling in sleep, the dreamless infant wakes, Like morning's smile when daylight's slumbet breaks; 66 For mercy! spare my child, forbear the blow!" In vain ;-the warm blood crimsons on the snow. O'er the cold earth the captive mother sighs, Her ears still tortured by her infant's cries; She cannot weep, but deep resolve, unmoved, Plots vengeance for the victims so beloved; Lo! by their fire the glutted warriors lie, Locked in the death-sleep of ebriety, When from her bed of snow, whence slumber flew, The frenzied woman rose the deed to do;Firmly beside the senseless men of blood, With vengeful arm, the wretched mother stood; She hears her groaning, dying lord expire, Her woman's heart nerves up with maddening fire, She sees her infant dashed against the tree,"Tis done!-the red men sleep eternally. [now, Such were thy wrongs, sweet Lancaster! but No spot so peaceful and serene as thou; Thy hills and fields in checker'd richness stand, The glory and the beauty of the land. From calm repose, while glow'd the eastern sky, And the fresh breeze went fraught with fragrance by, Waked by the noisy woodbird, free from care, What joy was mine to drink the morning air! Not all the bliss maturer life can bring, When ripen'd manhood soars with strengthen'd wing, Not all the rapture Fancy ever wove, [grow, Nor less than that which springs from mutual love, Ye who can slumber when the starlight fades, And clouds break purpling through the eastern shades, Whose care-worn spirits cannot wake at morn, I will not ask the meed of fortune's smile, And see reviving Spring, and Summer's gloom, And high above the mountain's crest of snow, Grew black, as fell the shadows of the night, Hard by yon giant elm, whose branches spread And can I e'er forget that hallowed spot, Whence springs a charm that may not be forgot; Where, in a grove of elm and sycamore, The pastor show'd his hospitable door, And kindness shone so constantly to bless That sweet abode of peace and happiness? The oaken bucket-where I stoop'd to drink The crystal water, trembling at the brink, Which through the solid rock in coldness flow'd, While creaked the ponderous lever with its load; The dairy-where so many moments flew, With half the dainties of the soil in view; [care, Where the broad pans spread out the milkmaid's To feed the busy churn that labour'd there; The garden-where such neatness met the eye, A stranger could not pass unheeding by; The orchard-and the yellow-mantled fields, Each in its turn some dear remembrance yields. Ye who can mingle with the glittering crowd, Where Mammon struts in rival splendour proud; Who pass your days in heartless fashion's round, And bow with hatred, where ye fear to wound; Away! no flatterer's voice, nor coward's sneer, Can find a welcome, or an altar here. But ye who look beyond the common ken, Self-unexalted when ye judge of men, Who, conscious of defects, can hurry by Faults that lay claim upon your charity; Who feel that thrilling vision of the soul When silence hung upon the Sabbath's smile, Lo! where yon cottage whitens through the green. The loveliest feature of a matchless scene; Beside yon grassless mound, a mourner kneels, [seal'd Turn there your eyes, ye cold, malignant crew, Whose vile ambition dims your reason's view, Ye faithless ones, who preach religion vain, And, childlike, chase the phantoms of your brain ; Think not to crush the heart whose truth has Its confidence in heavenly love reveal'd. Let not the atheist deem that Fate decrees The lot of man to misery or ease, While to the contrite spirit faith is given, To find a hope on earth, a rest in heaven. Unrivall'd Nashaway! where the willows throw Their frosted beauty on thy path below, Beneath the verdant drapery of the trees, Luxuriant Fancy woos the sighing breeze. The redbreast singing where the fruit-tree weaves Its silken canopy of mulb'ry leaves |