LESSON CXXXIV.

DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII-CONTINUED.

1. THE morn all blushing rose; but sought in vain
The snowy villas and the flowery plain,
The purpled hills with marshaled vineyards gay,
The domes that sparkled in the sunny ray.
Where Art or Nature late had deck'd the scene
With blazing marble or with spangled green,
There, streaked by many a fiery torrent's bed,
A boundless waste of hoary ashes spread.

MACAULAY.

2. Along that dreary waste, where lately rung
The festal lay which smiling virgins sung,
Where rapture echoed from the warbling lute,
And the gay dance resounded,-all is mute.
Mute! Is it Fancy shapes that wailing sound.
Which faintly murmurs from the blasted ground;
Or live there still, who, breathing in the tomb,
Curse the dark refuge which delays their doom,
In massive vaults, on which the incumbent plain
And ruined city heap their weight in vain?

3. Oh! who may sing that hour of mortal strife,
When Nature calls on Death, yet clings to life?
Who paint the wretch that draws sepulchral breath,
A living prisoner in the house of Death?
Pale as the corpse which loads the funeral pile,
With face convulsed, that writhes a ghastly smile,
Behold him speechless move with hurried pace,
Incessant, round his dungeon's caverned space,―
Now shrink in terror, and now groan in pain,
Gnaw his white lips, and strike his burning brain;
Till Fear o'erstrained in stupor, dies away,
And Madness wrests her victim from Dismay.
His arms sink down; his wild and stony eye
Glares without sight on blackest vacancy.

He feels not, sees not; wrapped in senseless trance,
His soul is still and listless as his glance.

One cheerless blank, one rayless mist is there,
Thoughts, senses, passions, live not with despair.
4. 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 vail of ages and of night.

5. 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.

shall scare.

6. Fear not. No sign of death thine eyes
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.

Advance, and wander on through crumbling halls,
Through prostrate gates and ivied pedestals,-
Arches, whose echoes now no chariots rouse,—
Tombs, on whose summit goats undaunted browse.

7. 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 scepter of the mental world;
Whose minds unraveled 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 odors, and with brighter glow.

8. Once more, immortal shades, atoning Fame
Repairs the honors 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 scepters and the swords of earth obey,
And every mighty spell, whose strong control
Could nerve or melt, could fire or soothe the soul.

9. And thou, sad city, raise thy drooping head,
And share the honors 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.

10. 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 reared her throne,
And live renowned in accents yet unknown.

LESSON CXXXV.

UNIVERSAL PROVIDENCE OF GOD.

MELVILLE.

1. Ir is a beautiful truth, that there can not be the creature so insignificant, the care so inconsiderable, the action so unimportant, as to be overlooked by Him, from whom we derive our being. We know that it is not the monarch alone, at the head of his tribes and provinces, who is observed by the Almighty; and that it is not only at some great crisis in life, that an individual becomes an object of the attention of his Maker.

2. We know rather that the poorest, the meanest, the most despised, shares with the monarch the notice of the universal Protector; and that this notice is so unwearied and incessant, that when he goes to his daily toil or his daily prayer, when he lies down at night, or rises in the morning, or gathers his little ones to the scanty meal, the poor man is tenderly watched by his God; and he can not weep the tear which He sees not, nor smile the smile which He notes not, nor breathe the wish which He hears not.

3. The man, indeed, of exalted rank, on whom may depend the movements of an empire, is regarded with a vigilance which never knows suspense, by Him "who giveth salvation unto kings;" and the Lord, "to whom belong the shields of the earth," bestows on this man whatever wisdom he displays, and whatever strength he puts forth, and whatever success he attains. But the carefulness of Deity is, in no sense, engrossed by the distinguished individual; but, just as the regards which are turned on this earth, interfere not with those which pour themselves over far-off planets and distant systems, so, while the chieftain is observed and attended with the assiduousness of what might seem an undivided guardianship, the very beggar is as much the object of Divine inspection and succor, as though, in the broad sweep of animated being, there were no other to need the sustaining arm of the Creator.

4. It is this providence which extends itself to every household, and throws itself around every individual, and takes part

in every business, and is concerned with every sorrow, and is accessory to every joy. It encircles equally the palace and the cottage; guiding and upholding alike the poor and the rich; ministering to the king in his councils, to the merchant in his commerce, to the scholar in his study, and to the laborer in his husbandry; so that, whatever be our rank and occupation, at no moment are we withdrawn from the eye of Deity, in no lawful endeavor are we left to ourselves, in no secret anxiety have we only our own heart, with which to commune. Oh! it were to take from God all that is most encouraging in His attributes and prerogatives, if we could throw doubt on this doctrine of His universal providence.

5. And we seem to have drawn a picture which is calculated equally to raise astonishment and delight, to produce the deepest reverence, and yet the fullest confidence, when we have represented God as superintending whatever occurs in His infinite domain,-guiding the roll of every planet, the rush of every cataract, the gathering of every cloud, and the motion of every will; and when, in order that the delineation may have all that exquisiteness which is only to be obtained from those home-touches, which assure us that we have ourselves an interest in what is so splendid and surprising, we have the assurance that He is with the sick man on his pallet, with the seaman in his danger, and with the widow in her agony.

6. If we would exhibit God as so attending to what is mighty, as not to overlook what is lowly, what better can we do than declare Him mustering around Him the vast army of suns and constellations, and all the while hearkening to every cry which goes up from an afflicted creation;—and, is not this the very picture sketched by the Psalmist, when, after the sublime ascription: "Thy kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and thy dominion endureth throughout all generations,” he adds the comforting words: "the Lord upholdeth all that fall, and lifteth up all those that be bowed down ?"

7. God is that mysterious Being, to whom the only great thing is Himself. And, therefore, when "the eyes of all wait