Why will ye go so soon,
In these soft hours, this sweeter month than June?
The liquid air floats over field and tree
A veil of dreams;—where do ye find the sting?
A gold enchantment sleeps upon the sea
And purple hills;—why have ye taken wing?
But faint, far-heard, the answers fall and swell—
"Farewell! Farewell!
Farewell!"
OUT OF POMPEII.
Save what the night-wind woke of sweet
And solemn sound, I heard alone
The sleepless ocean's ceaseless beat,
The surge's monotone.
Low down the south a dreary gleam
Of white light smote the sullen swells,
Evasive as a blissful dream,
Or wind-borne notes of bells.
The water's lapping whispers stole
Into my brain, and there effaced
All human memories from my soul,—
An atom in a shifting waste.
Weird fingers, groping, strove to raise
Some numbing horror from my mind;
And ever, as it met my gaze,
The sharp truth struck me blind.
The keen edged breath of the salt sea
Stung, but a faint, swift, sulphurous smell
Blew past, and I reeled dizzily
As from the blink of hell,
One moment; then the swan-necked prow
Sustained me, and once more I scanned
The unfenced flood, against my brow
Arching my lifted hand.
O'er all the unstable vague expanse
I towered the lord supreme, and smiled;
And marked the hard, white sparkles glance,
The dark vault wide and wild.
Again that faint wind swept my face—
With hideous menace swept my eyes.
I cowered back in my straitened place
And groped with dim surmise,