The Last Days of Pompeii - Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

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trooped such forms as Adonis beheld when he lay on the lap of Venus. They came, some with garlands, others with lyres; they surrounded the youth, they led his steps to the banquet. They flung the chaplets round him in rosy chains. The earth—the thought of earth, vanished from his soul. He imagined himself in a dream, and suppressed his breath lest he should wake too soon; the senses, to which he had never yielded as yet, beat in his burning pulse, and confused his dizzy and reeling sight. And while thus amazed and lost, once again, but in brisk and Bacchic measures, rose the magic strain:

      ANACREONTIC

       In the veins of the calix foams and glows

       The blood of the mantling vine,

       But oh! in the bowl of Youth there glows

       A Lesbian, more divine!

       Bright, bright,

       As the liquid light,

       Its waves through thine eyelids shine!

       Fill up, fill up, to the sparkling brim,

       The juice of the young Lyaeus;

       The grape is the key that we owe to him

       From the gaol of the world to free us.

       Drink, drink!

       What need to shrink,

       When the lambs alone can see us?

       Drink, drink, as I quaff from thine eyes

       The wine of a softer tree;

       Give the smiles to the god of the grape—thy sighs,

       Beloved one, give to me.

       Turn, turn,

       My glances burn,

       And thirst for a look from thee!

       As the song ended, a group of three maidens, entwined with a chain of

       starred flowers, and who, while they imitated, might have shamed the

       Graces, advanced towards him in the gliding measures of the Ionian

       dance: such as the Nereids wreathed in moonlight on the yellow sands of

       the AEgean wave—such as Cytherea taught her handmaids in the

       marriage-feast of Psyche and her son.

      Now approaching, they wreathed their chaplet round his head; now kneeling, the youngest of the three proffered him the bowl, from which the wine of Lesbos foamed and sparkled. The youth resisted no more, he grasped the intoxicating cup, the blood mantled fiercely through his veins. He sank upon the breast of the nymph who sat beside him, and turning with swimming eyes to seek for Arbaces, whom he had lost in the whirl of his emotions, he beheld him seated beneath a canopy at the upper end of the table, and gazing upon him with a smile that encouraged him to pleasure. He beheld him, but not as he had hitherto seen, with dark and sable garments, with a brooding and solemn brow: a robe that dazzled the sight, so studded was its whitest surface with gold and gems, blazed upon his majestic form; white roses, alternated with the emerald and the ruby, and shaped tiara-like, crowned his raven locks. He appeared, like Ulysses, to have gained the glory of a second youth—his features seemed to have exchanged thought for beauty, and he towered amidst the loveliness that surrounded him, in all the beaming and relaxing benignity of the Olympian god.

      'Drink, feast, love, my pupil!' said he, 'blush not that thou art passionate and young. That which thou art, thou feelest in thy veins: that which thou shalt be, survey!'

      With this he pointed to a recess, and the eyes of Apaecides, following the gesture, beheld on a pedestal, placed between the statues of Bacchus and Idalia, the form of a skeleton.

      'Start not,' resumed the Egyptian; 'that friendly guest admonishes us but of the shortness of life. From its jaws I hear a voice that summons us to ENJOY.'

      As he spoke, a group of nymphs surrounded the statue; they laid chaplets on its pedestal, and, while the cups were emptied and refilled at that glowing board, they sang the following strain:

      BACCHIC HYMNS TO THE IMAGE OF DEATH

       I

       Thou art in the land of the shadowy Host,

       Thou that didst drink and love:

       By the Solemn River, a gliding ghost,

       But thy thought is ours above!

       If memory yet can fly,

       Back to the golden sky,

       And mourn the pleasures lost!

       By the ruin'd hall these flowers we lay,

       Where thy soul once held its palace;

       When the rose to thy scent and sight was gay,

       And the smile was in the chalice,

       And the cithara's voice

       Could bid thy heart rejoice

       When night eclipsed the day.

      Here a new group advancing, turned the tide of the music into a quicker and more joyous strain.

      II

       Death, death is the gloomy shore

       Where we all sail—

       Soft, soft, thou gliding oar;

       Blow soft, sweet gale!

       Chain with bright wreaths the Hours;

       Victims if all

       Ever, 'mid song and flowers,

       Victims should fall!

      Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker danced the silver-footed music:

      Since Life's so short, we'll live to laugh,

       Ah! wherefore waste a minute!

       If youth's the cup we yet can quaff,

       Be love the pearl within it!

      A third band now approached with brimming cups, which they poured in libation upon that strange altar; and once more, slow and solemn, rose the changeful melody:

      III

       Thou art welcome, Guest of gloom,

       From the far and fearful sea!

       When the last rose sheds its bloom,

       Our board shall be spread with thee!

       All hail, dark Guest!

       Who hath so fair a plea

       Our welcome Guest to be,

       As thou, whose solemn hall

       At last shall feast us all

       In the dim and dismal coast?

       Long yet be we the Host!

       And thou, Dead Shadow, thou,

       All joyless though thy brow,

       Thou—but our passing GUEST!

      At this moment, she who sat beside Apaecides suddenly took up the song:

      IV

       Happy is yet our doom,

       The earth and the sun are ours!

       And far from the dreary tomb

       Speed the wings of the rosy Hours—

       Sweet is for thee the bowl,

       Sweet are thy looks, my love;

       I fly to thy tender soul,

       As bird to its mated dove!

       Take me, ah, take!

       Clasp'd to thy guardian breast,

       Soft let me sink to rest:

       But wake me—ah, wake!

       And tell me with words and sighs,

       But more with thy melting eyes,

       That my sun is not set—

       That the Torch is not

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