LITMIR.BIZ

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the porticoes of a light and graceful temple threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her right arm, and a small three-stringed instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating a wild and half-barbaric air. At every pause in the music she gracefully waved her flower-basket round, inviting the loiterers to buy; and many a sesterce was showered into the basket, either in compliment to the music or in compassion to the songstress—for she was blind.

      'It is my poor Thessalian,' said Glaucus, stopping; 'I have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! her voice is sweet; let us listen.'

      THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG

       I.

       Buy my flowers—O buy—I pray!

       The blind girl comes from afar;

       If the earth be as fair as I hear them say,

       These flowers her children are!

       Do they her beauty keep?

       They are fresh from her lap, I know;

       For I caught them fast asleep

       In her arms an hour ago.

       With the air which is her breath—

       Her soft and delicate breath—

       Over them murmuring low!

       On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet,

       And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet.

       For she weeps—that gentle mother weeps—

       (As morn and night her watch she keeps,

       With a yearning heart and a passionate care)

       To see the young things grow so fair;

       She weeps—for love she weeps;

       And the dews are the tears she weeps

       From the well of a mother's love!

       II.

       Ye have a world of light,

       Where love in the loved rejoices;

       But the blind girl's home is the House of Night,

       And its beings are empty voices.

       As one in the realm below,

       I stand by the streams of woe!

       I hear the vain shadows glide,

       I feel their soft breath at my side.

       And I thirst the loved forms to see,

       And I stretch my fond arms around,

       And I catch but a shapeless sound,

       For the living are ghosts to me.

       Come buy—come buy?—

       (Hark! how the sweet things sigh

       For they have a voice like ours),

       `The breath of the blind girl closes

       The leaves of the saddening roses—

       We are tender, we sons of light,

       We shrink from this child of night;

       From the grasp of the blind girl free us—

       We yearn for the eyes that see us—

       We are for night too gay,

       In your eyes we behold the day—

       O buy—O buy the flowers!'

      'I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,' said Glaucus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a handful of small coins into the basket; 'your voice is more charming than ever.'

      The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian's voice; then as suddenly paused, while the blood rushed violently over neck, cheek, and temples.

      'So you are returned!' said she, in a low voice; and then repeated half to herself, 'Glaucus is returned!'

      'Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden wants your care, as before; you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow. And mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty Nydia.'

      Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing in his breast the violets he had selected, turned gaily and carelessly from the crowd.

      'So she is a sort of client of yours, this child?' said Clodius.

      'Ay—does she not sing prettily? She interests me, the poor slave! Besides, she is from the land of the Gods' hill—Olympus frowned upon her cradle—she is of Thessaly.'

      'The witches' country.'

      'True: but for my part I find every woman a witch; and at Pompeii, by Venus! the very air seems to have taken a love-philtre, so handsome does every face without a beard seem in my eyes.'

      'And lo! one of the handsomest in Pompeii, old Diomed's daughter, the rich Julia!' said Clodius, as a young lady, her face covered by her veil, and attended by two female slaves, approached them, in her way to the baths.

      'Fair Julia, we salute thee!' said Clodius.

      Julia partly raised her veil, so as with some coquetry to display a bold Roman profile, a full dark bright eye, and a cheek over whose natural olive art shed a fairer and softer rose.

      'And Glaucus, too, is returned!' said she, glancing meaningly at the Athenian. 'Has he forgotten,' she added, in a half-whisper, 'his friends of the last year?'

      'Beautiful Julia! even Lethe itself, if it disappear in one part of the earth, rises again in another. Jupiter does not allow us ever to forget for more than a moment: but Venus, more harsh still, vouchsafes not even a moment's oblivion.'

      'Glaucus is never at a loss for fair words.'

      'Who is, when the object of them is so fair?'

      'We shall see you both at my father's villa soon,' said Julia, turning to Clodius.

      'We will mark the day in which we visit you with a white stone,' answered the gamester.

      Julia dropped her veil, but slowly, so that her last glance rested on the Athenian with affected timidity and real boldness; the glance bespoke tenderness and reproach.

      The friends passed on.

      'Julia is certainly handsome,' said Glaucus.

      'And last year you would have made that confession in a warmer tone.'

      'True; I was dazzled at the first sight, and mistook for a gem that which was but an artful imitation.'

      'Nay,' returned Clodius, 'all women are the same at heart. Happy he who weds a handsome face and a large dower. What more can he desire?'

      Glaucus sighed.

      They were now in a street less crowded than the rest, at the end of which they beheld that broad and most lovely sea, which upon those delicious coasts seems to have renounced its prerogative of terror—so soft are the crisping winds that hover around its bosom, so glowing and so various are the hues which it takes from the rosy clouds, so fragrant are the perfumes which the breezes from the land scatter over its depths. From such a sea might you well believe that Aphrodite rose to take the empire of the earth.

      'It is still early for the bath,' said the Greek, who was the creature of every poetical impulse; 'let us wander from the crowded city, and look upon the sea while the noon yet laughs along its billows.'

      'With all my heart,' said Clodius; 'and the bay, too, is always the most animated part of the city.'

      Pompeii was the miniature of the civilization of that age. Within the narrow compass of its walls was contained, as it were, a specimen of every gift which luxury offered to power. In its minute but glittering shops, its tiny palaces, its baths, its forum, its theatre, its circus—in the energy yet corruption, in the refinement yet the vice, of its people, you beheld a model of the whole empire. It was a toy, a plaything, a showbox,

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