第142章

He paused not till, almost spent and breathless, he found himself on the summit of a small acclivity which overlooked the most gay and splendid part of that miniature city; and as there he paused, and gazed along the tranquil streets glittering in the rays of the moon (which had just arisen, and brought partially and picturesquely into light the crowd around the amphitheatre at a distance, murmuring, and swaying to and fro), the influence of the scene affected him, rude and unimaginative though his nature. He sat himself down to rest upon the steps of a deserted portico, and felt the calm of the hour quiet and restore him. Opposite and near at hand, the lights gleamed from a palace in which the master now held his revels. The doors were open for coolness, and the gladiator beheld the numerous and festive group gathered round the tables in the atrium; while behind them, closing the long vista of the illumined rooms beyond, the spray of the distant fountain sparkled in the moonbeams. There, the garlands wreathed around the columns of the hall--there, gleamed still and frequent the marble statue--there, amidst peals of jocund laughter, rose the music and the lay.

EPICUREAN SONG

Away with your stories of Hades, Which the Flamen has forged to affright us--We laugh at your three Maiden Ladies, Your Fates--and your sullen Cocytus.

Poor Jove has a troublesome life, sir, Could we credit your tales of his portals--In shutting his ears on his wife, sir, And opening his eyes upon mortals.

Oh, blest be the bright Epicurus!

Who taught us to laugh at such fables;

On Hades they wanted to moor us, And his hand cut the terrible cables.

If, then, there's a Jove or a Juno, They vex not their heads about us, man;Besides, if they did, I and you know 'Tis the life of a god to live thus, man!

What! think you the gods place their bliss--eh?--In playing the spy on a sinner?

In counting the girls that we kiss, eh?

Or the cups that we empty at dinner?

Content with the soft lips that love us, This music, this wine, and this mirth, boys, We care not for gods up above us--We know there's no god for this earth, boys!

While Lydon's piety (which accommodating as it might be, was in no slight degree disturbed by these verses, which embodied the fashionable philosophy of the day) slowly recovered itself from the shock it had received, a small party of men, in plain garments and of the middle class, passed by his resting-place. They were in earnest conversation, and did not seem to notice or heed the gladiator as they moved on.

'O horror on horrors!' said one; 'Olinthus is snatched from us! our right arm is lopped away! When will Christ descend to protect his own?'

'Can human atrocity go farther said another: 'to sentence an innocent man to the same arena as a murderer! But let us not despair; the thunder of Sinai may yet be heard, and the Lord preserve his saint. "The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God."'

At that moment out broke again, from the illumined palace, the burden of the reveller's song:-We care not for gods up above us--We know there's no god for this earth, boys!

Ere the words died away, the Nazarenes, moved by sudden indignation, caught up the echo, and, in the words of one of their favorite hymns, shouted aloud:-

THE WARNING HYMN OF THE NAZARENES

Around--about--for ever near thee, God--OUR GOD--shall mark and hear thee!

On his car of storm He sweeps!

Bow, ye heavens, and shrink, ye deeps!

Woe to the proud ones who defy Him!--Woe to the dreamers who deny Him!

Woe to the wicked, woe!

The proud stars shall fail--The sun shall grow pale--The heavens shrivel up like a scroll--Hell's ocean shall bare Its depths of despair, Each wave an eternal soul!

For the only thing, then, That shall not live again Is the corpse of the giant TIME.

Hark, the trumpet of thunder!

Lo, earth rent asunder!

And, forth, on His Angel-throne, He comes through the gloom, The Judge of the Tomb, To summon and save His own!

Oh, joy to Care, and woe to Crime, He comes to save His own!

Woe to the proud ones who defy Him!

Woe to the dreamers who deny Him!

Woe to the wicked, woe!

A sudden silence from the startled hall of revel succeeded these ominous words: the Christians swept on, and were soon hidden from the sight of the gladiator. Awed, he scarce knew why, by the mystic denunciations of the Christians, Lydon, after a short pause, now rose to pursue his way homeward.

Before him, how serenely slept the starlight on that lovely city! how breathlessly its pillared streets reposed in their security!--how softly rippled the dark-green waves beyond!--how cloudless spread, aloft and blue, the dreaming Campanian skies! Yet this was the last night for the gay Pompeii! the colony of the hoar Chaldean! the fabled city of Hercules! the delight of the voluptuous Roman! Age after age had rolled, indestructive, unheeded, over its head; and now the last ray quivered on the dial-plate of its doom! The gladiator heard some light steps behind--a group of females were wending homeward from their visit to the amphitheatre. As he turned, his eye was arrested by a strange and sudden apparition. From the summit of Vesuvius, darkly visible at the distance, there shot a pale, meteoric, livid light--it trembled an instant and was gone. And at the same moment that his eye caught it, the voice of one of the youngest of the women broke out hilariously and shrill:-TRAMP! TRAMP! HOW GAILY THEY GO!

HO, HO! FOR THE MORROW'S MERRY SHOW!