On Reading the Description of Pompeii, in the "Remains of the Rev. E. D. Griffin"

It was the evening of the day of God,And silence reigned around. The waning lampGleamed heavily, and gathering o'er my heartThere seemed a musing sadness.

Then thou cam'st,Ethereal spirit! on thy classic wing,Bidding me follow thee.And so I soughtThe ruined cities of Italia's plain,And with thee o'er Pompeii's ashes trod,Courting the friendship of a buried world.'Tis fearful to behold the tide of lifeIn all the tossings of its fervid strengthThus petrified, and every painted barkThat spread its gay sail o'er the rippling surgeSealed to its depths.Thou haggard skeleton,Clutching with bony hand thy hoarded gold,What boots it thus those massy keys to guardWhen life's frail key turns in its ward no more?Say! hadst thou naught amidst yon wreck, more dearThan that encumbering dross? no priceless wealthOf sweet affinity, no tender claim,No eager turning of fond eyes to thine,In that last hour of dread extremity?Lo! yon grim soldier, faithful at his post,Bold and unblenching, though a sea of fireClosed o'er him, with its suffocating wave.The reeking air grew hot, the blackened heavensShrank like a shriveled scroll, and mother earth,Forgetful of her love, a traitress turned.Yet still he fled not; though each elementSwerved from the eternal law, he firmly stood,A Roman Sentinel.Thus may we standIn duty's armor, at our hour of doom,

Though on the climax of our joy, stern DeathShould steal unlocked for, as the lightning flashRendeth the summer-cloud.But now, adieu,My sainted guide. The midnight hour doth warnMe from thy cherished pages, though methinksThe beauty of thy presence and thy voice,Whose tones, melodious, charmed a listening throng,Still linger near. It is not meet for usTo call thee brother, we who dwell in clay,And find the impress of the earth so strongUpon our purest gold.Spirit of bliss!Who twin'st thyself around the living heartBy holiest memories, my prayer this nightShall be a hymn of gratitude for thee.