Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Vol. I from Harvard College Library
https://books.google.com/books?id=NxQ0LzIgW1UC
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. Table of Contents provided by the Transcriber.
A T T I L A.
A ROMANCE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"THE GIPSY," "ONE IN A THOUSAND," &c, &c.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1838.
CONTENTS
| CHAPTER | |
| [ADVERTISEMENT.] | |
| [I.] | |
| [II.] | |
| [III.] | |
| [IV.] | |
| [V.] | |
| [VI.] | |
| [VII.] | |
| [VIII.] | |
| [IX.] | |
| [X.] | |
| [XI.] | |
| [XII.] | |
| [XIII.] | |
| [XIV.] | |
| [XV.] | |
| [XVI.] | |
| [XVII.] | |
| [XVIII.] | |
| [XIX.] | |
| [XX.] | |
| [XXI.] | |
| [XXII.] | |
| [XXIII.] |
TO
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, ESQ.,
THIS BOOK,
AS A FEEBLE TESTIMONY OF STRONG PERSONAL REGARD
AND SINCERE ADMIRATION,
IS DEDICATED, BY HIS FRIEND,
G. P. R. JAMES.
[ADVERTISEMENT.]
In giving this book to the public I have but little to explain. The reader who takes it up may expect to find something respecting the Princess Honoria. He will, however, find nothing. All that we know of her history is uninteresting, except to those who love to dwell upon the pruriencies of a degraded state of society: all that we know of her character is disgusting to such as love purity and dignity of mind. It would be tedious to the reader to explain why the author has thought fit to alter several names of the persons acting prominent parts in the story of Attila. In so doing he has consulted principally his own ear; and in a few other deviations which he has made from the course of that great monarch's history, he has consulted his own convenience. In regard, however, to the change which he has represented as taking place in the demeanour of Attila, his abandonment of the simple habits which at first distinguished him, and his dereliction from the calm equanimity which he displayed in his early intercourse with the Romans, the author believes that he is justified by the records of history as well as the course of nature. He is inclined to think, also, that if, in regard to the facts of Attila's death, we could display the chameleon truth, in the broad light of day, without any of the shades and hues with which time and circumstances have surrounded her, we should find her colour such as he has represented it; but this, of course, must ever remain in doubt.
A T T I L A.
[CHAPTER I.]
A LANDSCAPE IN DALMATIA.
Music was in the air, and loveliness was spread out over the earth as a mantle.
There was a voice of many waters--the bland musical tone of mountain streams singing as they wend their way over the smooth round pebbles of their hilly bed towards the sea. And the song of life, too, was heard from every field, and every glade, and every valley; the trilling of innumerable birds, the hum of insect myriads, the lowing of distant cattle, winding down from the uplands to pen or fold, the plaintive, subdued bleating of the patient sheep, the merry voice of the light-hearted herd as he led home his flock from the hills, after a long warm southern day in the maturity of spring. Manifold sweet sounds--all blended into one happy harmony, softened by distance, rendered more melodious to the heart by associations felt but not defined, and made more touching by the soft evening hour--filled the whole air, and spread a calm, bright, contemplative charm over the listening senses.
The eye, too, could find the same delight as the ear, equal in depth, similar in character; for though sweet April had sunk in the warm arms of May, still, even in that land of the bright south, the reign of summer had not yet begun: not a leaf, not a flower, not a blade of grass had lost a hue under the beams of the sun, and many a balmy and refreshing shower, during a long and humid spring, had nourished the verdure and enlivened the bloom.
From the high round knoll upon the left, crowned with the five tall cypresses which perhaps flourished as seedlings on that spot in the young and palmy days of Greece, might be seen that unrivalled view which has never yet found eye to gaze on it uncharmed--that view which, of all prospects in the world, has greatest power, when suddenly beheld, to make the heart beat fast, and the breath come thick with mingled feelings of wonder and delight. On one side, at about a mile's distance, where the ground sloped gently down towards the sea, rose the palace of Diocletian, vast and extensive, massy without being heavy, and equally sublime from its beauty and its dimensions. Clear, upon the bright back-ground of the evening sky, cut the graceful lines of the architecture; and, though a sudden break in the outline of the frieze, with the massy form of a fallen capital rolled forward before the steps of the magnificent portico which fronted the sea, told that the busy, unceasing, unsparing hand of man's great enemy had already laid upon that splendid building the crumbling touch of ruin; yet, as, it then stood, with the setting sun behind it, and the deep blue shadows of the evening involving all the minute parts of the side that met the eye, the effects of decay even added to the beauty of the object, by making the straight lines of the architecture at once contrast and harmonize with the graceful irregularities of nature whereby it was surrounded. Several groups of old and stately trees, too, still more diversified the prospect on that side; and through the pillars of the portico might be caught the glistening line of the bright sea where it met and mingled with the sky.
Behind, and to the right hand, stretching far away to the north, rose mountain upon mountain, in all the fanciful forms and positions into which those earth-born giants cast themselves in Greece, and over them all was thrown that lustrous purple which in those lands well deserves the name of the "magic light of evening."
Between the knoll of cypresses, however, and those far hills robed in their golden splendour, lay a wide tract of country, gently sloping upward in a thousand sweeping lines, with here and there an abrupt rock or insulated mound suddenly towering above the rest, while scattered clumps of tall old trees, rich rounded masses of forest, villas, farms, vineyards, and olive grounds, filled up the intervening space; and had all been as it seemed--had all those farms been tenanted, had none of those villas been in ruins--would have presented a scene of prosperity such as the world has never known but once.
Still decay had made no very great progress; still the land was richly cultivated; still the population, though not dense, was sufficient; and as the eye ran along the innumerable little promontories and headlands of the bay, might be seen, rising up above some slight irregularities of the ground, a part of the buildings of the small but prosperous town of Salona. Close by the side of that knoll of cypresses, breaking impetuously from a bank above, dashed on the bright and sparkling Hyader; now fretting and foaming with the large rocks amid which a part of its course was bound; now prattling playfully with the motley pebbles which in other parts strewed its bed; now dashing like a fierce steed all in foam where it leaped over the crag into the sunshine; and then, where its clear blue waters spread out uninterrupted under the cool shadow of a hill, seeming--like time to a young and happy heart--to stand still in calm and peaceful enjoyment, even while it was flowing away as quickly as ever.
The eye that followed the Hyader down its course--and there was an eye that did so--rested on the bright and glowing west, and on the fairest, the most entrancing object of all that magic scene; for there, stretched out beneath the setting sun, lay the gleaming waters of the Adriatic, studded all along its shores with a thousand purple islands which rose out of that golden sea like gems.
The air was calm and tranquil; the sky, the unrivalled deep blue sky, which hangs over that most lovely sea, was without a cloud, varying with one soft and equable declension from the intense purple zenith to the warm rosy hues that glowed in the far west. The sea, also, was smooth and peaceful, and would have seemed unbroken by a wave, had not here and there a sudden bending line of light darted over the bosom of the waters, and told that they were moved in the evening light by the breath of the breeze.
Thus appeared the whole scene, when, from the opposite side of the bay, a white sail was seen to glide forward, as if coming from Salona towards the palace of Diocletian, or the little village of Aspalathus. Slowly and peacefully it moved along, giving one more image of calm and tranquil enjoyment; and while it steered upon its way, four sweet voices, sometimes joined in chorus by several deeper tones, broke forth from the mound of cypresses, singing:--
A HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN.
I.
"Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
Thy course of beneficence done;
As glorious go down to thy Thetis' warm breast
As when thy bright race was begun.
For all thou hast done
Since thy rising, oh sun!
May thou and thy Maker be bless'd!
Thou hast scatter'd the night from thy broad golden way,
Thou hast given us thy light through a long happy day,
Thou hast roused up the birds, thou hast waken'd the flowers.
To chant on thy path, and to perfume the hours--
Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
And rise again beautiful, blessing, and bless'd!
II.
"Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
Yet pause but a moment to shed
One warm look of love on the earth's dewy breast.
Ere the starr'd curtain fall round thy bed,
And to promise the time,
When, awaking sublime,
Thou shall rush all refresh'd from thy rest.
Warm hopes drop like dews from thy life-giving hand,
Teaching hearts closed in darkness like flowers to expand;
Dreams wake into joys when first touch'd by thy light,
As glow the dim waves of the sea at thy sight--
Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
And rise again beautiful, blessing, and bless'd!
III.
"Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
Prolonging the sweet evening hour;
Then robe again soon in the morn's golden vest,
To go forth in thy beauty and power.
Yet pause on thy way,
To the full height of day,
For thy rising and setting are bless'd!
When thou com'st after darkness to gladden our eyes,
Or departest in glory, in glory to rise,
May hope and may prayer still be woke by thy rays,
And thy going be mark'd by thanksgiving and praise![[1]]
Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
And rise again beautiful, blessing, and bless'd!"
[CHAPTER II.]
THE ACTORS IN THE SCENE.
The voices that sung were sweet, thrillingly sweet, and the music to which the verse was wedded of that dreamy, wandering kind which approaches more nearly to the tones of an Æolian harp than to any regular composition. It was, indeed, full of a wild and delicious melody, which was sometimes solemn and sublime, sometimes low and plaintive, and the same general theme might be heard running through the whole; but often the air wandered wide, like a bird upon the wing, and caught a note or two of a gladder or more joyous character, which brightened the general solemnity of the strain, like hope breaking in upon a life of grief. Music had not then reached that perfection which it has since attained; but there was a touching beauty in its fresh simplicity which is now but seldom found. It possessed the free unfettered charms of a graceful nature, cultivated, but not stiffened, by art, and it still went hand in hand with the sister spirit of poetry, in the land where both had birth.
But the hymn which had just floated on the air derived peculiar sweetness from the fine harmony of the voices which sung it. It seemed the varied tones of one family, where each knew every note in the voice of the other, and modulated his own to suit it, with that spirit of love in the breasts of all, whereof the sweetest harmony that art can compose is but the musical image. In the chorus, however, there joined less cultivated singers; but, nevertheless, the voices were generally fine, and there was an enthusiastic eagerness on the tongues that repeated--
"Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
And rise again beautiful, blessing, and bless'd!"
which spoke of that happiness under the bright sun that was then sinking slowly to the breast of ocean, which is the poetry and melody of life.
Under the five tall cypresses, and partly reclining on the bank that sloped to the bright Hyader, sat the group from which those sounds proceeded. It was separated, indeed, into two distinct parts; for--with a very short space of green turf between them and those they served--lay stretched out in various attitudes, some raising the head upon the hand, some reclining the chest upon the folded arms, some supported on the elbow, eight or nine slaves of both sexes.
There was nothing, however, in the countenances of any there which spoke of the bitterness of slavery. There were no signs in their faces or their demeanour of the iron entering into their soul; and though, perhaps, no portion of human nature is originally so debased, and no condition of bondage can be rendered so gentle, that the chain will not gall and the load will not oppress, yet the lot was then common, and the accursed name of slave comprehended nearly, if not fully, one half of the earth's denizens. In the faces of those who lay stretched easily but not intrusively beside those to whom they were bound by that inhuman tie, there might be traced a line of care--perhaps a shade, it might be, of melancholy--gathered by long-preserved and fruitless remembrances of scenes, and objects, and persons far away; and on none, but the countenance of one white-teethed Nubian girl, and a young glad boy, whose life was in the present hour, and to whose mind the past and the future were but a vapoury cloud, was seen the light and laughing merriment of a heart which has known no sorrows in the past. With all the rest, contentment with their lot seemed chastened by griefs experienced and gone by. They could smile, they could sing when occasion called for mirth. Their minds were not irresponsive to sights or sounds of joy; but with them it was from the well, not the fountain, that the sweet waters of enjoyment sprung: they sparkled not up spontaneously, but required to be drawn forth by the hand of another.
Yet if one, remembering their bondage, turned to gaze upon the group near which they sat, the condition of their feelings was easily understood; for the forms and faces that were there--not in the outward lineaments alone, but in the beaming forth of the divine spirit, as much expressed in the air and movements of the whole body as in the heart's interpreter, the face--told that the taskmasters were of that kindly nobility of soul which, in after years, won for a whole class (that did not always merit the distinction) that most expressive name of gentle.
Under the cypresses, not exactly where the shade fell--for the sun, near the horizon, had lost his meridian heat, and the western breeze swept over the cool bright waters of the Adriatic--were seated three women and a boy of some fourteen years of age. They were evidently of the highest race of the land in which they lived; and had nothing else bespoken their rank, the broad deep border of purple, of triple die, which edged the snowy robe of the eldest of the party, would have distinguished her as a Roman lady of patrician blood. She was scarcely beyond the middle age; and time had treated her beauty leniently. Somewhat of the elastic grace, and all the slight pliant outline of early youth, was gone, but in contour and dignity much, too, had been gained; and the eye, more calm and fixed, was as bright and lustrous, the teeth as white and perfect, as ever. The hair, drawn up and knotted on the crown of the head, was still full and luxuriant; but, meandering through its dark and wavy masses, might here and there be seen a line of silver gray; while the cheek, which had once been as warm and glowing as the morning dawn of her own radiant land, sorrows calmly borne, but not the less deeply felt, had rendered as pale as the twilight of the evening just ere night reigns supreme.
Her dress was plain and unadorned, of the finest materials and the purest hues; but the gems and ornaments then so common were altogether absent. The consciousness of beauty, which she might once have felt, was now altogether forgotten; its vanity she had never known. As much grace as health, perfect symmetry of form, and noble education from infancy could give, she displayed in every movement; but it was the calm and matronly grace, where all is ease, and tranquillity, and self-possession. The same placid charm reigned in the expression of her countenance. She seemed to look with benevolence on all. Nay, more, as if the sorrows which had reached her in her high station had taught her that in every bosom, however well concealed, there is, or will be, some store of grief, some memory, some regret, some disappointment, there mingled with the gentleness of her aspect an expression of pity, or, perhaps, its better name were sympathy, which existed really within, and formed a tie between her heart and that of every other human thing.
She was, indeed, to use the beautiful words of the poet, "kind as the sun's bless'd influence."[[2]] Yet the bright dark eye, the proud arching lip, and the expansive nostrils, seemed to speak of a nature originally less calm, of days when the spirit was less subdued. Time and grief, however, are mighty tamers of the most lion-like heart; and it was with that look of pity, mingling with tender pleasure, that she gazed down upon a beautiful girl of, perhaps, thirteen years of age, who, leaning fondly on her knees, as the hymn concluded, looked up in her face for sympathetic feelings, while the sweet sounds still trembled on her full rosy lips.
Between the matron and the girl there was little resemblance, except inasmuch as each was beautiful; and though the lineaments, perhaps, regarded as mere lines, took in some degree the same general form, yet there were too many shades of difference to admit the idea that those two fair beings stood in the dear relationship of mother and child, although the fond, relying, clinging affection displayed in the looks of the younger, and the tender anxiety of the matron's smile as she gazed down upon her companion's face, argued affections no less strong between them than such a tie might have produced.
Eudochia--for so was the younger called--offered a lovely specimen of that sort of beauty which, however rare in Italy even now, when the native blood of the children of the land has been mingled with that of many of the fair-haired nations of the north, we find from the writings of Petronius to have been not uncommon in his days. Her hair was of a light brown, with a golden gleam upon it, as if, wherever it bent in its rich wavy curls, it caught and shone in the bright rays of the sun. Her eyes were of a soft hazel, though the long, sweeping black lashes made them look darker than they were: but her skin was of that brilliant fairness which did indeed exceed the
"Expolitum ebur indicum;"
and the rose glowed through it on the cheeks, as pure and clear as in those lands where the veiled sun shines most soft and tenderly. Her features were, indeed, more Greek than Roman; but her complexion spoke, and not untruly, of a mixture in her veins of what was then called barbarian blood by the proud children of the empire. Her mother had been the daughter of a German prince in alliance with Rome; but the Romans of that day had learned to envy the noble Paulinus his success with the beautiful child of the wealthy and powerful barbarian chief. Too short a time, indeed, had their union lasted; for though Eudochia had drawn her first nourishment from her mother's bosom, yet, six months after her birth, the fair wife of Paulinus had left him to mourn her death with two motherless children. He had continued to hold her memory in solitary affection, filling up, as is so common with man, the vacant place left by love in the shrine of his heart with the darker and sterner form of ambition; and while he led forward his son Theodore in the same path, he left his daughter on the Dalmatian shore, with one whose kindred blood and generous nature ensured to the fair girl all a mother's tenderness and a mother's care. For her alone the lips of Eudochia had learned to pronounce those sweetest of words, my mother--for her alone had her heart learned to feel the thrill of filial love.
The affection, however, of the Lady Flavia--for so was called the elder of whom we have spoken--was divided. For the love of man, woman has but one place in her heart, but maternal tenderness has many; and the agony of Niobe was not less for every child that died than if she had had but one. Flavia looked upon Eudochia as her child, and loved her as such; but the two others, of whom we have said that group was composed, were in reality her children.
Ammian, the boy, was like his mother in features and complexion, but not in character. More of his dead father's nature had descended to him, more of the wild and daring spirit which, sporting with perils and dangers, contemning pain, and laughing at fear, found food for a bright and eager imagination in scenes and circumstances which, to others, were full of nothing but horror and dismay. His pastime, as a boy, was to climb the mountains, and spring from rock to rock across the yawning chasms; to stand gazing down over the dizzy side of the precipice, and to drink in the sublimity of the scene below; to dash through the wild waves when the southwest wind rolled them in mountains on the shore, or to mingle with the pagan inhabitants, which still filled many of the villages near, and to watch without taking part in those sacrifices which were prohibited under pain of death by the Christian emperors, but which often took place even in the open face of day. His mother put no check upon his hazardous pleasures, for she was Roman enough to wish that her children might never know the name of fear. But yet her heart sometimes sunk with a chilly dread when she witnessed his wild exploits; for though the qualities which prompted them were those for which she had loved his father, yet she could not forget that the same daring spirit had led that father to death, by barbarian hands, in the wilds of Pannonia.
There was one more in the group under the cypresses, and one that must not be passed over in silence. She, like Eudochia, was reclining by her mother's side; but had the great Florentine sought two lovely models from which to depict night and day, none could have been found equal to these two beautiful girls. Ildica,[[3]] however, was fully two years older than Eudochia, and those two years made a great difference. Eudochia was a child; Ildica was no longer so. Eudochia was the violet, but Ildica was the rose. Her form, too, spoke it; youth was in every trace: but there was the rounded contour, the graceful sweeping lines, which tell that nature's brightest effort to produce beauty is full and complete. She was at that age when the causeless blush comes frequent, and the unbidding sigh is first known; when the cheek will sometimes glow as if with shame at the innocent consciousness of loveliness; and her heart tells woman that she was created for others. Through the transparent cheek of the Dalmatian girl the eloquent blood played apparent at every word, and the long, lustrous, deep black eyes, the very eyelids of which seemed flooded with light, spoke of feelings within that snowy bosom which were yet to acquire intensity and fire. And yet Ildica fancied herself still a child. So gradual, so calm, had as yet been the transition, as their years passed away in that remote spot without any of the cares, the turmoils, the passions, and the follies of courts and of cities breaking the tranquil current of their days, that she hardly knew the two years which had effected so great a change in her being had passed otherwise than in infancy. She had never very eagerly sought the light sports and pastimes of Eudochia, and others of the happy age: she had always shown a disposition to meditation and to feeling. It was not that she wanted cheerfulness; far from it; but it was, that through her very gayety was seen a train of deeper thought. There was a character of greater intensity in all she did than is usual in early youth. She loved music, she loved poetry, she loved every art; and her mother saw her own mind reflected in that of her daughter, with a shade, perhaps, of more passionate energy derived from the character of her father.
Thus sat they by the bright stream of the Hyader, whose clear water served to mingle with the wine of their light evening meal, enjoying, with sweet tranquillity of heart, the loveliness of a scene which, remembered from his earliest days, had lured Diocletian thither, some century before, from all the charms of power and empire, to spend his latter hours in a remote province and a private station. Simple as that meal was, consisting of nothing but light cakes of a fine flour, with some dried fruits and some early strawberries, it was more delicious to those who ate it, in that fair scene and that happy hour, than all the innumerable dishes of a Roman supper. Still there seemed something wanting; for--as the last stanza of the hymn was sung, and Eudochia lay reclining on the Lady Flavia's lap, and gazing up in her expressive face--the eyes of Ildica had followed the course of the Hyader down towards the sea, and rested with a longing, anxious look upon the boat that, with slow and easy motion, as the light but steady wind impelled it over the waters, steered onward, for some time, towards that part of the bay near which stood the little village of Aspalathus, a sort of appendage to the palace of Diocletian. Ammian, her brother, had remarked it too, and watched it also; but in a few minutes its course was changed, and its prow turned towards one of the islands. Ildica said not a word, but she bent down her eyes on the grass, and plucked one of the purple crocuses which checkered the green whereon she sat.
"He will not come to-day," said her brother, as if quite sure that the same thoughts were in his bosom and his sister's at that moment; "and, besides, he would not appear in a solitary boat like that. Ten such boats would not have held the gorgeous train which followed him when he came last year to take Theodore away."
"But remember, Ammian, my son," said Flavia, smiling at the eager looks of her two children, "remember, when last he came, our cousin Paulinus was sent to Dalmatia on the emperor's service, as count of the offices, and now he comes but as a private man to see his daughter. He is not one of those degraded Romans who in the present day never travel without an army of domestics. See, the boat has changed its course again. It did but bear up against the current of wind between the islands. Eudochia, my sweet child, it is perhaps your father after all."
As she spoke, the boat, catching the favourable breeze, came more rapidly towards the land, and in a moment after was hidden from their eyes by the wavy ground which lay between them and the Adriatic. "Run, Aspar, run," cried Flavia to one of the slaves; "run and see where the boat lands. Shall we return homeward, Eudochia? we may meet him sooner."
Ildica exclaimed, "Oh, yes!" but Eudochia and Ammian reminded their mother that they had promised to meet Paulinus on the spot where they had parted from him, even where they then sat; and, while they waited in the heart-beating moments of expectation, the light-footed slave again appeared upon the upland, which he had cleared like a hunted deer, and stood waving his hand, as if to tell that their hopes were verified.
For a moment or two he paused, looking back towards the sea, and then, running forward to the cypress, he said, "Yes, lady, yes! they have reached the shore, and are coming hither. I saw them spring from the boat to the landing-place of the palace; and while several ran up towards the portico bearing baggage, four took the path between the rocks which leads up hither by the field of Eusebius, the gardener."
"Was my brother there, good Aspar?" cried Eudochia, eagerly; "was my brother there too?"
"I could not distinguish, sweet one," replied the slave; "the distance was too long for my sight, and the sun was directly in my eyes; but the one that came first was slight in form, and seemed more like your brother than the Count Paulinus himself. There was the lightness of youth, too, in his step, as he bounded up over the rocks like a fawn towards its doe!"
Flavia smiled, and Ildica smiled too; but as she did so there was a slight, a very slight change of colour in her cheek. It grew paler; but it was not the paleness of either apprehension or disappointment; it only spoke of some intense feelings busy at her heart, though what they were she herself knew not. At that moment the slave exclaimed, "Lo, lo! he comes!" and all eyes were turned towards the upland.
[CHAPTER III.]
THE MEETING.
The lower edge of the sun's broad golden disk touched, or seemed to touch, the rippling waters of the Adriatic, and sea and sky were all in one general glow, when the form of the expected guest rose over the slope, and, with joyful arms outstretched towards the group under the cypresses, he appeared clear and defined upon the bright expanse behind him. The figure was that of a youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age, tall for his time of life, and of that form which promises great after strength. As he stood there, indeed, with his figure partly concealed by the mantle which fell from his shoulders, and with the smooth features, the unfurrowed brow, and beardless chin of youth, turned from the searching rays of the sun, one might have attributed to him many more years than he had in reality numbered; but there was the bounding joy of boyhood still in his steps, as, followed by three persons, among whom the eye of Flavia sought in vain for Paulinus, he sprang across the sloping ground to meet so many that he loved. To Flavia his first salute was given in the warm, the touching, the affectionate kiss of filial love; calling her, as he did so, by the tender name which his heart always willingly granted to her who had watched his infancy and formed his boyhood, "My mother!" His next glance was, certainly, to Ildica, but his words and his embrace were given, first, to his sister Eudochia, and then even to Ammian, whom he also called "his brother."
The words, however, were few, and the embrace short, ere he turned to Ildica, and took her hand. But his aspect was for a moment timid and uncertain, as if he knew not well in what words and what manner he was to greet her. Her eye, however, was full of light; her lip smiled with the irrepressible spirit of joy; her breath seemed to come short with some thrilling emotion in her bosom; and Theodore, growing bolder as her hand touched his, drew her, too, to his arms, and pressed a warmer kiss upon her lips. To her he would not say "My sister!" though he began those words which he had so often used towards her; but he stopped short, and his lips murmured, "My--my Ildica!"
If any one marked the agitation of either of those two young and happy beings, it was among the slaves; for Eudochia and Ammian had no eyes as yet for the slighter indications of the heart's inmost feelings; and Flavia, without any other observation, asked eagerly, "But where is Paulinus? Where is your father, Theodore."
"Alas, my mother," replied the youth, "he has been disappointed, and would not make me a sharer therein. Obliged to go into Cappadocia by the emperor's commands, he proceeds from Cæsarea to escort the Empress Eudoxia to Jerusalem. But he has promised, if fate be propitious, to join us all here on his return. He would not let me bear him company; but having given me the charge of some slight business at Salona, left me to hasten hither, and wait his coming."
"Let us return homeward, then, Theodore," said the matron, "and you shall tell us all the news wherewith your young and ever active mind is loaded. I am sure you have not yet learned, my son, to value all the things of the world according to their real lightness, and to suffer what the idle multitude call great events to pass you by as matters which have been acted over and over again a thousand times already, and to be enacted still a million times more in the ages yet to come. Heaven forbid that you should have acquired, since you left us, such sorrowful wisdom! though your father writes to me that you have become a man, whereas you left us a boy. But you linger as if you would fain stay here."
"I ordered the boat to come round hither," replied the youth, "when I found you were all here; and I would willingly gaze again upon all these lovely things. I have beheld many lands, dear Ildica," he added, turning naturally towards her with whom his heart held the nearest communion--"I have beheld many lands since I left you all on this very spot; Athens, the city of Constantine, Ida, and Olympus. My feet have even trodden Tempe; and yet there is no scene so beautiful to my eyes as that lovely sea, with Bratia, and Bubua, and Olyntha, rising like living sapphires from its golden bosom, and those grand Autariatian hills, leading up the soul's flight to heaven."
Without further question, they all once more laid themselves down upon the turf; feeling that Theodore would gladly see the sun set in that spot with which so many memories of early happiness were associated; and for a few minutes they left him in silence to enjoy the delight of his return. He gazed round the prospect; and it was easy to see that it was not alone the loveliness that his eye rested on which busied his thoughts, but that remembrance was eagerly unclasping with her fairy touch the golden casket of the past, and displaying, one by one, the treasured and gemlike memories of many joyful hours. As he gazed, the last effulgent spot of the sun's orb sunk below the sea; and he turned his look upon Ildica, on whose hand his own had accidentally fallen. Her eyes were full of liquid light; and her cheek was glowing as warmly as that sky from which the sun had just departed.
"And now, Theodore," said Flavia, with a smile, "tell us what tidings you bring; and first, before one word of the wide public news, say, what of your father? How is he in health? how fares he at the court? Is he as much loved as ever?"
"I had forgotten," replied Theodore, "in the joy of coming back--in the dreamlike and scarcely certain feeling of being here once more among you all--I had forgotten everything else. Paulinus is well, my mother; and his favour with the emperor and empress higher than ever, though he is not loved by Chrysapheus; but he fears him not. Here, Zeno!" he continued, addressing one of the servants who had followed him, and who had now mingled with the slaves of Flavia--"give me the case which I bade you bring;" and from a richly-chased silver casket which the slave laid beside him he drew forth a string of large and perfect pearls. "These, Eudochia," he said, throwing them over his sister's neck, "these from the empress, for her goddaughter; and this," he added, taking the rich collar of emeralds which lay below--"and this from my father, Paulinus, for his dear Ildica. Many were the messages of love," he continued, as he placed the splendid present sent by his father in the hand of the beautiful girl whom it was to adorn, and, with the playfulness of boyhood not yet passed away, twined, smiling, the links of emeralds round her arm--"many were the messages of love my father bade me give to all; and to you, my mother, I bear this letter: but let me be the first to tell you that your possession of the palace is confirmed by the emperor, and that the estates withheld from you by an unjust judge are restored."
"Thank you, my son, thank you," replied Flavia, opening the thread with which the letter was bound round; "but this light is too faint to enable me to decipher your father's epistle. Let us to the boat, my Theodore, and so homeward; for I long to learn more of what has passed at Byzantium, and the twilight is every moment getting a grayer hue."
The youth lingered no longer, but rose with all the rest; and while Flavia, talking to Ammian, who often looked behind, led the way over the upland and down the path towards the sea, Theodore followed, at some little distance, with Eudochia clinging to his left arm, and with his right hand clasping that of Ildica. As they went wandering onward through the sweet-smelling copses of myrtle, which sheltered the grounds of a neighbouring garden from the east wind, Eudochia asked a thousand questions of her brother, and marvelled much that he had grown so tall and strong in the short absence of nine months. Ildica said not a word; but she listened to the tones of his voice as he replied to his sister; she felt the touch of his hand as it held hers; she saw the brother of her love--the more than brother--returned from a far distance and a long absence; and a new happiness that she had never known before filled her heart with emotions too intense for speech. Did she know what she felt? did she investigate the nature of the busy, tumultuous sensations that then possessed her bosom? Neither! the absence of one with whom she had dwelt in affection from her infancy had, indeed, taught her that there were strange feelings in her heart, different from any that she had ever experienced before; but, oh! sweet and happy skill of woman, she had closed her eyes against all investigation of what those feelings were, lest she should find anything mingling with them which might render them less blessed. It was not for her to discover for herself that which was reserved for another to explain.
The considerate slaves lingered somewhat farther still behind, caring for the cups and vessels which had served the evening meal, and listening with the wondering ears of hermits to the news brought by their fellows from the capital of the Eastern world. Much, too, had those slaves to tell of all the splendid scenes which were hourly taking place in Constantinople, and the high favour and honour of their master, Paulinus, at the imperial court. Each feeling his importance increased by the honours and virtues of his lord, exalted in no measured terms the power and dignity of Paulinus; and to have heard the praises of his menials, one might believe that he excelled in learning and in talents the greatest men of literature's most golden days, and rivalled in the field the most renowned warriors of either Greece or Rome. One thing, at all events, was to be gathered from their discourse, and to be received without abatement; which was, that he possessed the great and happy talent of making himself loved by those who served him. Such, indeed, was his character; dignified, but not haughty, to his equals; respectful, but not slavish, to his superiors, he had always a kindly word or a warm smile to give to those whom fortune had placed beneath him. He did not court popularity; and the vulgar gratulations of the circus would have been offensive to his ear; but to a menial or to a woman he at once unbent the calm and philosophic reserve of his demeanour for the time of their temporary communication; and, with a gleam of kindly warmth, he cheered all those who approached him, as weaker or less fortunate than himself. Such a tribute is due to a man whose innocence even was not his friend, and who awakened jealousies even while he strove to disarm them.
Speaking thus of their well-loved lord, the slaves followed slowly till they approached the shore; and then, running forward to make up for their tardiness by momentary alacrity, they officiously aided the boatmen to push the boat close up to some gray rocks, which, shining through the clear blue water for many a foot below the ripple that checkered the surface, afforded a sort of natural pier for the party to embark. Flavia and her companions took their seats in the stern, and six or seven of the slaves placed themselves in the bow, the rest proceeding along the shore towards the palace. Ammian, leaning over the side in his fanciful mood, gazed down upon the small waves as they were dashed from the path of the boat; and then, catching a rippling gleam of yellow light tinging the crest of one of those tiny billows, he looked up to the heavens, where, just in that spot of deep sky towards which the streamer of the aplustrum turned, calm, and large, and bright, rose Hesperus above the world. He gazed upon it for several minutes with a look of rapt enjoyment, as if for the time he had forgotten everything in the universe but that one bright solitary star. Ildica had hitherto sat between her mother and Theodore, listening in silence to the brief and broken tales of his late travels which he was telling; but as a pause ensued, she fixed her eyes upon Ammian, and watched him with a soft smile, as if she knew what was passing in his thoughts, and waited to see what turn the fancy would take. From time to time her eyes appealed to Theodore, and then turned again to her brother, till at length her sweet musical voice, speaking her pure native tongue, but slightly touched and softened by the Greek accent, was heard breaking the momentary silence-which had fallen upon them all.
"Sing it, Ammian," she said, speaking to his unuttered thoughts, "sing it! Theodore will hear it well pleased. It is my mother's poetry, written since you left us, Theodore: sing it, Ammian!"
The boy looked up into his sister's eyes with a gay smile, and then poured suddenly forth in song a voice clear and melodious as her own. The first two stanzas he sung alone; but at the end of the second, and of each that succeeded, all those who knew the music took up the first as a chorus, sending sweet harmony over the twilight waters, while the rowers with their oars kept time to his
SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.
I.
Hesperus! Hesperus! in thy bright hand
Bearing thy torch, lit at day's parting beams,
Shed thy sweet influence o'er our dear land,
Sooth thou our slumbers and brighten our dreams.
II.
Hesperus! Hesperus! each closing flower
Yields thee the sigh of her odorous breath,
Thine, too, the nightingale's musical hour,
Thine be the offering of song and of wreath.
Hesperus! Hesperus! &c.
III.
Hesperus! Hesperus! holding thy way
Lone, but serene, 'tween the day and the night,
Guide all our hearts with the same even sway,
Soften each sorrow and calm each delight.
Hesperus! Hesperus! &c.
IV.
Hesperus! Hesperus! star of repose!
Herald of rest to the labours of day!
Through worlds and through ages, where'er thy light glows,
Honour and thanks shall attend on thy ray.
Hesperus! Hesperus! &c.
[CHAPTER IV.]
THE YOUNG LOVERS.
It was more than an hour after the boat had reached the landing-place, and, fatigued with a long, bright, happy day, Ammian and Eudochia had sought the repose of hearts at ease; while Flavia, sitting with her daughter and Theodore in the small chamber near the great Corinthian hall in the palace of Diocletian, busied herself with manifold questions in regard to those friends of other years, in Constantinople and in Rome, from whom she had voluntarily separated herself, in order to lead her children up to years of free agency, at a distance from the luxury and corruption of either great metropolis. The anecdotes which he had to relate, the little traits and rumours which he had collected concerning those whom she had once loved dearly, seemed of greater interest to the Lady Flavia than even the news of more personal importance which he had told her. Yet that news imported that the cession of a portion of Illyria by Valentinian to Theodosius was completely defined--that the dwelling in which she had found a home, by the interest of Paulinus, was now fully transferred from the monarch of the West, who had shown a strong disposition to despoil her of her lands in distant provinces, to the chief of the Eastern empire, who, on the contrary, had hitherto given her kindly aid and protection; and that her possession of that sweet spot, near which many of the estates of her dead husband lay, was confirmed to her by the hand of Theodosius himself.
The lamp had been placed at her right hand, in order that she might peruse the letter of Paulinus; but still she had not proceeded to that task. What were the feelings which stayed her, it were difficult to say; but the open pages lay unread by her side; and though she more than once took them up, as if to begin, she laid them down again as often, and asked some new question. At length, as the moonlight found its way through the half-drawn curtains of the door, she once more raised the letter, saying, "Well, I will read it now," and her eye again fixed upon the first few words.
"Notwithstanding, gentle Flavia," so the epistle ran, "the desire I had expressed to keep hidden from my son and our sweet Ildica our hopes and purposes, yet feelings that I cannot well explain, but which I will now attempt to depict, have induced me, sure of your consent and approbation, to tell him, ere he left me--perhaps for the last time--that it was my wish and hope, if his own heart seconded my desire, that he should in his twentieth year choose the one we both so dearly love for his bride."
Flavia raised her eyes to her daughter and the son of Paulinus, who had, in the occupation which had just employed her, a fair excuse for speaking in low and gentle murmurs. They had farther drawn back the curtains, and were gazing from the door upon the moonbeams which lighted up the great hall; and a bright, warm smile upon the mother's face told that her own heart took kindly part in the fond feelings which were so busy in theirs. She turned to the letter again, however, without comment, and read on. "I am about," continued Paulinus, "to travel through the provinces, and the will of God may require that I shall never return. I know not why, but I have a sadness upon me. As the sun goes down, small objects cast long shadows; and I have fancied that I once, and only once, beheld a cold look in the eye of the emperor towards me, a triumphant smile on the countenance of Chrysapheus; yet if ever omens were infallible, they would be the smiles of our enemies and the coldness of our friends. Nevertheless, let me acknowledge all my weakness--weakness which philosophy cannot conquer, and which it were wisdom to conceal from any other eye than thine, oh, thou that hast been as a sister to my widowed heart, as a mother to my orphan children. Before any evil augury could be drawn from the looks of others, my own heart seemed to feel the coming on of fate. There has been a shadow on my spirit, an apprehension of coming evil, a sensation of neighbouring danger, such as domestic animals feel when near a lion, even without seeing it."
Flavia laid down the page, murmuring, "And is it so, Paulinus? alas, and is it so? Go forth, my children," she added, abruptly, seeing them still standing in the doorway; "you seem as if you longed to taste the moonlight air. Go forth! It is a grand sight to gaze upon the waters of the Adriatic from that noble portico. It expands the heart, it elevates the mind, it raises the soul to the God who made all things. Go forth, then, my children, I would willingly be alone."
They needed no second bidding; for she told them to do that which had lain as a longing at their hearts ever since she had begun to read. Not a year before, when they had last parted, they would have waited no command--nay, no permission; but would at once, in the unconscious liberty of the young heart, bound forth to enjoy the scenes they loved, in the society that they loved not less--that of each other. But a change had come over their feelings since then, rendering all their intercourse more sweet, a thousand times more sweet, but more timid also. Theodore, indeed, knew why; for his father's parting words--the solemn sanction which Paulinus had given to his future union with Ildica, in case death should prevent a father's lips from pronouncing the blessing at their marriage feast--had opened his eyes to the nature of his own sensations. No sooner had the few first words been uttered by Paulinus than he had felt at once that his love for Ildica was more than fraternal affection; that it was different--how different!--from that which he experienced towards Eudochia; how different from that which he entertained towards any other human being! With Ildica, the knowledge was more vague: it was more a sensation than a certainty. So long as Theodore had been with her she had gone on treating him as a brother; but with the feelings of her heart changing towards him still, as imperceptibly, but still as completely, as the green small berry changes to the purple grape, the verdant bud to the expanded and to the yellow leaf. So long as he had been with her she had felt no alteration, though it took place; but during his absence she meditated on those things long and deeply; and on his return she met him with not less affection, but with deep and timid emotions, mingling a consciousness with her every look, which was sweet to the eye that saw it, and that wished it to be so.
Theodore raised the curtain, and Ildica passed out; but ere she had taken two steps in that grand moonlight hall, Theodore's hand clasped hers, and he led her on through all those splendid apartments--which have been, even in ruins, the wonder and the admiration of all after days--to the vast colonnade, six hundred feet in length, which fronted and overlooked the beautiful Adriatic. As they passed, in the various apartments of the slaves and domestics were to be seen lights, and to be heard many a gay voice laughing; and at the end of the principal streets of the palace, for it had its streets as well as corridors, two or three groups were seen playing in the moonlight with polished pieces of bone, or, with loud and vehement gesticulations, disputing about their game. Theodore almost feared that the portico itself might be tenanted by some such party; and his heart had anticipated an hour of lonely wandering with her he loved so eagerly, that he might not have brooked disappointment with old and stoical patience. That portico, however, was considered by the general inhabitants of the palace, and those also of the neighbouring village, as in some degree sacred ground. It was there that the great emperor, after having conquered and reigned in glory through the prime of life, after having satisfied the vengeful zeal of his counsellors against the Christian sects, which now, in spite of all his persecutions, peopled the whole land, after having made his name awful by deeds of blood not less than by deeds of magnificence, had been accustomed to sit, self-stripped of his power, and to gaze out, after having been an emperor, upon nearly the same scene which his eyes beheld before he was anything but a slave. Although little more than a century had elapsed since the death of Diocletian, his fate and history, his acts and his character, had been strangely distorted by tradition; and though the peasantry had not learned to look upon him as a bad man, or to execrate him as a tyrant, yet the extraordinary vicissitudes which he had hewn out for himself, the vague legends of his acts during life, and the mystery attaching to his death, surrounded his memory with a fearful awe, which held the people of the neighbourhood aloof from the spot for which he had shown such peculiar fondness, when night covered the world with her dim and fanciful shades.
The portico was vacant; happy sounds rose up from the shore, where the fishermen were lingering beside their boats; and a merry laugh, or snatches of some light song, were heard from the neighbouring village, sinking into the hearts of Ildica and Theodore with the power of a charm, waking associations of sweet domestic joy, dim and undefined, but thrilling--potent--overpowering. Oh! who can tell the many magic avenues through which all the external things of the wide universe find, at some time or other, means of communicating with the inmost heart--avenues, the gates of which are shut till, at some cabalistic word of grief, or joy, or hope, or fear, they suddenly fly open, and we find in our bosom a thousand sweet and kindred fellowships, with things which had never learned to touch or agitate us before.
Glad and cheerful, yet calm, were the sounds that broke occasionally upon the listening ear of night; and grand and solemn, but still gentle, was the scene which lay stretched beneath the risen moon; but the sensations which were in the breasts of the two rendered those sounds and sights a thousand fold sweeter, a thousand fold more dear; and, in return, the gay, distant voices, and the calm, wide, moonlight sea, seemed to draw forth and render intense, even to overwhelming, in the souls of Theodore and Ildica,
"Into the mighty vision passing,"
the inborn joy of all the new emotions to which that day had given life within their hearts. They paused and listened to the melody of innocent mirth, and paused and gazed upon the bright world before them. Ildica's hand trembled in that of Theodore, and her heart beat quick; but he felt that she was his, and that she was agitated; and with the gentleness of true affection, though without any definite plan for sparing her, he took the very means of telling his first tale of love so as to agitate as little as possible the young and tender being, all whose deepest feelings were given to him alone.
"Hark!" he said, "hark, dear Ildica! how gay and sweet those merry voices sound! Some lover come back from wandering like me, tells the glad story of his journey done to the ear of her who has watched for him in absence."
Ildica grew more calm, and raised her eyes, too, to Theodore, not without some feeling of surprise, so different was his tone, so much more manly were his words than when they had parted. There had been, up to that moment, one thing, perhaps, wanting in her love towards him--the conscious feeling of man's ascendency: she had loved with passion deep, sincere, and ardent; but she had loved as a girl, and looked upon him still as the companion of her early sports. His words and tone--the words and tone of one who had mingled with, and taken his place among men--put the last rose to the wreath. She felt that thenceforth to him she could cling for protection--to him she could turn for guidance and direction.
But Theodore went on. "Some lover," he said, "or perhaps some husband, Ildica, returned from the labours of the day to home, and happiness, and sweet domestic love! Oh, dear Ildica, since I have been away, often have I, in wandering through different provinces, lodged in the dwellings of traders in the towns, or in the cottages of shepherds and labourers in the mountains and the plains; and the most beautiful, the most blessed thing that I have ever seen has been found as often, if not oftener, in the hut of the herd, or the house of the common merchant, as in the marble palaces of the Cæsars, and within the walls of imperial cities. Oh, that sweet domestic love! that blessing--that bright blessing! which, like the glorious light of the sun, shines alike on every condition and on every state, cheering, enlivening, enlightening, all who shut it not out from their own dark hearts by vices and by crimes. Hark, hark! dear Ildica, how those gay voices seem to chime to my words, speaking of love, and joy, and hope! Oh, Ildica, dear Ildica! may not such things be also for you and me?"
Ildica sunk down on the stone seat by which they had been standing, but she left her hand still in his, and he felt it tremble. Nor did he himself speak unmoved; for his ardent nature, and the first breaking forth of those dear and treasured thoughts, shook his whole frame; and scarcely daring to trust his lips with further words, he placed himself by her side, murmuring only, "Dearest Ildica!" She answered only with a long-drawn, agitated sigh; and, gliding his arm round her soft waist, he drew her gently to his bosom.
"Oh, Theodore, is not this wrong?" she asked, but without attempting to free herself from his embrace.
"Wrong, my Ildica? wrong, my beloved?" he exclaimed: "oh, no! God forbid that I should ever seek to make you do or feel aught that is evil! No, no, dearest, my father's blessing will attend our union; he has promised, he has given it: our dear mother's consent was spoken to him long ago!"
"Indeed!" cried Ildica.
"Yes, indeed," he said, pressing her again closer to his bosom, from which she had partly raised herself as she spoke. "Yes, indeed, Ildica! Joyful did my father's words sound in my ear, as he told me that, if I could win your love, I might hope for your hand. Nothing now is wanting to my happiness but one dear word from my Ildica's sweet lips. Oh, speak it, beloved! Speak it; and say you will be mine." She could not find voice to utter the deep feelings of her heart; but her cheek sunk glowing upon his shoulder, and their lips met in the first dear, long, thrilling kiss of happy and acknowledged love.
[CHAPTER V.]
THE DISASTER.
From a dream of happiness such as mortal beings know but once on this side of the grave--a dream of happiness in which all the brightest, noblest, most joyful feelings of the fresh, unsullied, unexhausted heart of youth burst forth, like the streams of the Nile, from a thousand beautiful sources, Ildica and Theodore woke at length, and prepared to return to the side of her mother, to make her a sharer in their joy, and tell her how blessed, how supremely blessed they felt. Clinging close together in attitudes of tenderness, from which Attic sculptors might have learned yet another grace, they rose and moved along the portico. They moved, however, but slowly, lingering still for some fond word, some affectionate caress, or pausing in the scene, hallowed for ever in their eyes by the first spoken words of love, to gaze over it again and again between the colossal pillars of the portico. Over that scene, however, had by this time come a change--one of those sudden, inexplicable alterations not uncommon in southern climates. The moon, which by this time had wandered on far enough to warn them that the crowded moments had flown quickly away, was still hanging over the Adriatic, and pouring forth that glorious flood of light which makes the stars all "veil their ineffectual fires;" but the sky was no longer without clouds, and catching the light upon their rounded but not fleecy edges, the large heavy masses of electric vapour swept slow over the lower part of the sky, between the bright orb and the islands that slept beneath her beams. Theodore and Ildica paused to mark them, as slowly contorting itself into hard and struggling forms, one particular mass lay writhing upon the horizon, like some giant Titan wrestling with agony on his bed of torture. At the same time the breeze, which was balmy, though calm, during the evening, became oppressively hot, with a faint phosphoric smell in the air, and a deep silence seemed to spread over the whole world. The cigala was still, the voices on the shore had ceased, the merry laugh no longer resounded from the open cottage door, and the nightingale, which had prolonged her song after all the rest was silent, ceased also, and left a solemn hush over the whole universe.
"What strange forms that cloud is taking," said Theodore, called even from the thoughts of his own happiness by the sudden alteration of the scene: "and how quiet everything is. Doubtless, there will be a storm to-night. Alas! for those who are upon the treacherous sea."
"But your father," said Ildica; "he goes by land, Theodore. Is it not so?"
"Not so, dearest," replied Theodore; "he visits first Antioch, and then proceeds by land; but it is not for him I fear, as I heard of his landing while I was on the journey hither; but those strange clouds and the heat of the air must surely augur thunder to-night; and I saw a whole fleet of boats this morning at Tragurium, ready to put to sea."
"It is indeed warm," said Ildica; "I feel almost faint with the heat. Had we lived a few centuries ago, Theodore, we might have drawn evil auguries for ourselves and for the fate of our affections from those hard clouds, and the dull and almost mournful silence which has fallen over the world."
"Out upon auguries, my beloved," he replied; "we hold a better faith, and place our trust in God, who made our hearts and formed us for each other. We will confide in him, my Ildica; and for those who do so, signs and portents are but proofs of his power, which should strengthen, not shake our faith."
As he spoke he turned to lead her into the palace; but at that moment the low, sad howling of a dog broke the stillness of the night; and a figure, the face of which was turned from the moonlight, but which Ildica at once recognised as her mother, appeared at the end of the colonnade, and advanced towards them. Ildica and Theodore hastened to meet her, and each took and kissed one of her fair hands. "Give us your blessing, oh my mother!" said the youth; "we have been very happy. I have told Ildica how I love her. I have told her what hopes my father has given me; and she has promised to share my lot and make my home joyful."
"Bless you, my children, bless you!" replied Flavia, while Ildica hid her face on her mother's bosom, and Theodore again pressed his lips upon her hand. "Ye are young lovers, indeed; but still my blessing be upon you; and oh! may God grant that in the course of that love which is made to render us happy, you may be more fortunate than the parents of either! Your father, Theodore, and I have both lost those we loved as fondly as you love one another; but may better fate be yours, my children! may you never lose each other; but go on in the same warm affections through a long life, and death scarcely separate you, till we all meet again in heaven."
Flavia raised her eyes towards the sky, and for a moment remained in silence, though her lips still moved. The next instant, however, she added, "I came out to seek you, not because I thought you long absent, nor because I had any cause of fear; but I know not how or why it is I have a painful, apprehensive anxiety hangs upon me to-night, which will not let me rest. Perhaps it is the sultry heat of the atmosphere; the air has grown very oppressive; even the animals seem to feel it. Your sister's dog, Theodore, would not rest in her usual place by my feet, but ran out through the curtains; and Aspar told me as I passed that it had fled to the garden. How the cattle, too, are lowing in the village stalls! Do you not hear them? Does the wind come from Bratia?"
"Nearly," replied Theodore; "but cast away melancholy, my dear mother. Oh! that Ildica and I could give you a share of our happiness!"
"You do! you do, dear youth!" replied Flavia; "I do share in your happiness; and this melancholy will pass away again. Those who have known much grief are subject to such thick-coming fancies; and the first touch of deep sorrow brushes off the bloom of hope, crushes the firm confidence of the heart, and leaves shrinking apprehension to tremble at every breath; but let us in; there is a storm coming on."
As she spoke there was a low melancholy sound came rushing over the waters of the Adriatic; the clouds, which had before passed so slow and silently along, seemed now agitated by some unknown cause, and rushed in dark black volumes over the moon; while here and there, amid the clefts and rents of their dark canopy, looked out a calm bright star. But still the mourning sound increased; and the bending branches of the olives down below told that the breath of the tempest was already felt. The next instant, ere the lovers and Flavia could escape from the colonnade, the blast of the hurricane struck the building and shook the massy structure to its foundations. Behind the shelter of a pillar the two women escaped; but Theodore, strong and active as he was, found himself dashed forward against the wall of the palace; while leaves, and flowers, and broken boughs of trees were whirled about in the air, and strewed the marble pavement of the portico. It lasted but for a moment, however, dying away as it came, with a low moan; while a few large drops of rain followed, as if the punished demon of the storm fulfilled his allotted task of destruction with tears and with regret.
"Flavia! Ildica! you are not hurt!" cried Theodore, springing towards them.
"No! no!" replied Flavia; "we are safe; though it was a fearful gale. But let us in, Theodore; it may return. Hark! Good God! what is this?"
Well might she so exclaim. The wind had gone by; even its murmur had ceased; when suddenly there rose a roar from the earth as if ten thousand war-chariots had met in the shock of battle. The lightning burst forth from the clouds, and flashed along amid the innumerable dark gigantic pillars of the colonnade, lighting the whole of its vast extent with the blue and ghastly glare; the thunder rolled from the zenith to the horizon with a peal which would have deafened the ear to the loudest voice. But the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled, scarcely seen or heard; for below, around, was a more dreadful visitation still. The earth shook beneath their feet; the pavement rose and fell like the waves of the sea; the enormous columns tottered and reeled; the walls of massive stone bent to and fro; while the roar of the earthquake and the echoing of the thunder were rendered more terrific by the crash of falling building, and the shrieks both from the interior of the palace and the more distant village. Theodore cast his arms round Ildica and her mother; and, staggering along, hurried them down the steps across the level in front of the palace, and out of danger of its shaken walls. It was the impulse of the moment which made him act, and Flavia yield; but she paused ere they were many steps from the building, exclaiming, "My children! Theodore, my children! Your sister and Ammian! I must go back."
"And I will go too!" said Ildica, in a voice so calm that it made her lover turn suddenly to gaze upon her, who seemed to have lost the timid girl in the first moment of danger and horror.
"No, no!" he exclaimed. "Dear mother, hear me! There will be a second shock doubtless, but it will be some minutes ere it comes. Hasten with Ildica beyond the Golden Gate and up the side of the hill, out of reach of all buildings! I will seek Ammian and Eudochia, and join you in a moment. Fly, fly, dear mother! I leave in your charge what I value more than life. Save her!"
Flavia hesitated; but that moment a slave with a torch rushed out into the portico seeking them, while the motion of the ground subsided, and all became still. It was the swift runner, Aspar, who came up, crying, "Fly, lady! fly, dear mistress! the worst shock is never first; fly to the hills, fly!"
"Away with them, Aspar, beyond the Golden Gate," cried Theodore, breaking from them; "I will join you instantly! Away, away!"
Thus saying, he darted from them, rushed through the portico, and crossed the side avenue, while the wild clamour from the principal street of the palace echoed through the long halls and galleries; and the deep darkness in which that part of the building was plunged rendered the distant sound of wailing and of terror more frightful. On, on he went, though fragments of stone and cement obstructed his way, and crumbled under his feet, showing that even the first shock had been severe enough to shake that strong and massive fabric through every part. But Theodore still hurried forward, till, at length, in his haste, as he passed the spot where he and Ildica had seen the slaves playing on the pavement, he stumbled over a large soft body, and, stooping down, he felt with horror beneath his touch the yet warm form of a man, with the newly-fallen capital of a neighbouring column lying with crushing weight upon his loins. The long hair floating on his shoulders showed Theodore that the unhappy being had been a slave; but still the instinctive benevolence of the youthful heart made him pause a moment to ascertain if life were extinct. He spoke, but not a tone answered; he lifted the hand, in which life's soft warmth yet lingered; but not even a convulsive movement of the fingers told that one spark of the immortal fire still glowed in the mortal body. All was motionless, insensible, lifeless; and Theodore hurried on.
The gates of the Cyzicene hall were open; the glare of lights and the sound of voices came from within; and Theodore instantly entered, as the shortest way to the apartments occupied by Flavia and her household. Never, perhaps, did terror in all its forms present itself more awfully than in that grand and splendid chamber. There, as a general point of meeting, had collected eighty or ninety of the slaves and domestics of both sexes. Fear had not yet had time to subside; and with pale and haggard faces, livid lips, and wide anxious eyes they remained, some clinging to the columns which had so lately been shaken like reeds; some kneeling in the midst, and uttering the confused and terrified prayer; some cast down upon the pavement in utter self-abandonment; some hiding their eyes in their garments, as if they could shut out the approaching horrors that they feared to witness; some gazing wildly up to the roof, which they expected momently to fall upon them. Large fragments of the beautiful paintings which had covered the walls were now seen dashed about upon the floor; and a wide rent in the solid masonry over the door showed how insecure was the shelter which those terrified beings had sought from the night of the earthquake.
In the midst stood, gathered together in the hour of danger, three dusky Numidians, with a servant from the neighbouring Pentopolis, who, in happier times, had been too near akin to the dark Africans to live with them in amity, but who now clung to them for support; while a gigantic slave from the Porphyry mountains, one of the few who looked the unusual dangers of the night in the face with calm determination, was seen in the front, crushing out under his large foot a torch which one of his more terrified companions had let fall. There were two or three others who stood near, and, with arms folded on their chests, and dark brows full of stern resolution, gazed towards the door, as if waiting what horror was to come next.
In the hands of some of the bolder slaves were the torches which gave light to the hall; and the moment Theodore entered, one started from the group, exclaiming, in tones of eager--ay, and affectionate inquiry--though they were but slaves, "The Lady Flavia? Where is the Lady Flavia? Where is the Lady Flavia?"
He spoke as an old servant might speak to a boy he had known from infancy; but Theodore was no longer a boy; for the last nine months and the last few hours together had made him a man in mind as well as in body, and he replied with that prompt tone of commanding courage which won instant obedience.
"She is safe," he cried, gazing round him. "Up, up, all of you! Lie not there in prostrate terror, herding together like sheep beneath the lightning. Up, if you would save your lives! Up, and away! You with the torches go before them! Out beyond the Golden Gate you will find your mistress and Aspar. Keep close to the walls till you are in the open field! Another shock is coming, and the parapets and capitals fall first, but fall far out from the buildings. Crowd not together so, and crush each other in the doorway! Out, coward! would you kill your fellows to save your own miserable life? So! quietly--but speedily. You, Cremera! and you, and you, Marton, come with me! You are brave and honest, and love your lady. Snatch up whatever jewels and valuable things you see, and follow quick! Where is Eudochia? Where my brother Ammian?
"Her chamber is within the Lady Flavia's!" said the Arab Cremera; and, darting through the lesser doorway, Theodore hastened thither, followed by the three he had called, and one or two others, gathering up caskets, and scrinia, and gold, and jewels, as they hurried through the more private apartments of the palace. A sound of murmuring voices was before him as he came near the chamber of Flavia; but, dashing aside the curtain, he rushed in.
Kneeling upon the floor, as she had risen from her bed in terror, with her bright hair flowing in waving lines over her shoulders, her hands clasped, and her eyes raised to heaven as her lips trembled with prayer, was Eudochia; while beside her, fainting with terror, lay the negro girl who had sat beside the Hyader, lately so gay and thoughtless. Near her stood Ammian, whose first impulse had been to seek her; but in whose dark imaginative eyes, instead of terror, shone a strange and almost sportive fire, as if his excited fancy felt a degree of pleasure even in a scene so full of danger and of horror. Nevertheless, he was eagerly entreating his fair sister, as he called her, to conquer her terrors, and to fly with him to seek their mother, exclaiming, "Come, come, Eudochia, you shall pray to-morrow--or to-night, if you like it better, when once you are somewhere safe. Your prayers will go to heaven in but tattered garments, if they have to force their way through yon rift in the roof. Come, come! Oh, here is Theodore! Where are my mother and Ildica?"
"Both safe!" replied Theodore. "But this is no hour for sport, Ammian;" and, without question, he caught up his sister in his arms. "You take the casket from Cremera, Ammian!" he continued. "Let him take yon poor girl! Hark, there is a rushing sound! Quick, quick, it is coming again! On before, Ammian. On before, to the Golden Gate!"
Eudochia clung to his breast, and, hurrying on with a step of light, he bore her through the many chambers of the building, till, turning through the great hall called the Atrium, he entered one of the transverse streets, and paused a moment to listen if the sound continued. All, however, was still and dark, except where the murmur of voices and the rush of feet were heard from a distant spot, and where a number of torches appeared gathered together near the beautiful octagonal temple of Jupiter, or where from the apartments occupied by the old and incapable conservator of the palace were seen issuing forth two or three slaves with lights, and a solitary priest bearing the consecrated vessels of the temple, which had already been converted to a Christian church.
Onward, in the same direction, Theodore now bore the fair light form of his sister; but ere he had reached the end of the street, another awful phenomenon took place. From the midst of the intense, deep, black expanse which the sky now presented, burst forth an immense globe of fire, lighting with a fearful splendour the gigantic masses, columns, and towers of the palace; showing the neighbouring hills and woods beyond the gates, and even displaying the heavy piles of mountains that lay towering up towards the north. No thunder accompanied the meteor; and its progress through the sky was only marked by a sound as of a strong but equal wind, till suddenly it burst and dispersed with a tremendous crash, leaving all in deeper darkness than before.
The sight had made the multitude pause and fall upon their knees before the church; and as Theodore approached he heard a voice exclaiming, "Let us die here! We may as well end our days here as in the open fields! Let us die here!"
But, to his surprise, the next moment the calm sweet tones of the Lady Flavia struck his ear, replying to the words which she had heard too. "No, my friends! no!" she said, in a voice which had no terror in its sound, but was all calm but energetic tenderness. "No! it is our duty to God, to ourselves, to our brethren, to our children, to take the means of safety which are at hand. Let us fly quick from among these buildings, which another shock may cast down to crush us. There may be dangers even beyond the walls, but here are certain perils. Let us go forth; I came back but to seek my children! Lo, they have come in safety, and let us now depart. Oh, delay not, pause not, for the hesitation of terror more often points the dart and sharpens the sword that slays us, than the rashness of courage. Come, my friends, let us come. God will protect us; let us take the means he gives. Come, my Theodore, come. Ammian, you look as your father used to look when he went forth to battle. Should not such a face as that shame terror, my friends? Come, I pray ye, come!"
Even as she spoke, the same hollow rushing sound was again heard; the steps on which she stood, above the rest, shook beneath her, and Ammian, seizing her hand, hurried forward. Clouds of dust rose up into the air, shrieks of terror burst from the very lips that had so lately proposed to remain and die there, and every one now rushed towards the gate. But their steps were staggering and unequal, for the solid earth was again shaken, the buildings and the columns were seen tottering and bending by the light of the torches, the crash of falling masses blended with the roar of the earthquake, part of the frieze of the temple was dashed into the midst of the group of slaves, who were flying on before their mistress, and one among them was struck down.
"Stop!" said the voice of Flavia; "let us not leave any one we can save. Hold the torch here!" But it was in vain. The man was crushed like a trodden worm!
"God receive thy spirit to his mercy, through Christ!" cried the priest; and they rushed on, while still the earthquake seemed to roll the ground in waves beneath their feet, and their eyes grew dim and dizzy with the drunken rocking of the enormous buildings, through the midst of which they passed. The gate, though not far, seemed to take an age to reach, and joyful was the heart of every one as they drew near. But just as they were about to go forth, the struggling of the feverish earth appeared to reach its height; and one of those colossal flanking towers, which seemed destined to outlast a thousand generations, swayed to and fro like a young heart sorely tempted between virtue and crime, and then fell overthrown, with a sound like thunder across the very path of the fugitives. It left a chasm where it had stood, however; and through that rugged breach the terrified multitude took their way, stumbling and falling over the convulsed and quivering masses of stone.
Glad, glad were all bosoms when those walls were passed; and though still the ground heaved beneath their feet, though the roar continued, and the very trees were heard to crack and shiver as they passed along, yet all felt that some hope of safety was gained; though when they looked around, and saw the black and tangible darkness that covered the whole earth, and hid every object except that on which the occasional torchlight fell--when they gazed, I say, into that dull and vacant, unreplying blank, and heard the hollow roaring voice of the earthquake around, below, above, well might their hearts still sink, and well might many a one among them think that the predicted day of general dissolution had at length arrived.
Still carrying his sister in his arms, Theodore had followed Flavia and Ammian through the broken walls; and it was not till their feet trod the more secure ground beyond that he asked, "Where is Ildica, my mother?"
"Here at hand, upon the hill, my noble Theodore," she answered. "Eudochia now is safe," she added; "leave her with me, and give our dear Ildica tidings of our escape, for she promised not to quit the spot where I left her till my return. Yon faint spot of light upon the old tumulus--that is Aspar's torch."
Theodore placed his sister on her feet beside Flavia, and hurried on. He had no light with him; the heavens and the earth were all in darkness, and the roar of the last shock still rang, though more faintly, in the air. Yet, ere he had arrived within the feeble and indistinct glare of the slave's torch, the quickened ear of love and apprehension had caught the sound, and recognised the tread of his coming feet; and in a moment Ildica was in his arms, and her fair face buried on his throbbing bosom.[[4]]
[CHAPTER VI.]
THE EVIL TIDINGS.
The horrors of that night had not yet ended; for from the third hour after sunset till day had fully dawned, the fever of the earth raged with unabated fury. A melancholy and a ghastly group was it that soon crowned the hill where Flavia had left her daughter, when at length all those who had escaped with her from the palace were collected together round the torches. Not one half of those, indeed, who dwelt in that magnificent building, to which the earthquake gave the first severe blow, had assembled in the train of the Roman lady; but during the pause of nearly an hour which succeeded the second shock, many pale and terrified beings, some wounded and bruised with the falling masses, some nearly deprived of reason by their fears, wandered up from the palace and the neighbouring village, guided by the lights upon the hill, and with wild exclamations and bemoanings of their fate added something to the horrors of the moment.
Gradually the brief-spoken or almost silent awe subsided during that long interval of calm; and many who had been waiting with sinking hearts for the coming of a third shock began to talk together in low whispers, and even to fancy that the hour of peril had passed by. Gradually, too, serving to encourage such thoughts, the clouds rolled away; the stars looked out calm and bright, and the moon was seen just sinking into the Adriatic, but with a red and angry glow over her face, in general so calm and mild. Hope began to waken once again in all bosoms; and one, more rash than the rest, a fisherman from Aspalathus, ventured down the hill, declaring that he would go and see what had befallen his boat.
The minutes seemed hours; but very few had elapsed after his departure, ere the fierce rushing sound of the destroyer was again heard; again the earth reeled and shook, and yawned and heaved up, and burst like bubbles from a seething caldron; and lightning, without a cloud, played round the hills and over the waves. The terrified multitude clung together, and the sick faintness of despair seemed to defy all augmentation, when the voice of the fisherman was heard, exclaiming, as he hastened back up the hill, "Fly farther, to the mountains! fly farther up! the sea is rising over the land; the boats are driven into the market-place; the palace will soon be covered! Fly farther, and fly quickly, if you would save your lives!"
"Why should we fly?" cried the same voice which had before urged the multitude to stay and await death below; and at the same time a tall, gaunt man, with long streaming gray hair, and large, wild, melancholy eyes, pushed himself forward into the torchlight. "Why should we fly?" he cried; "and whither can we go to hide us from the wrath of God? Lo, I tell you, and it shall come to pass, that no sun shall ever rise again upon this earth, except the Sun of Righteousness. The last day, the last great day, is at hand, and in vain ye say to the mountains, 'Fall upon us; and to the hills, Cover us, in the great and terrible day of the Lord.' Make ready your hearts, and prepare your souls, for verily ye are called to judgment, and the Son of Man is coming, in clouds and glory, to separate the sheep from the goats."
His words, his solemn gestures, his wild and enthusiastic look, supported by his reputed sanctity of life, plunged the people in deeper despair; but Flavia again interposed, and with sweet and gentle, yet dignified and commanding eloquence, she won the people to hear, to yield, and to obey her. Lighted by a single torch, for those they had brought had burnt so far that it became necessary to spare them, the melancholy procession wound up the road which led over the mountains towards Titurum. After travelling for at least a mile, with a continual ascent, they again paused; and in order both to give new courage to the sinking hearts of those who accompanied her, and to prevent the enthusiast Mizetus from adding to their terrors, the lady besought the good priests of the palace church to guide them in praying to the Almighty in their hour of peril.
The old man had not spoken since they left the city; but the mild words of the Roman lady seemed to wake him from the stupor of anguish and terror into which he had fallen. Called upon to find words of consolation for the flock committed to his charge, he applied them first to his own heart, and instantly remembering the hopes and promises of a pure and exalted faith, he broke forth in a strain of powerful eloquence, now directing the people to put their trust in that Almighty arm which can save in the time of the most awful danger; now raising his voice in prayer to God, mingling adoration with petition, and offering at once the sacrifice of faith and supplication.
The people gathered round, slaves and freemen together, lifting their pale faces and anxious eyes by the dull torchlight to the countenance of the priest. They gained confidence and courage, however, at his words; and when he began his prayer, they kneeled around upon the still shaking earth, and rose again with hearts full of trust, calmed and strengthened by devotion. None had stood aloof, not even those who had hitherto remained firm to their ancient idolatry. In that hour of horror, they felt the need of some higher hope and more abiding trust, and they kneeled with the rest to that more mighty God whom hitherto they had not known.
Ere they rose, a light and grateful wind sprang up from the mountains; and with hope once more awakened, in a still dark and superstitious age, even so slight a change as that was received as a favourable presage. Many there were who regarded it as a sign that their prayers were heard; and when at length the calm gray dawn began to look from the eastern hills upon the wearied and anxious groups below, though the earth still shook, from time to time, with a convulsive shudder, the sight of the blessed light of returning day seemed to take the worst apprehension from their overloaded hearts, and many an eye shed tears of joy to see again those rays which they had feared were obscured for ever.
Rashness generally follows terror allayed; and scarcely had the sun fully risen, when numbers, anxious for friends whom they saw not--or, perhaps, with more sordid motives--began to hasten away towards the village and the palace. But the earth still shook, and Flavia, with her family and servants, still remained upon the hill, after striving anxiously to persuade the rest to wait till all was again completely still. Her reasoning was in vain, however, and troop after troop went off; but scarcely was the day an hour old, when another severe shock was felt, and many who had escaped the dangers of that fearful night were crushed or maimed in the ruins of the dwellings to which they had returned. That shock was the last, as it was the longest, which was felt; and when it subsided, all remained quiet; and though the ground was seen yawning in various places, though parts even of the mountains had slipped from their places, and rocks lay overthrown in the valleys; though the courses of the streams had been altered, and the whole face of the land was changed, yet it soon became evident that the earthquake was over, and mourning was all that remained--mourning unmingled with fear.
There was mourning in the hearts of all; and yet how many a glad embrace, how many a tender and affectionate caress, how many a prayer and thanksgiving, expressed the gratitude, the joy, the love, which filled the bosoms of Flavia and her family. How many an earnest and a wistful glance at the faces of each other told that, in the anguish of that long horrible night, selfish fear had been superseded by apprehensions of a nobler kind!
Bright and beautiful, calm and serene the day rose up over that scene of desolation and ruin, smiling as if to give comfort and consolation to the smitten earth; but still Flavia lingered on the hills, unwilling to trust her children or her domestics amid the ruins of the palace till she should be well assured that safety might be found within its walls. As the sun grew hot, however, she removed to the edge of a small wood of tall ilexes which hung upon the edge of the mountain road, though many of the finest trees had been uprooted and thrown down either by the wind or the earthquake; and having placed herself beneath the shade, with her children round her, several of the slaves ran hither and thither, to seek some food whereof to offer their well-loved mistress the morning's meal. Each returned with something; but each had some sad tale to tell of the ravages that were to be traced in the direction in which he had gone. Milk, and wine, and early fruits had been found in abundance among the various cottages in the neighbourhood, and a meal, plentiful, but simple as that of the night before, was spread upon the grass beneath the trees.
The earth was still, the air was fresh and sweet, and the birds had begun again their melody, forgetting in song, like the happy heart of youth, the blow of calamity as soon as it had passed away. All tended to sooth and to reassure; and the heart of Ammian, which, even during the terrible scenes of the past night, had not lost its bold and fearless daring, now broke out in light and wild fancies. He would know the causes of the earthquake; and when he found that neither his mother nor Theodore could give a satisfactory reply to all his many questions--as who in that age could have furnished any on such a theme?--he let his imagination run wild in conjectures; and many a bright poetical theory he formed, and many a wild and baseless hypothesis he raised, sporting with all the dread images of the past like a child playing with the weapons of deadly strife gathered from a field of battle.
Then he urged his mother to return quickly to the palace, in order, as he said, to see what old Ocean had been doing there during their absence. With Theodore, Flavia held more rational intercourse, taking counsel with him as to what course she had to pursue, and expressing an apprehension lest the palace, left totally unguarded, might be plundered during her absence and that of the old imperial conservator, who remained with them, his senses still bewildered with all the terrors he had gone through. Theodore, however, showed her that the faithful slaves who had followed him through the building had brought away all the valuable jewels, caskets, and gold which they had found; and for the rest, he offered to return himself, with the conservator and some of the slaves, and provide for the preservation of the palace and all that it contained.
"Go you with the rest to Salona, dearest mother," he said; "some dwellings must there have been preserved; and among the merchants and traders which it contains you will always find shelter and assistance for gold. Shaken as the palace has been, many parts may yet be standing which will soon fall, and your presence would only be dangerous, and embarrass us in ascertaining the state of the building. I will accompany you part of the way to Salona, and then turn round by the heathen cemetery towards Aspalathus and the palace."
Ildica listened, and her look seemed to say that she would fain accompany him; for hers was one of those hearts which would rather, far rather, take part in the danger and the grief of those they love than share even their happiest hours. But she said nothing; for she knew that her wishes ought not to be granted, and she would neither put her mother nor her lover to the pain of opposing her even by a word.
Eudochia, however, in the inconsiderate apprehensiveness of girlhood, clung to her brother, and besought him not to go; but Theodore soon pacified her, assuring her that he would not venture rashly where danger was apparent; and, after a few more words, orders were given to the domestics, and Flavia rose to proceed towards Salona. Weariness, indeed, was in all limbs; and with slow and heavy steps, those who had remained with Flavia on the uplands took their way along a road, which wound for some distance over the ridge of hills nearest to the sea, and then descended, separating into two branches, the one leading to the town of Salona, the other to Aspalathus and the neighbouring palace. The latter branch, with a steep declivity, wound down the hill, bordered on either hand by a long row of tall dark cypresses, which reached from the northern gate of the palace to a cemetery on the side of the hill. In that burial-ground, surrounded by a low wall not two feet high--thus built that all who passed might gaze upon the records of mortality within--lay crowded a multitude of tombs, checkered with groups of dull funereal trees. There reposed the remains of all who had died in the vicinity since Dalmatia had become a Roman province, and the frequent Siste, viator! called the eye, and recorded the vain attempt to teach mankind wisdom and moderation from the common lot of all.
It was near this burial-place, just where the roads parted, that Theodore paused, and, after a few minutes' conference with the old officer of the palace, selected several of the slaves to accompany him on his way. But just as he was about to depart, the eye of Ildica rested upon a cloud of dust that rose from the point where the road towards Salona became first visible, emerging from a thick grove at the distance of perhaps half a mile from the spot where they then stood.
"Look! look!" she said; "here are people coming up from the city--perhaps to give us assistance; and I trust they may bring a chariot or a litter, for my mother is pale and weary, and Eudochia is faint also."
"And you are weary, too, my Ildica!" said her mother. "But look! Theodore, look! Do you not see armour and helmets glittering through the dust in the sun? It seems a turma of cavalry or more, for the line is long. Stay with us, my dear son, till we see what we have here: let us turn into this field opposite the cemetery while they pass by."
Her words were instantly obeyed as commands; and, winding on with a slow equal march, a small body of horse, followed by a number of stragglers on foot, ascended the hill, and then, without pause or question, took the way on towards Aspalathus. In a moment after, however, at a quicker pace, as if to overtake them, and followed by a number of soldiers and attendants, came a superior person, who paused on seeing the group seated in the neighbouring meadow, and sent a messenger to ask if much mischief had occurred at the palace in consequence of the earthquake, and whether the Lady Flavia were safe.
"She is well, and present," replied Flavia to the messenger: "who is it that sends?"
"The military tribune, Marcian," replied the attendant, and Theodore instantly sprang up, exclaiming, "My father's dear and noble friend!" and without other comment he ran down the field. As soon as the tribune beheld him he leaped from his horse and pressed him in his arms, and after a few brief words gave some orders to his attendants, and advanced with Theodore to the spot where Flavia sat.
He was a man already in the middle stage of life, tall and powerful in frame, and of mild, but firm and serious countenance. He was not, perhaps, what would generally be reputed handsome, but his features were good; and there was the fire of genius in his large dark eye, the consciousness of energy on his broad square brow. Dignity was in his aspect and his whole demeanour; and, as he saluted the Lady Flavia, lamented with her the events of the preceding night, and inquired in tones of deep interest into all the perils through which she and her family had passed, there was that calm and graceful suavity in his deportment which inexpressibly won and struck every one who listened. Nevertheless, there was a cloud, as if of some deep melancholy, hung upon his brow; and when Flavia informed him of her purpose of proceeding to Salona, he shook his head mournfully, saying, "You had better not, lady! I think you had better not! It is a melancholy place," he added, a moment after; "much shaken and ruined, and a great number of people have lost their lives there. I fear that accounts from other parts of the empire will be sad indeed."
There was something gloomy and thoughtful in the manner of the tribune that surprised and somewhat alarmed the Roman lady; for so much habitual self-command had the soldiers of the empire, that it was rare to see any one, especially of such rank and renown as Marcian, display upon the occasion of any misfortune like the earthquake, the natural feelings which were not the less busy at their hearts. The marble exterior of the old republicans was much affected by all who sought to distinguish themselves in the Roman armies; and Marcian was famed for a temperate but unyielding firmness, which admitted not the semblance of grief or apprehension.
"Think you, then," she asked, "that we had better return to the palace? A report reached us in the night that the sea had nearly covered it."
Marcian paused for several minutes, as if meditating what were best to do, and then replied, "Lady, I will send to see the condition of the palace, and in the mean time bid them pitch me a tent here to give you a shelter from the sun. We have provisions with us too, and can offer you a meal, such as, perhaps, this great disaster may not have left at Aspalathus."
"I thank you," replied Flavia; "we have already eaten. We found no want of food among the cottages upon the hills."
But Marcian pressed upon them his hospitality so earnestly, that Flavia yielded, feeling that there was something more beneath his grave and thoughtful air than he suffered at first to appear; and while the tent was being raised by his attendants, he sent a messenger to the palace, with orders for such minute examination as showed that the day would be high ere he could return. Food already dressed was soon spread out under the tent; and one or two vessels of wine were produced, with several rich cups and vases, carved with the exquisite workmanship of an earlier age, and shining with many a precious stone. With grave suavity the tribune did the honours of the meal, and spoke much, and of many things, but with a wandering and discursive spirit, as if his mind was forcing itself to the task, and seeking more largely the aid of imagination than might have been the case had the heart been itself at ease.
"How magnificent are those cypresses!" he said, looking towards the long avenue which led down the hill; "I never beheld finer, except, perhaps, some that grow on the hill above Byzantium. But those stand solitary, as if to mark the tomb of some warrior who has died afar from his own land; these sweep down in a long row, like a line of departed monarchs seen in the shady grandeur of tradition. There they stood, centuries before Diocletian laid the first stone of his palace; there they stand now, when his history is almost forgotten; there they will stand, when we are as he is. Well are they placed between the palace and the sepulchre--those witnesses of the mortality of ages. The common lot of man! why should any one shrink from the common lot of man! Why should we look with hope to this world's future, or turn back our eyes with lingering grief to the past, or nurse bright hopes of such young beings as these," and he laid his hand upon the head of Ammian, "or mourn with bitter regret for those who have changed the thorny couch of mortal life for the calm bed of the tomb? Give me a cup of wine!"
"A prodigy! a prodigy!" cried one of the slaves, running into the tent; "an omen! an omen! Tribune, the eagle, which has hovered over us all the way from Salona, has settled on the pole of the tent!"
"Get ye gone!" replied Marcian; "what have I to do with omens? I may have the heart without the wings of the eagle. Out upon ambition! and yet this very Diocletian, who founded the palace hard by, was a slave before he was an emperor. But he loathed, resigned, and refused to resume the power which he had acquired and proved. That eagle haunts me: twice has it hovered for hours over me while sleeping in the open field, and now it settles on my tent. These are strange accidents, and yet nothing more than accidents. Who should dream of ambition with those tombs before his eyes? Give me some wine!"
The attendant who stood near handed the goblet, which he had held ready filled for some minutes, to his master; and Marcian,[[5]] yet but half a Christian, turned and poured some of the wine upon the ground. "To the dead!" he said, looking mournfully round him, "to the dead!" and his eyes fixed full and sadly, upon Theodore.
The youth started suddenly on his feet, and grasped the tribune's hand, exclaiming: "My father! I adjure thee tell me! What of my father?"
Marcian threw his arms round the slighter form of his young friend, speaking some words in a low tone. Flavia rose and gazed eagerly in the face of the tribune, who shook his head mournfully as his reply; and Theodore hid his face in his mantle, while Eudochia burst into wild and weeping lamentations. Ildica's dark eyes overflowed in silence; and though Flavia let not one drop roll over the jetty fringes of her eyelids, her pale cheek grew paler, and her lip quivered with intense emotion. Marcian said no more, but gazed down sternly upon the hilt of his sword; and the only words that were uttered for some time were: "Alas, Paulinus!" which broke from the lip of Ammian.
[CHAPTER VII.]
THE DEPARTURE.
It was a long and dreary pause; but at length the stern and virtuous soldier, who, ere many more years had passed, seated himself without crime or bloodshed in the chair of the Cæsars, laid his hand upon the arm of Theodore, with a firm but kindly pressure which spoke at once to a heart full of high feelings and of noble energies, and roused it from the dull stupor of sudden grief.
"Oh! Marcian," exclaimed the youth, "this is an unexpected stroke! So short a while since I saw him depart full of vigour, and life, and happiness. So short, so common a journey--so easy--so safe! How, tell me how this has befallen? Was it by sickness, or accident, or war with some rebel, or in the chase of some wild beast?"
"Alas, no!" replied Marcian; "it was by none of these, my son. Nor would I wound your young heart afresh by telling how it did take place, were it not absolutely necessary for you to know your father's fate, in order that you may gain an augury or a warning of your own, and timely prevent it."
"The emperor," cried Flavia, "the emperor has destroyed his faithful friend: Paulinus saw it before he went. Every line of his last letter breathes the anticipation of his coming fate. He saw it in the gloomy brow of Theodosius; he saw it in the smile of Chrysapheus; he felt that he was going, never to return. Say, tribune, say! was it not the emperor's deed?"
"Even so!" replied Marcian. "By the order of him whom he had served with unequalled fidelity and truth--the friend of his schoolboy hours, the companion of his high and noble studies--by the hands of those he thought his friends--hands that had been plighted to him in affection, and raised with his in battle--at his own social board, and in the hour of confiding tranquillity--was slain Paulinus, leaving not a nobler or a better behind."
Theodore again shed tears, but Flavia asked eagerly, "The cause, tribune! What was the cause--or rather, what the pretext for cause--reasonable cause there could be none for dooming to death one of the purest, noblest, least ambitious men that the world has ever yet seen."
"The cause was jealousy, lady," replied Marcian; "a cause that leads men ever to wild and madlike actions. In the gardens of the Cæsars, near their eastern capital, is a solitary tree, which bears fruit rarely; but when it does, produces an apple like that which hung in the garden of the children of Hesperus--small in size, golden in colour, and ambrosial to the taste. Paulinus had bestowed on Eudoxia a book, containing poems of Sappho, which no other manuscript can produce; and the empress, in return, had sportively promised her husband's friend the rarest thing that she could find to bestow. The tree of which I spoke had in the past autumn produced but one apple, and that was sent, on the entrance of the new year, by Theodosius to Eudoxia. She, in thoughtless innocence, sent it as the rarest of all things to Paulinus, and Chrysapheus took good heed that the fact should reach the emperor's ears, distorted to his purpose. Fury seized upon the heart of Theodosius; but the base eunuch had sufficient skill and power to make him conceal his suspicions and his hatred, for Chrysapheus well knew that an open accusation might produce a bold and successful defence. Paulinus was sent to Cæsarea; and there, unheard, without trial, and without justice, was put to death!"
"Tyrant!" muttered Theodore. "Base, ungrateful tyrant!"
"Let your indignation swallow up your grief, my Theodore!" replied Marcian; "but let it not injure your country. Great as it is, great as it well may be, still greater will it become when you hear that Valens, your father's bosom friend, has been since sacrificed for no other crime than his love for Paulinus; that several of your household slaves have been slain by the emperor's orders; and that all the wealth of Paulinus has been bestowed upon Chrysapheus!"
Theodore again started up, exclaiming--"I swear by all my hopes, and by my father's spirit--"
But Marcian caught his arm. "Swear nothing against your country, my son," he cried: "Theodore, we have need of every Roman!"
"Hear me! hear me!" cried Theodore. "Naught against my country. No, never, let the temptation be what it may, will I draw the sword against Rome. So help me the God in whom I trust! But should ever the time come when this hand can reach a tyrant, or a tyrant's minister, it shall doom him to death as remorselessly as he has doomed my noble father;" and having spoken, he cast himself down, and again covered his face in his mantle.
Never, perhaps, through all the long tragic record of human woes and suffering which the past, the sad and solemn past, holds in its melancholy treasury--never was there yet a scene in which the dark feeling of desolation penetrated more deeply into every bosom, than in the one which surrounded the tribune Marcian. The horrors, the fatigues, the destruction of the preceding night, had laid every heart prostrate in the general calamity; and when the blow of individual grief fell heavy upon all alike, it seemed to crush and trample out in every breast the last warm kindly hopes--the last bright delusions of our phantasm-like existence.
Flavia gazed on her children and on the orphans in deep melancholy; while Theodore, with his face buried in his robe, sat apart, and Eudochia hid her streaming eyes upon her adoptive mother's lap. Ildica, with clasped hands, and cheeks down which the large bright tears rolled slow, now gazed upon her young and mourning lover; now turned an inquiring, anxious, longing glance towards Marcian; who, on his part, again, with knitted brow and downcast eyes, sat in the midst, stifling emotions which struggled hard against control. Even the slaves of Flavia and Paulinus, among whom the news had spread, gathered round the open tent, and, standing wrapped up in their dark penulæ, gazed with mournful and sympathizing looks upon the sad group beneath its shade; while, mingled among them, here and there, were seen some of the stout soldiers who had accompanied the tribune, evidently sharing, notwithstanding all their own habits of danger and suffering, and their frequent familiarity with death itself, in the grief of the young and hapless beings before them.
One only of the party seemed occupied with other thoughts, and yet the seeming belied him. Ammian, reclining by the side of the little sandy path which crossed the meadow where they sat, seemed busy, in his usual abstracted manner, in tracing figures on the dust. One of the soldiers moved across to see what he was employed in, and by that action drew the attention of Marcian, whose eyes turned thither too; when, to his surprise, he beheld written in the Greek character upon the sand--
"Death to all tyrants! The blood of the guilty for the blood of the innocent! Vengeance for Paulinus!"
Rising at once, he set his foot upon the writing ere the slower soldier could decipher what it meant; and then, raising his finger to Ammian, he said, with emphasis, "Beware!"
The boy looked up in his face, and answered calmly, "I will beware, most noble Marcian!" But there was meaning in his eyes, and Marcian chose not to urge his wild and daring spirit further.
Seating himself again by Flavia's side, the tribune, with the calm gentleness of a compassionate heart, endeavoured to sooth the pain which it had been his bitter task to inflict; and when he had, in a degree, succeeded in gaining attention, he gave some orders to the soldiers, and spoke some words to the slaves, which caused them to retire from the vicinity of the tent.
"Listen to me, Theodore," he said; "listen to me, noble lady! Grief has had its part; other duties call for your consideration. I would fain ask you, sweet Flavia, whither you now propose to turn your steps; what plan you now propose to follow?"
"We proposed," replied Flavia, after a moment's hesitation, "to go forward to Salona; there to wait, if we could find a refuge, till the palace was again rendered habitable, or till we could send those things which may be necessary to our own villa upon the mountains. I have not dwelt in it since my husband's death, but if it be necessary I can conquer memory."
"To Salona!" replied Marcian, musing; "to Salona! It is true, you could easily fly thence in case of necessity to Ravenna; but Valentinian, if report has informed me rightly, loves you not, and might avenge himself by giving you up to Theodosius!"
Flavia gazed earnestly in the tribune's countenance, as the new and painful conviction of fresh dangers broke upon her. "More sorrows!" she said, "more, more, to be endured! Think you, then, noble Marcian, that we are in danger at Salona? Think you, then, that Theodosius will extend his persecution even to us, innocent as we are?"
"He has already slain one as innocent as any of us, lady," replied the tribune, "and he has given up to the sword one friend and many of the slaves of him who is gone. Do you believe, then, that he will spare the cousin of one whom he hated--a cousin who was loved as a sister? Can you trust to his stopping short with the father, and not carrying on his vengeance to the son?"
"Oh that I were in his palace!" cried Theodore: "oh that I were in his hall, and before his throne!"
But Flavia answered more calmly: "Tell us all our danger, tribune. Give your kind and generous advice. You are known as wise and good, as well as brave and skilful. We will give our actions into your hands for guidance. You shall shape our course as you think fit."
"Lady," replied Marcian in a tone which, notwithstanding all his command over himself, showed how much his heart was moved,--"lady, I loved Paulinus as a brother. He was wise and eloquent, learned and brave, and I am but the son of a common soldier, nurtured in camps, and educated in the rude field. Yet between my heart and his there were common feelings; and in the course of our various lives we chained our souls together by mutual benefits: may his shade find Elysium! When I heard of what had befallen, my first thought was of my friend's children. My cohort was in Dalmatia, my time of command approaching; and though I had been called to the capital by the imperial mandate, I prepared to come hither with all speed. While I so prepared, I heard of the death of Valens and his slaves, and doubted not that the cup might next pass to me. I presented myself before the emperor to know at once my doom; but he contented himself with commanding me to come hither, and lead the troops instantly into Thrace. Another cohort under the command of Strator, the bitter enemy of Paulinus, is ordered hither instantly to regulate--such is the pretext--the line of frontier with the messengers of Valentinian. Lady, I fear me there may be other purposes to execute; and I have hastened, without pause or rest, to bring you tidings which, sad as they are, might have been crowned with bitterer still if I had not been the messenger--to bring you such tidings, and to take counsel with you for your safety. My opinion, indeed, my advice, is little worthy of your having; but still, let us consult together, and--as far as my duty as a soldier and a Roman will permit--let me be a brother to the Lady Flavia, a father to my dead friend's orphans."
"Your advice will be as wise as your heart is kind," replied Flavia. "Oh give it us, my friend! give it to us fully and openly. We will be guided by it, unless there be reasons against it, which even you yourself shall approve. If safety be not to be found in Illyricum, whither would you have us go?
"To the extreme limits of the empire!" replied Marcian. "What matters it to you what the land be called which you inhabit for a few short years? what matters it if the north wind blow somewhat more coldly than in this golden land? if winter wear a ruder aspect, and the flowers and fruits linger for the summer sun ere they bloom and ripen?"
"What matters it, indeed!" said Flavia. "We love this scene, tribune--well and dearly do we love this glorious scene--but we love it more from the tender memories that have been attached to it, than even for its sunny splendour and its face of beauty. But now the thunder which has stricken us has turned the sweet and fruity wine which filled our cup to sour and hateful dregs. Another land will be brighter in our sight. Freedom from a tyrant's neighbourhood shall supply the place of beauties that we leave behind; the absence of objects that recall our griefs shall compensate for those that once awoke our joys; peace shall be our atmosphere of balm, security our sunshine. What say you, Theodore?
"Let us go, my mother," replied the youth: "where you and Ildica, Ammian and Eudochia, are with me, shall be my country. The tyrant has smitten down one object of my love, but he is powerless over my capability of loving: that which was parted is now all concentrated. You will go with me, my Ildica, is it not so? and my father's blessing--the blessing of the dead--shall follow, and comfort us in exile. But whither would you direct our course, noble Marcian?"
"Towards the banks of the Danube," he replied. "There, at the extreme verge of the imperial territory, the power of Theodosius waxes weak, and is exercised with difficulty. There, too, if mad and persevering jealousy drive him still to seek your hurt, ten steps place you beyond his reach, where the feeble and degenerate Cæsar dare not stretch a hand to grasp you: your father's brother dwells at Margus, bishop of the place."
Theodore's countenance fell. "He was indeed the brother of my father's blood," he answered, "but was never the brother of his love. Grasping, avaricious, crafty, I have heard my father say that Eugenius has the talents, but not the virtues, of a Roman."
"Yet with him," replied Marcian, "are you sure of a safer asylum than with any one else. Even at this moment he is at enmity with the court of Theodosius, and bears a mortal hatred to Chrysapheus, who had wronged him, abandoned him, and, notwithstanding the pleading of your father in his behalf, would have willingly given him up to the barbarians. With him you will find safety, I must not say you will find vengeance--but it may be so."
"Let us go!" cried Theodore; "let us go, my mother! The gold and jewels which, unwitting of all this, I made the Numidians carry forth last night, will render the journey lighter to you, dear mother; and if my uncle, careful of his wealth, refuse to give me support, I will find means to win it for myself."
"Fear not for that," replied Marcian; "your father's wealth, Theodore, is gone, but his estates are yours; and even Theodosius dares not openly take from you that which no law has sentenced you to lose. Strange that he who unquestioned takes a life unjustly should not have power to seize your land, and yet it is so. Now, lady, let me send once more to the palace, and bid them bring forth all that your treasury contains. Take with you all your moveable wealth; for if you do not so guard yourself, it will fall into hands which render no account. I will bid them, too, bring forth whatever litters and carriages they find, to bear you less weary on the way; and ere two days be over, I will follow, and rejoining you, protect you from harm, till, on the frontiers of M[oe]sia, I must leave you and march on. At all events, my presence and my troops will ensure your safety so far; and even after that, I shall be interposed between you and your enemies, so that no messenger of evil can pass without my learning his purpose, delaying his journey, and giving you timely tidings. Speed, however, matters much, and now I would have you set forth without a day's delay."
Flavia sought not to procrastinate; for though many a clinging memory attached her to those scenes by the fine filmy ties of associations, which even the sharp edge of grief could not cut, yet the safety of Theodore, the happiness of her own child, the enfranchisement from a state of society, where virtue was no safeguard and justice afforded no shield, were objects too dear and high to be risked by delay. Few and melancholy were the words that now passed, but the orders of Marcian were promptly obeyed; and though he would suffer neither Flavia nor Theodore to return, even for an hour, to the palace, knowing far more of the cruel orders which Theodosius had already given against them than he chose to communicate, yet a number of their domestics were sent thither with his soldiers to remove all that belonged to either family in the building.
Ere the sun had passed the meridian more than an hour, all who had been sent had returned, and many and curious were the objects which now surrounded that sad group by the side of the cemetery. A number of mules and horses were there; the black charger which had carried Paulinus in his last victory over the Alani, and which had never been ridden since by any one but himself; the white horses which drew the low carriage called pilentum, wherein Flavia was accustomed to drive along the margin of the sea; litters with their silver feet, and covered chairs of gold and ivory; rich caskets; leathern bags of gold and silver coin; and large quantities of silks and fine linens (then become general, but still considered costly,) made up into packages of convenient sizes for carrying on the shoulders of the slaves, or placing on the beasts of burden, together with cups and vases of gold, silver, and precious stones; and slaves of all complexions and of every different feature. Everything, in short, which was usually collected in a wealthy and powerful Roman house, at that luxurious and extravagant period, was there scattered round in glittering profusion, giving that group the appearance of some caravan from Ophir or from Tyre reposing on its journey. Some confusion and some delay took place, though everything was arranged as quickly as possible, while Flavia looked on in calm sadness, and Theodore gazed upon the scene with burning indignation unquenched by grief, making his lip still quiver and his bright eye flash.
At length all was prepared, and, with a few words of heartfelt thanks to Marcian, the lady placed herself with Ildica in one of the lectulæ or litters, Eudochia and her chief attendant reclined in another. Ammian sprang upon a small Thracian horse, and Theodore mounted his father's charger. The noble beast, wild with unwearied strength, reared high and snorted fiercely, as he felt the light weight of the young Roman; but Theodore with skill and power soon curbed him to his will, and patted his proud neck, while a tear, given to the memory of him who was gone, wetted his eyelids. The whole party then moved on, winding back again along the path which they had trodden that very morning.
Their way lay over the hills, and for an hour they moved on, ascending gently, but without stopping, till at length, on the highest spot of the inferior acclivity, which lies at the foot of the higher mountains, Flavia bade the bearers stop, and gazed out of the litter upon the scene which she was quitting perhaps for ever. There it lay, robed in the same splendid sunshine which had adorned it on the preceding day. To the eyes which looked upon it not a change was to be seen. The palace, the village, the distant town of Salona, the beautiful bay, the golden islands which are scattered along the coast, the liquid sapphire in which they seemed to float, were all sleeping beneath the wanderers' glance in the drowsy heat of midday, looking calm and tranquil, as if nature herself imitated the hypocrisy of man, and covered with deceitful smiles the desolation which reigned within her bosom. The measured round of the sun had scarcely been accomplished, since those who now stood upon the hill-top, fugitives from their dear domestic hearths, had met together after separation, and had gazed over that same lovely prospect from the clump of cypresses which now lay beneath their eyes. Scarcely had one round of the sun been accomplished since, standing there, they had gazed upon that pageant-like scene of beauty, and had felt all its fair features reflected from the clear bright mirror of the happy heart. Scarcely had one round been accomplished since every splendid object that the eye could find, and every sweet sound that the ear could catch, in a spot, and a moment when all was music and brightness, had seemed but an image, a type, a prophecy of joys, and happiness, and successes yet to come; and yet in that brief space an earthquake had rent and torn that enchanted land, and had scattered ruin, desolation, and death over its fair calm face: in that brief space, from the bosoms of those who gazed upon it had been torn the bright joys of youth and inexperience; had been scattered the dear hopes and warm imaginings of innocent expectation; had been riven one of the dearest ties of human existence, the great band of the loving and the loved; for not one in that sad family but felt that the unjust fate of Paulinus had given a chilly coldness to their hearts--no, not one from the youngest to the oldest. The young felt that the fresh bloom was gone for ever from the Hesperian fruit; the elder that the cropped flower of hope, which had again been beginning to blossom, had been once more crushed down, and never could bloom again.
Between their fate and the scene they gazed upon there seemed some fanciful affinity; each felt it, each lingered with fond regret to gather into one glance all the thousand lovely and beloved sights; each sighed as they gazed and thought of the "For ever!" and at length, even from Flavia's eyes, broke forth the long-repressed tears.
The slaves stood round and sympathized with those who mourned. Many a dark eye and many a rough cheek was moistened with the drops of kindly feeling, till at length the lady wiped her tears away, and, waving her hand towards the valleys on the other side, said, "Let us go on!"
Again they began to move, when the voices of two slaves broke forth in a mournful song, which they had probably often sung in their own remote land.
SLAVE'S SONG.
I.
"We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth;
Our life's but a race to the death from the birth;
We pause not to gather the flowers as they grow,
The goal is before us, and on we must go!
We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."
II.
"Fair scenes of our childhood, dear homes of our youth,
Memorials of innocence, virtue, and truth,
The land of our birth, the dear mother that bore--
We leave ye behind us, we see you no more!
We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."