LOST IN ROME . Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

a scene of such glowing and vivacious excitement, as might well give the Athenian spirit of Glaucus an excuse for its susceptibility to joy.

      'Talk to me no more of Rome,' said he to Clodius. 'Pleasure is too stately and ponderous in those mighty walls: even in the precincts of the court—even in the Golden House of Nero, and the incipient glories of the palace of Titus, there is a certain dulness of magnificence—the eye aches—the spirit is wearied; besides, my Clodius, we are discontented when we compare the enormous luxury and wealth of others with the mediocrity of our own state. But here we surrender ourselves easily to pleasure, and we have the brilliancy of luxury without the lassitude of its pomp.'

      'It was from that feeling that you chose your summer retreat at Pompeii?'

      'It was. I prefer it to Baiae: I grant the charms of the latter, but I love not the pedants who resort there, and who seem to weigh out their pleasures by the drachm.'

      'Yet you are fond of the learned, too; and as for poetry, why, your house is literally eloquent with AEschylus and Homer, the epic and the drama.'

      'Yes, but those Romans who mimic my Athenian ancestors do everything so heavily. Even in the chase they make their slaves carry Plato with them; and whenever the boar is lost, out they take their books and their papyrus, in order not to lose their time too. When the dancing-girls swim before them in all the blandishment of Persian manners, some drone of a freedman, with a face of stone, reads them a section of Cicero "De Officiis". Unskilful pharmacists! pleasure and study are not elements to be thus mixed together, they must be enjoyed separately: the Romans lose both by this pragmatical affectation of refinement, and prove that they have no souls for either. Oh, my Clodius, how little your countrymen know of the true versatility of a Pericles, of the true witcheries of an Aspasia! It was but the other day that I paid a visit to Pliny: he was sitting in his summer-house writing, while an unfortunate slave played on the tibia. His nephew (oh! whip me such philosophical coxcombs!) was reading Thucydides' description of the plague, and nodding his conceited little head in time to the music, while his lips were repeating all the loathsome details of that terrible delineation. The puppy saw nothing incongruous in learning at the same time a ditty of love and a description of the plague.'

      'Why, they are much the same thing,' said Clodius.

      'So I told him, in excuse for his coxcombry—but my youth stared me rebukingly in the face, without taking the jest, and answered, that it was only the insensate ear that the music pleased, whereas the book (the description of the plague, mind you!) elevated the heart. "Ah!" quoth the fat uncle, wheezing, "my boy is quite an Athenian, always mixing the utile with the dulce." O Minerva, how I laughed in my sleeve! While I was there, they came to tell the boy-sophist that his favorite freedman was just dead of a fever. "Inexorable death!" cried he; "get me my Horace. How beautifully the sweet poet consoles us for these misfortunes!" Oh, can these men love, my Clodius? Scarcely even with the senses. How rarely a Roman has a heart! He is but the mechanism of genius—he wants its bones and flesh.'

      Though Clodius was secretly a little sore at these remarks on his countrymen, he affected to sympathize with his friend, partly because he was by nature a parasite, and partly because it was the fashion among the dissolute young Romans to affect a little contempt for the very birth which, in reality, made them so arrogant; it was the mode to imitate the Greeks, and yet to laugh at their own clumsy imitation.

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

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

      THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG

       I.

       Buy my flowers—O buy—I pray!

       The blind girl comes from afar;

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

       These flowers her children are!

       Do they her beauty keep?

       They are fresh from her lap, I know;

       For I caught them fast asleep

       In her arms an hour ago.

       With the air which is her breath—

       Her soft and delicate breath—

       Over them murmuring low!

       On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet,

       And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet.

       For she weeps—that gentle mother weeps—

       (As morn and night her watch she keeps,

       With a yearning heart and a passionate care)

       To see the young things grow so fair;

       She weeps—for love she weeps;

       And the dews are the tears she weeps

       From the well of a mother's love!

       II.

       Ye have a world of light,

       Where love in the loved rejoices;

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

       And its beings are empty voices.

       As one in the realm below,

       I stand by the streams of woe!

       I hear the vain shadows glide,

       I feel their soft breath at my side.

       And I thirst the loved forms to see,

       And I stretch my fond arms around,

       And I catch but a shapeless sound,

       For the living are ghosts to me.

       Come buy—come buy?—

       (Hark! how the sweet things sigh

       For they have a voice like ours),

       `The breath of the blind girl closes

       The leaves of the saddening roses—

       We are tender, we sons of light,

       We shrink from this child of night;

       From the grasp of the blind girl free us—

       We yearn for the eyes that see us—

       We are for night too gay,

       In your eyes we behold the day—

       O buy—O buy the flowers!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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