Edward Bulwer-Lytton: The Last Days of Pompeii

BOOK THE FIRST 3. Chapter III (continued)

'You are too generous, Glaucus,' said the gamester, handing the cup to his slave; 'but your love gives it a double value.'

'This cup to the Graces!' said Pansa, and he thrice emptied his calix. The guests followed his example.

'We have appointed no director to the feast,' cried Sallust.

'Let us throw for him, then,' said Clodius, rattling the dice-box.

'Nay,' cried Glaucus, 'no cold and trite director for us: no dictator of the banquet; no rex convivii. Have not the Romans sworn never to obey a king? Shall we be less free than your ancestors? Ho! musicians, let us have the song I composed the other night: it has a verse on this subject, "The Bacchic hymn of the Hours".'

The musicians struck their instruments to a wild Ionic air, while the youngest voice in the band chanted forth, in Greek words, as numbers, the following strain:-

          THE EVENING HYMN OF THE HOURS

                     I

     "Through the summer day, through the weary day,
          We have glided long;
      Ere we speed to the Night through her portals grey,
          Hail us with song!--
         With song, with song,
        With a bright and joyous song;
       Such as the Cretan maid,
        While the twilight made her bolder,
       Woke, high through the ivy shade,
        When the wine-god first consoled her.
       From the hush'd, low-breathing skies,
       Half-shut look'd their starry eyes,
          And all around,
          With a loving sound,
        The AEgean waves were creeping:
       On her lap lay the lynx's head;
       Wild thyme was her bridal bed;
       And aye through each tiny space,
       In the green vine's green embrace
       The Fauns were slily peeping--
       The Fauns, the prying Fauns--
      The arch, the laughing Fauns--
      The Fauns were slily peeping!

                     II

      Flagging and faint are we
        With our ceaseless flight,
       And dull shall our journey be
        Through the realm of night,
       Bathe us, O bathe our weary wings
       In the purple wave, as it freshly springs
        To your cups from the fount of light--
    From the fount of light--from the fount of light,