Edward Bulwer-Lytton: The Last Days of Pompeii

BOOK THE FIRST 2. Chapter II (continued)

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.