of a temple, or in the porticoes of the voiceless forum, broke the wan and fluctuating light of the struggling morn.  From the heart of the torpid city, so soon to vibrate with a thousand passions, there came no sound:  the streams of life circulated not; they lay locked under the ice of sleep.  From the huge space of the amphitheatre, with its stony seats rising one above the other—­coiled and round as some slumbering monster—­rose a thin and ghastly mist, which gathered darker, and more dark, over the scattered foliage that gloomed in its vicinity.  The city seemed as, after the awful change of seventeen ages, it seems now to the traveler,—­a City of the Dead.’

The ocean itself—­that serene and tideless sea—­lay scarce less hushed, save that from its deep bosom came, softened by the distance, a faint and regular murmur, like the breathing of its sleep; and curving far, as with outstretched arms, into the green and beautiful land, it seemed unconsciously to clasp to its breast the cities sloping to its margin—­Stabiae, and Herculaneum, and Pompeii—­those children and darlings of the deep.  ‘Ye slumber,’ said the Egyptian, as he scowled over the cities, the boast and flower of Campania; ’ye slumber!—­would it were the eternal repose of death!  As ye now—­jewels in the crown of empire—­so once were the cities of the Nile!  Their greatness hath perished from them, they sleep amidst ruins, their palaces and their shrines are tombs, the serpent coils in the grass of their streets, the lizard basks in their solitary halls.  By that mysterious law of Nature, which humbles one to exalt the other, ye have thriven upon their ruins; thou, haughty Rome, hast usurped the glories of Sesostris and Semiramis—­thou art a robber, clothing thyself with their spoils!  And these—­slaves in thy triumph—­that I (the last son of forgotten monarchs) survey below, reservoirs of thine all-pervading power and luxury, I curse as I behold!  The time shall come when Egypt shall be avenged! when the barbarian’s steed shall make his manger in the Golden House of Nero! and thou that hast sown the wind with conquest shalt reap the harvest in the whirlwind of desolation!’

As the Egyptian uttered a prediction which fate so fearfully fulfilled, a more solemn and boding image of ill omen never occurred to the dreams of painter or of poet.  The morning light, which can pale so wanly even the young cheek of beauty, gave his majestic and stately features almost the colors of the grave, with the dark hair falling massively around them, and the dark robes flowing long and loose, and the arm outstretched from that lofty eminence, and the glittering eyes, fierce with a savage gladness—­half prophet and half fiend!