Edward Bulwer-Lytton: The Last Days of Pompeii

BOOK THE FOURTH 2. Chapter II (continued)

'I will talk to thee then of our early years,' said Ione. 'Shall yon blind girl sing to thee of the days of childhood? Her voice is sweet and musical, and she hath a song on that theme which contains none of those allusions it pains thee to hear.'

'Dost thou remember the words, my sister?' asked Apaecides.

'Methinks yes; for the tune, which is simple, fixed them on my memory.'

'Sing to me then thyself. My ear is not in unison with unfamiliar voices; and thine, Ione, full of household associations, has ever been to me more sweet than all the hireling melodies of Lycia or of Crete. Sing to me!'

Ione beckoned to a slave that stood in the portico, and sending for her lute, sang, when it arrived, to a tender and simple air, the following verses:-

              REGRETS FOR CHILDHOOD

                    I

         It is not that our earlier Heaven
              Escapes its April showers,
          Or that to childhood's heart is given
              No snake amidst the flowers.
                 Ah! twined with grief
                 Each brightest leaf,
              That's wreath'd us by the Hours!
          Young though we be, the Past may sting,
              The present feed its sorrow;
          But hope shines bright on every thing
              That waits us with the morrow.
                 Like sun-lit glades,
                 The dimmest shades
              Some rosy beam can borrow.

                    II

         It is not that our later years
              Of cares are woven wholly,
          But smiles less swiftly chase the tears,
              And wounds are healed more slowly.
                 And Memory's vow
                 To lost ones now,
              Makes joys too bright, unholy.
          And ever fled the Iris bow
              That smiled when clouds were o'er us.
          If storms should burst, uncheered we go,
              A drearier waste before us--
                And with the toys
                 Of childish joys,
              We've broke the staff that bore us!