Edward Bulwer-Lytton: The Last Days of Pompeii

BOOK THE FOURTH 8. Chapter VIII (continued)

The last sparks were extinguished by the attendants--the embers were collected. Steeped in the rarest wine and the costliest odorous, the remains were placed in a silver urn, which was solemnly stored in one of the neighboring sepulchres beside the road; and they placed within it the vial full of tears, and the small coin which poetry still consecrated to the grim boatman. And the sepulchre was covered with flowers and chaplets, and incense kindled on the altar, and the tomb hung round with many lamps.

But the next day, when the priest returned with fresh offerings to the tomb, he found that to the relics of heathen superstition some unknown hands had added a green palm-branch. He suffered it to remain, unknowing that it was the sepulchral emblem of Christianity.

When the above ceremonies were over, one of the Praeficae three times sprinkled the mourners from the purifying branch of laurel, uttering the last word, 'Ilicet!'--Depart!--and the rite was done.

But first they paused to utter--weepingly and many times--the affecting farewell, 'Salve Eternum!' And as Ione yet lingered, they woke the parting strain.

            SALVE ETERNUM

                 I

       Farewell! O soul departed!
          Farewell! O sacred urn!
        Bereaved and broken-hearted,
          To earth the mourners turn.
        To the dim and dreary shore,
        Thou art gone our steps before!
        But thither the swift Hours lead us,
        And thou dost but a while precede us,
                  Salve--salve!
        Loved urn, and thou solemn cell,
        Mute ashes!--farewell, farewell!
                  Salve--salve!

                II

         Ilicet--ire licet--
       Ah, vainly would we part!
        Thy tomb is the faithful heart.
        About evermore we bear thee;
        For who from the heart can tear thee?
        Vainly we sprinkle o'er us
          The drops of the cleansing stream;
        And vainly bright before us
          The lustral fire shall beam.
        For where is the charm expelling
        Thy thought from its sacred dwelling?
        Our griefs are thy funeral feast,
        And Memory thy mourning priest.
                  Salve--salve!

                III