Chap. V.

MEDITATIONS AT SUNRISE.

63

of the hills. To most men such bright mornings are exhilarating; and the pursuit of the red-legged partridge, with dog and gun, would seem more suitable to the hour, than a walk among the tombs. But to me they are associated with recollections too painfully in unison with my present task. Twice at this season

the sun has shone for me on scenes of deepest affliction. By its morning light, I have received those heart-wounds which never heal-the loss of the wellloved parents, whose affection no love can replace; of the friend of youthful days, which can never return. Such a morning was it, this day twelve years ago, when thou, O Marcellus, wert snatched from us, in the springtide of youth, in the force of thy strength, and talent, and manly beauty. After that long, weary night, during which I had sat watching alone, by the dim lamp, each unconscious movement, when all hope was gone, and each long-drawn gasp sent a fresh pang from thy heart to mine, the morning light stole through the ill-closed shutters; and hoping without hope, I opened the window to admit fresh air to thy labouring chest. The gay sun-rays burst in upon the chamber of death, the swift waters of the Rhine danced by, refulgent in the morning splendour, and unsympathising nature seemed to awaken to gladness, whilst the tenderest ties that friendship ever formed were immaturely rent asunder. Long years have

passed since that sad morning; yet have I not learned to forget, or ceased to mourn thee. No companion thou of the debauch; the friendship which survives the long parting was not formed in the haunts of dissipation. If thy wit flashed bright at the festal board-in the intimacy of the chamber, thy tender feeling elevated, as thy learning and taste instructed. Cut off in earliest youth-cruel favour of the gods !— a few friends alone knew thy worth; one, at least, still mourns, and never has replaced thee in his heart. In the wilderness of the great Babylon each turn recalls thee; and here, in the city of countless tombs, thy image rises to my memory, and accompanies my pilgrimage.

Some feelings of melancholy must be awakened in every visitor, as he follows those long lines of violated sepulchres, ranged along the sides of the hills, obtruding far into the plain below, and stretching in every direction across the table-land to the south. The simple sarcophagus and proud mausoleum now alike gape tenantless; perpetuating neither the affection of the survivors nor the merits of the dead, they are mute as to their history, their fate, and almost their names. Barbarian hands have disturbed the relics, and rifled the treasures which they once contained; the existence of such treasures must have been the incentive to, and can alone account for, the universal violation of the