THE LAST VIGIL OF JULIAN.

THAT

HAT memorable enterprise of Julian against the Persians, commenced in glory, terminating how fatally for him and for the Romans, presents numerous incidents full of interest. I have selected the last Vigil of the Apostate Emperor, during his retreat from the impregnable walls of Ctesiphon, in the vain hope of gaining the passage of the Tigris. His armies harassed by a slow and dangerous march over a desolated country, and in the oppressive heat of an Assyrian summer, perishing by famine, and by the formidable charges of the Persian cavalry, his mind sinking under an insurmountable weight of difficulties, still preserved its unvarying devotion to philosophy, and to the ancient worship of the gods. In the elegant language of Gibbon we find the following picture of this last Vigil of his favourite hero, to which I am well aware my efforts cannot give additional beauty. "While Julian struggled with the almost insuperable difficulties of his situation, the silent hours of the night were still devoted to study and contemplation. Whenever he closed his eyes in short and inter

rupted slumbers, his mind was agitated with painful anxiety, nor can it be thought surprising, that the Genius of the empire should once more appear before him covering the horn of abundance with a funeral veil, and slowly retiring from the imperial tent. The monarch started from his couch, and, stepping forth to refresh his weary spirits with the coolness of the midnight air, he beheld a fiery meteor which shot athwart the sky, and suddenly vanished. Julian was convinced that he had seen the menacing countenance of the god of war. Julian had sworn in a passion, nunquam se Marti sacra factum."

Since I wrote The Last Vigil of Julian I have seen announced "Julian the Apostate," a dramatic poem by Sir Aubrey de Vere Hunt, Bart., but as I have not yet read it, I can only be accused of having accidentally fixed on the same subject; and as mine is a mere sketch, not very likely to be placed in competition with the abovementioned poem, I shall not withdraw it; although, had I previously known this circumstance, I probably should never have written it.

THE LAST VIGIL OF JULIAN.

NIGHT deepens o'er Assyria. In the camp

Where lie the Roman host, silence and sleep
Reign with a hush profound. Sleep, not like his
The labouring hind's, who flings him on the turf,
And, heedless, rests there till the day-god wakes him :
Sleep, not like that which on the silken couch
Steals on the heavy lids, and steeps the limbs
In the soft languor of voluptuousness :
But sleep, the offspring of out-wearied nature;
Sleep, like the grasp of some resistless foe
Clinging, despite our efforts to unhand him,
And baffling each device of watchfulness:
Slumber, and dreams, and visions of the morrow,
Nerving the hand clasp'd in the ready hilt, .
Heaving the buckler, now become the pillow,
And framing on the lip the call to battle!

The lamp

And sleep pervades the imperial tent.

Gleams through its silver valves a moon-like ray, Steady and clear, shining on Julian's brow —

A classic light, meet for the solitude

Of Cynthia's worshipper: nor lingers it

On aught less chasten'd; there no trappings glitter,
Gorgeous with gold and rich embroidery;

No spoils of that proud land; no baubles wrought
With orient gems; no arts to court repose;
Nought is there nigh that couch, save he who there
Rests like the meanest of his warriors,

To mark the tent of Rome's imperial lord.
Beside him lie his helm and his cuirass,
Cast off, encumb'ring in that sultry clime;
For he, inured to meet Helvetian snows,
Droops in the heat of the Assyrian air.
The lamp streams on the lore of Attica;
A scroll traced in her Grecian characters,
Unfurl'd, betrays the monarch's nightly musings.
Combat, nor glory, nor disastrous flight,
Can wean him from his loved philosophy:
He toils while others rest; the midnight vigil,
The early sunrise, the long day's employ,
The eve of council, find him ever ready;

But the mind's fervour frets earth's frailer portion, And yields subdued by nature. Julian sleeps! Dreams he of those Athenian groves where sped His tranquil youth? or of the Persian plain Where, now encamp'd, he waits the fearful crisis Of a reign bright with glory? Dreams he thus, And hears he not the irrevocable decree

Reveal'd by voice celestial? — reads his fate

And Rome's calamity in sign prophetic
Haunting his restless sleep? Behold the lip
Quivering, yet closed; the workings of the brow;
The eye compress'd, seeing all in the soul
Fearfully distinct; the quick-drawn breath ;
The throbbing artery; the pale cheek flush'd;
The great heart bursting with its mighty secret,
Yet resolute to fathom it. He hears
The awful voice of Jove Capitoline;
Not as of yore in Gallia, calling him,
In tone triumphant, to the rule of nations:
He sees the Genius of his country, - pale
She rises, like a matron garb'd in woe;
With her long tresses streaming from beneath
Her funeral veil; and that once teeming horn
Of Rome's abundance mournfully reversed,

P