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PARRHASIUS AND CAPTIVE.

(WILLIS.)

"Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man; and when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and torment, the better by his example to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint."

There stood an unsold captive in the mart,
A gray-haired and majestical old man,
Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from his place had gone
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.

'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun
Tipped with a golden fire the many domes
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street
Through which the captive gazed.

The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes, magical they lay.
Parrhasius stood gazing forgetfully,
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-

The vulture at his vitals, and the links

Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;

And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form

And color clad them, his fine earnest eye,
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip

Were like the winged God's breathing from his flight.

"Bring me the captive now!

My hands feel skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift
And I could paint the bow

Upon the bended heavens-around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

Ha! bind him on his back!
Look!-as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick or he faints! stand with the cordial near!
Now bend him to the rack!

Press down the poison'd links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

So-let him writhe! How long

Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!

How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

"Pity thee! So I do!

I pity the dumb victim at the altar-
But does the rob'd priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee though I knew

A thousand lives were perishing in thine-
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

Yet there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vaule shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn-
And though its crown of flame

Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

Ay-though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first:
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—

All-I would do it all→

Sooner than die, like a dull worm to rot-
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
O heavens-but I appal

Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives
Let him not faint?-rack him till he revives!
Vain-vain-give o'er! His eye

Glazes apace. He does not feel you now—
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now-that was a difficult breath-
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh, Death!
Look! how his temples flutter!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders, gasps, Jove help him! so, he's dead.

THE MANIAC; MAD-HOUSE.

Stay, jailer, stay-and hear my woe!
She is not mad-who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now-too well I know,
For what I was—and what should be.
I'll rave no more-in proud despair;
My language shall be mild-though sad;
But yet I'll firmly-truly swear,

I am not mad-I am not mad,

My tyrant husband-forged the tale,
Which chains me-in this dismal cell;
My fate unknown-my friends bewail;
Oh! jailer, haste-that fate to tell;
Oh! haste-my father's heart to cheer:
His heart, at once-'twill grieve, and glad,
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad ;—I am not mad.

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key;
He quits the grate; I knelt in vain;
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see-
'Tis gone, and all is gloom again.
Cold-bitter cold!-No warmth! no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.

'Tis sure some dream,-some vision vain;
What! I-the child of rank-and wealth,
Am I the wretch-who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom,-friends and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more-my heart must glad,
How aches my heart,-how burns my head;
But 'tis not mad;-no 'tis not mad.

Hast thou, my child-forgot ere this,
A mother's face-a mother's tongue?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck-how fast you clung;
Nor how with me-you sued to stay;

Nor how that suit-your sire forbade;
Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away;

They'll make me mad ;-they'll make me mad

His rosy lips,-how sweet they smiled!
His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!
None-ever bore a lovelier child:

And art thou now forever-gone?

And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?
I will be free! unbar the door?

I am not mad;-I am not mad.

Oh! hark! what mean those yells, and cries?
His chain-some furious madman breaks;
He comes, I see his glaring eyes;

Now, now-my dungeon-grate he shakes.
Help! help!-He's gone! Oh! fearful wo,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain-I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be.

Yes, soon;-for, lo you !-while I speak-
Mark how yon Demon's eye-balls glare!
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent-high in air.
Horror-the reptile-strikes his tooth-
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;
Ay, laugh, ye fiends; I feel the truth;

Your task is done!-I'm mad! I'm mad!

THE MOTHER PERISHING IN A SNOW-STORM.

"In the year 1821, a Mrs. Blake perished in a snow-storm in the night-time, while travelling over a spur of the Green Mountains in Vermont. She had an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, being carefully wrapped in the mother's clothing."

The cold winds-swept the mountain's height,
And pathless-was the dreary wild,
And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night,

A mother wander'd-with her child:
As through the drifting snow sue press'd,
The babe was sleeping-on her breast.

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