THE PAINT KING.

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 1813.

Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd,

And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone;
Yet he languish'd as tho' for its beauty he pin'd,
And gaz'd as the eyes of the statue so blind

Reflected the beams of his own.

'Twas the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old; Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd;

"Ah, could'st thou but lift from that marble so
cold,

Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should unfold,
And press me this day as thy bride."

She said: when, behold, from the canvas arose
The youth, and he stepp'd from the frame:
With a furious transport his arms did enclose
The love-plighted Ellen: and clasping, he froze
The blood of the maid with his flame!

'Oh, mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms,
But the PAINT-KING, he scoff'd at her pain.
"Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean these
alarms?"

She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms,
That work her to horror again.

She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes
Behold the fair youth she would woo;
Now appears the PAINT-KING in his natural guise;
His face, like a palette of villainous dies,

Black and white, red, and yellow, and blue.

On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied,
Sat the fiend, like the grim Giant Gog,
While aloft to his mouth a huge pipe he applied,
Twice as big as the Eddystone Lighthouse, descried
As it looms through an easterly fog.

Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift"
The loud-screaming maid like a blast;
And he sped through the air like a meteor swift,
While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully
drift

To the right and the left as he pass'd.

Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight,
With an eddying whirl he descends;
The air all below him becomes black as night,
And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with
affright,

Like the surge of the Caspian bends.

"I am here!" said the Fiend, and he thundering knock'd

At the gates of a mountainous cave;

The gates open flew, as by magic unlock'd,

Ah me!" cried the Damsel, and fell at his feet, "Must I hang on these walls to be dried?" "Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat,

"A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet; Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"

Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair,
An oil jug he plung'd her within.

Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of de-
spair,

Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air,
All covered with oil to the chin.

On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone
Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid;

With a rock for his muller he crush'd every bone,

While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she

rock'd

Like an island of ice on the wave.

Now reaching his palette, with masterly care
Each tint on its surface he spread;
The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair,
And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair,
And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red.

Then stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim,
"Now I brave, cruel Fairy, thy scorn!
When lo! from a chasm wide-yawning there came
A light tiny chariot of rose-color'd flame,

By a team of ten glow-worms upborne.

Enthron'd in the midst on an emerald bright,
Fair Geraldine sat without peer;
Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light,
And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white,
And a beam of the moon was her spear.

In an accent that stole on the still charmed air
Like the first gentle language of Eve,
Thus spake from her chariot the Fairy so fair:
"I come at thy call, but, oh Paint-King, beware,
Beware if again you deceive."

""Tis true," said the monster, "thou queen of my heart,

Thy portrait I oft have essay'd;

Yet ne'er to the canvas could I with my art
The least of thy wonderful beauties impart;
And my failure with scorn you repaid.

"Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's
tail!"

And he tower'd with pride as he spoke,
"If again with these magical colors I fail,
The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail,
And my food shall be sulphur and smoke.

"But if I succeed, then, oh, fair Geraldine!
Thy promise with justice I claim,

And thou, queen of Fairies, shalt ever be mine,
The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine
Shall fill all the earth with my fame."

He spake; when, behold the fair Geraldine's form
On the canvas enchantingly glow'd;

His touches they flew like the leaves in a storm;
And the pure pearly white and the carnation warm
Contending in harmony flow'd.

And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem
To the figure of Geraldine fair:

With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem
Each muscle, each feature; in short not a gleam
Was lost of her beautiful hair.

"Twas the Fairy herself! but, alas, her blue eyes
Still a pupil did ruefully lack;

And who shall describe the terrific surprise
That seiz'd the PAINT-KING when, behold, he
descries

Not a speck on his palette of black!

"I am lost!" said the Fiend, and he shook like a
leaf;

When, casting his eyes to the ground,
He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief
In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief
Whisk away from his sight with a bound.

"I am lost!" said the Fiend, and he fell like a stone;

Then, rising, the Fairy in ire

With the touch of her finger she loosen'd her zone, (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,) And she swelled to a column of fire.

Her spear now a thunder-bolt flash'd in the air,
And sulphur the vault fill'd around:

She smote the grim monster; and now by the hair
High-lifting, she hurl'd him in speechless despair
Down the depths of the chasm profound.

Then over the picture thrice waving her spear,
"Come forth!" said the good Geraldine;
When, behold, from the canvas descending, appear
Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er,
With grace more than ever divine!

LUNAR STANZAS.

BY HENRY COGSWELL KNIGHT. 1815.

NIGHT saw the crew, like peddlers with their packs, | And 'twere indelicate, although she might,
Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs;
Walk crank along, with coffin on their backs,
While in their arms they bow their weary legs.

Swallow two whales, and yet the moon shine clear.

And yet 'twas strange, and scarce can one suppose,
That a brown buzzard-fly should steal, and wear
His white jean breeches, and black woollen hose,
But thence that flies have souls is very clear.

But, holy Father! what shall save the soul,

When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes? When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll, And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes?

Yet 'twere profuse, to see for pendant light,
A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear:

But what to me are woven clouds? or what,
If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms?
If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the state,
With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?

Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste!
To eat one's mother, ere itself was born!
And gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste,
And scoop it out to be his drinking horn.

No more! no more! I'm sick, and dead, and gone;
Box'd in a coffin: stifled six feet deep;
Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone,
And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.

Lo! how much grander for a human being,
When he would journey, never to demean him-
-Self with a horse or carriage, but to leg it
Free from all cumbrance.

Sure, 'tis a folly, humble degradation,
For a strong biped, muscular, and nervous,
Tied to a horse-tail, in a creaking coach to
Drag on dependent.

"But it is quicker-it is less fatiguing;"
True, these are reasons, when the knees are gouty,
Or, one would flee that bashful man the sheriff,
Or, from the small pox.

And, let a doctor, or a country parson,
Stride like dividers, spurring like a Sambo,
When one is qualmish with the pangs of nature,
Or, with a neck broke.

But for a tourist, sketching what his eyes see;
But for a scholar, musing as he mopes on;
Just as well, better, pleasanter and safer,
For them to foot it.

That we have two legs, evident to all 'tis,
Who are not maimed: and if any doubt it,
Let him his own count, and if he deny it,
Best learn to cipher.

Well then, these legs were given us to walk with;
Nothing more true is to a man of science;
For all the joints are fitted to this purpose,
Supple, and firm too.

Chariots and tandems-rather boots or shoes on.
Then never tell me more of fleetest horses,
Take up your staff, and free and philosophic,
Ride on your own feet.

Cease now, Miss Musey, spitting out your sapphicks:
Go, for I hate ye preaching 'bout your plodding;
Give me a coach, and dappled pair of geldings-
You may ride shank's mare.

ESSAY ON POSTURES.

BY DOCTOR SAMUEL GILMAN. 1817.

"Sedeant spectentque."-VIRG.

"In most strange postures we have seen him set himself."-SHAKSPERE.

of people, called scholars. We shall enumerate the several varieties of sitting postures, describing them as exactly as possible, and dwelling on the peculiar advantages which they possess with the quiet votaries of literature.

All

MR. EDITOR,-Among the many ingredients which | principally, so far as it respects the sedentary class go to form the complete scholar, all must allow posture to be quite pre-eminent. He would deserve a sneer for his pretensions, who affected the literary character whilst at the same time he was ignorant of the rare and difficult accomplishment of sitting with his feet against the wall at a higher level than his head, or leaning in due contemplative style upon his elbow. But the subject has unfortunately never been reduced to a science. How is it, sir, that the motions of the stars, for centuries to come, have been nicely adjusted to the fraction of a second,that metals, and alkalies, and gases, have been classed and systematized,-that the operations of the mind have been analyzed and developed,-that anatomy, even anatomy, that kindred department, has left almost no region of its own unexplored, whilst the far more domestic, human, useful, and every-day business of postures has remained unnoticed and forgotten? To remove this scandal to science is the object of the few humble pages following. The author will be satisfied if he but excite attention to the subject, and will gladly leave the consummation of his attempt to greater adepts in attitude than himself.

Posture, sir, in its most general sense, may be defined, a modification of the body and limbs, for the purpose either of ease or show. It may be divided into standing, kneeling, lying down, and sitting. The first belongs chiefly to the arts of dancing-masters and drill-sergeants; the second, to love and devotion; the third, to ladies of fashion and delicate valetudinarians; it is the fourth and last only which now claims our attention, and that,

First. The most universal, easy, and gentlemanlike is denominated the cross-kneed posture. ranks, classes, and ages of males, together with some individuals of the other sex, cultivate this attitude with very happy success. It is no uncommon thing to see as many as sixteen or seventeen in a company, who, throughout an entire evening, most patiently and heroically persevere in this inoffensive mode of arranging the nether limbs. The child of three years of age adopts it among the first imitative accomplishments which excite the joy and admiration of his parents. The aspiring school-boy, by piling one knee upon another, adds a year to his existence, and bodies forth the dignity of the future man. The youth who is just entering the world, who has a letter of introduction to Mr.

of Boston, or New York, or Philadelphia, would be put to infinite embarrassment if the privilege of crossing his knees were denied him. But without going through every age for the illustration of this division of our subject, I proceed to observe, that the cross-kneed posture is not to be adopted by all persons, at all times, and on all occasions. It is much too nice and trim for every-day use. I know many a respectable farmer who will never sit in this fashion except in his best suit, on a Sunday, or at a board of selectmen, or at the examination of a district school, or