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Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.

WOLFE.

PARRHASIUS.

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.

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.
The walls were hung with armor, and about,
In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,
And from the casement soberly away
Fell the grotesque, long shadows, full and true,
And, like a veil of filmy mellowness,

The lint-specks floated in the twilight air.

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully

Upon his canvass.

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 pluck'd the shadows wild
Forth with its 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 hand feels skilful, 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 poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

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Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!

Ha! grey-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 robed 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?

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

Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me,
By all the fiery stars! I'd pluck it on me.

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 in the 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

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Shivering! Hark! he mutters

Brokenly now - that was a difficult breath ·

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Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death?
Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!

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THE ORPHAN BOY.

ALAS! I am an orphan boy,

With nought on earth to cheer my heart;
No father's love, no mother's joy,
Nor kin nor kind to take my part.
My lodging is the cold-cold ground,
I eat the bread of charity;

And, when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss, alas! for me.

Yet once I had a father dear,

A mother, too, I wont to prize,
With ready hand to wipe the tear,
If chanced a childish tear to rise :
But cause of tears was rarely found; '
For all my heart was youthful glee;
And, when the kiss of love went round,
How sweet a kiss there was for me.

But, ah! there came a war, they say;
What is a war? I cannot tell;
But drums and fifes did sweetly play,
And loudly rang our village bell.
In truth, it was a pretty sound,

I thought; nor could I thence foresee
That when the kiss of love went round,
There soon would be no kiss for me.

A scarlet coat my father took;

And sword, as bright as bright could be; And feathers, that so gaily look,

All in a shining cap had he.

Then how my little heart did bound!
Alas! I thought it fine to see;

Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round,
There soon would be no kiss for me.

My mother sigh'd, my mother wept —
My father talk'd of wealth and fame :
But still she wept, and sigh'd and wept,
Till I to see her did the same.
But soon the horsemen throng around,
My father mounts with shout and glee;
Then gave a kiss to all around

And, ah! how sweet a kiss to me!

But when I found he rode so far,

And came not back as heretofore,

I said it was a naughty war,

And loved the fife and drum no more.
My mother oft in tears was drown'd,
Nor merry tale nor song had she:
And when the hour of night came round,
Sad was the kiss she gave to me!

At length the bell again did ring

There was a victory, they said;
"Twas what my father said he'd bring,

But, ah! it brought my father-dead!
My mother shriek'd - her heart was wo;
She clasp'd me trembling to her knee:
And O! that you may never know
How wild a kiss she gave to me!

But once again - but once again
These lips a mother's kisses felt;
That once again—that once again
The tale a heart of stone would melt;

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