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." BURNET'S ANAT. OF MEL.

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

Colours of rich divinity to-day.

Ha! bind him on his back!

Look! as Prometheus in my picture here

Quick or he faints ! stand with the convict near!
Now-bend him to the rack!

Press down the poisoned 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 !

N

"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

"Hereafter !" Aye-hereafter !

A whip to keep a coward to his track!

What gave death ever from his kingdom back
To check the sceptic's laughter?

Come from the grave tomorrow with that story,
And I may take some softer path to glory.

No, no, old man! we die

Even as the flowers, and shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they.—
Strain well thy fainting eye-

For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,

The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

Yet there's a deathless name!

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!

Aye-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 carth 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 proud lips!

Shivering! Hark 1 he mutters

Brokenly now that was a difficult breath-
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death?

Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Ah! lift then up his head!

Heshudders-gasps-Jove help him-so—he's dead.

JAMES G. WHITTIER.

FROM "THE MINSTREL GIRL."

SHE leaned against her favorite tree,

The golden sunlight melting through

The twined branches, as the free

And easy-pinioned breezes flew Around the bloom and greenness there, Awaking all to life and motion,

Like unseen spirits sent to bear

Earth's perfume to the barren ocean.

That ocean lay before her then,

Like a broad lustre, to send back

The scattered beams of day again,

To burn along its sunset track!

And broad and beautiful it shone;

As quickened by some spiritual breath,

Its very waves seemed dancing on

To music whispered underneath.

And there she leaned,—that minstrel girl!
The breeze's kiss was soft and meek
Where coral melted into pearl

On parted lip and glowing cheek;
Her dark and lifted eye had caught
Its lustre from the spirit's gem;
And round her brow the light of thought
Was like an angel's diadem ;

For genius, as a living coal,

Had touched her lip and heart with flame,

And on the altar of her soul

The fire of inspiration came.

And early she had learned to love

Each holy charm to Nature given,

The changing earth, the skies above,

Were prompters to her dreams of Heaven! She loved the earth-the streams that wind Like music from its hills of greenThe stirring boughs above them twined— The shifting light and shade between ;— The fall of waves-the fountain gushThe sigh of winds-the music heard At even-tide, from air and bushThe minstrelsy of leaf and bird. But chief she loved the sunset sky

Its golden clouds, like curtains drawn To form the gorgeous canopy

Of monarchs to their slumbers gone!