From my waked spirit airily and swift,

And I could paint the bow

Upon the bended heavens—around me play
Colours 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?

"Hereafter!" Ay-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 to-morrow with that story, And I may take some softer path to glory.

No, no, old man! we die

Ev'n as the flowers, and we shall breathe away Our life upon the chance wind, evʼn 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,

H

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 the earth to be forgot!
Oh 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 temple flutters!

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

He shudders-gasps-Jove help him!-so-he's dead."

How like a mounting devil in the heart

Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace for ever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns

The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendour and forget

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The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life
Many a falser idol. There are hopes

Promising well, and love-touch'd dreams for some,
And passions, many a wild one, and fair schemes
For gold and pleasure-yet will only this
Balk not the soul-Ambition only gives
Even of bitterness a beaker full!

Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,
Troubled at best-Love is a lamp unseen,
Burning to waste, or, if its light is found,
Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken-
Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires,
And Quiet is a hunger never fed-

And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain,
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose,

From all but keen Ambition, will the soul
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness

To wander like a restless child away.

Oh, if there were not better hopes than these―
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame-