From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens—around me play 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! How fearfully he stifles that short moan! '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- The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, All-I would do it all Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot Thrust foully into the earth to be forgot! Your heart, old man! forgive- -ha! on your lives 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 The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 673271 The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life Promising well, and love-touch'd dreams for some, Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, From all but keen Ambition, will the soul To wander like a restless child away. Oh, if there were not better hopes than these― |