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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,3
And from the casement soberly away

Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true,
And, like a vail of filmy měllowness,
The lint-specks floated in the twilight air.
6. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully

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Upon his canvas. There Prome'theūs' lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-
The vulture at his vitals, and the links

Of the lame Lem'nian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far-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 skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bōw

Upon the bended heavens-around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

Cy the' ris, a celebrated courtesan, the mistress of Antony, and subsequently of the poet Gallus, who mentions her in his poems under the name of Lycoris.

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Ac

Diana, (di à ́na), an ancient Italian divinity, whom the Romans identified with the Greek Artemis. cording to the most ancient accounts, she was the daughter of Jupiter and Leto, and the twin sister of Apollo.

thology, was son of the Titan Sapetus and Clymene. His name signifies forethought. For offenses against Jupiter, he was chained to a rock on Mount Caucasus, where an eagle con sumed in the daytime his liver, which was restored in each succeedingnight

"Lem' ni an, from Lemnos, now Stalimni, an island of the Greek Archipelago, where the lame Hephastus, or Vulcan, the god of fire, is said 3 Jōve, Jupiter, the supreme deity to have fallen, when Jupiter hurled of the Romans, called Zeus by the him down from heaven. Hence the Greeks. workshop of the god is sometimes • Pro mē' theūs, in heathen my placed in this island.

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"Ha! bind him on his back!

Look!-as Promē'theus 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!

[blocks in formation]

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 mōan!
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 thinc-
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 skeptic's laughter?

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

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No, no, old man! we die

Even as the flowers, and we 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 mōre.
"Yet there's a deathlèss 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 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

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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 earth to be forgot!

O heavens!--but I appall

Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!-rack him till he revives!

"Vain-vain-give '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, O 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." 18. 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 forever. Putting on
The věry 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 splendor and forget

The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life

Many a falser idol. There are hopes

Promising well; and love-touched 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!

19. 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 à groveling care, and Folly tires,
And Quiet is a hunger never fed-

And from Love's věry bosom, and from Gain,
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Reposc-
From all but keen AMBITION-Will the soul
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness
To wander like a restless child away.

20. Oh, if there were not better hopes than these—
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame-
If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart
Must canker in its coffers-if the links

Falsehood hath broken will unite no mōre-
If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found
Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears-
If truth, and fervor, and devotedness,

Finding no worthy altar, must return

And die of their own fullness-if beyond
The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air
The spirit may find room, and in the love

Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart

May spend itself—WHAT THRICE-MŎCKED FOOLS ARE WE!

N. P. WILLIS.

SECTION XXII.

I.

119. CHARACTER OF SCOTT.

AKE it for all and all, it is not too much to say that the char

Taxter of Sir Walter Scott is probably the most remarkable

on record. There is no man of historical celebrity that we now recall, who combined, in so eminent a degree, the highest qualities of the moral, the intellectual, and the physical. He united in his own character what hitherto had been found incompatible.

2. Though a poët, and living in an ideal world, he was an exact, methodical man of business; though achieving with the

most wonderful facility of genius, he was patient and laborious; a mousing antiquarian, yet with the most active interest in the present and whatever was going on around him; with a strong turn for a roving life and military adventure, he was yet chained to his desk more hours, at some periods of his life, than a monkish recluse ;*a man with a heart as capacious as his head; a Tory, brimful of Tac'obitism,' yet full of sympathy and unaffected familiarity with all classes, even the humblèst; a successful author, without pedantry and without conceit; one, indeed, at the head of the republic of letters, and yet with a lower estimate of letters, as compared with other intellectual pursuits, than was ever bazarded before.

3. The first quality of his character, or, rather, that which forms the basis of it, as of all great characters, was his energy. We see it in his early youth, triumphing over the impediments of nature, and in spite of lameness, making him conspicuous in every sort of athletic exercise-clambering up dizzy precipices, wading through treacherous förds, and performing feats of pedestrianism that make one's joints ache to read of. As he advanced in life, we see the same force of purpose turned to higher objects.

4. We see the same powerful energies triumphing over disease at a later period, when nothing but a resolution to get the better of it enabled him to do so. "Be assured," he remarked to Mr. Gillies, "that if pain could have prevented my application to literary labor, not a page of Ivanhoe would have been written. Now if I had given way to mere feelings, and had ceased to work, it is a question whether the disorder might not have taken a deeper root, and become incurable."

5. Another quality, which, like the last, seems to have given tone to his character, was his social or benevolent feelings. His heart was an unfailing fountain, which not merely the distresses, but the joys of his fellow-creatures made to flow like water 6. Rarely indeed is this precious quality found united with the most exalted intellect. Whether it be that nature, chary of her gifts, does not care to shower too many of them on one head ; or that the public admiration has led the man of intellect to set too high a value on himself, or at least his own pursuits, to take

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'Jǎc' o bit ism, the principles of the adherents of James the Second, of England.

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