As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence as it passed;
So he through learning and through fancy took
His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top
Of fame's dread mountain sat: not soiled, and worn,
As if he from the earth had labored up;
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair,
He looked, which down from higher regions came,
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.
Great man! the nations gazed, and wondered much,
And praised; and many called his evil good.
Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness:
And kings to do him honor took delight.
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame;
Beyond desire, beyond ambition full,-
He died- he died of what? Of wretchedness.
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump
Of fame; drank early, deeply drank; drank draughts
That common millions might have quenched - then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.
"Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, among 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 exampie to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint."
PARRHASIUS stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. 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 plucked 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 skillful, 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!
"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 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?
Ah! 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!
"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 appall
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, O Death?
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders — gasps - Jove help him-
How like a mountain 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 very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the desert for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendor, and forget
The thirst of which we perish!
Ar midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring, -
Then pressed that monarch's throne
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band
True as the steel to their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian thousands stood
There had the glad earth drank their blood,
On old Platea's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who conquered there.
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
An hour passed on: the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentry's shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Gr ek!” He woke - to die 'midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and saber stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast, As lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band
"Strike till the last armed foe expires;
Strike - for your
altars and your fires;
for the green graves of your sires;
and your native land!"
They fought-like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered-but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won ;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm.
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
And thou art terrible: the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art freedom's now, and fame's-
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.
WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting trembling-raging-fainting,-
Possessed beyond the muse's painting:
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired;
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each(for madness ruled the hour)—
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
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