| |
| THERE stood an unsold captive in the mart, | |
| A gray-haired and majestical old man, | |
| Chained to a pillar. It was almost night, | |
| And the last seller from the place had gone, | |
| And not a sound was heard but of a dog | 5 |
| Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, | |
| Or the dull echo from the pavement rung, | |
| As the faint captive changed his weary feet. | |
| He had stood there since morning, and had borne | |
| From every eye in Athens the cold gaze | 10 |
| Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him | |
| For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came | |
| And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, | |
| And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer | |
| Passed on; and when, with weariness o’erspent, | 15 |
| He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep, | |
| The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats | |
| Of torture to his children, summoned back | |
| The ebbing blood into his pallid face. | |
| |
| ’T was evening, and the half-descended sun | 20 |
| Tipped with a golden fire the many domes | |
| Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere | |
| Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street | |
| Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up | |
| With a stout heart that long and weary day, | 25 |
| Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, | |
| But now he was alone, and from his nerves | |
| The needless strength departed, and he leaned | |
| Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts | |
| Throng on him as they would. Unmarked of him | 30 |
| Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood, | |
| Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian’s cheek | |
| Flushed as he measured with a painter’s eye | |
| The moving picture. The abandoned limbs, | |
| Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins | 35 |
| Swollen to purple fulness; the gray hair, | |
| Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes; | |
| And as a thought of wilder bitterness | |
| Rose in his memory, his lips grew white, | |
| And the fast workings of his bloodless face | 40 |
| Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. | |
| |
| The golden light into the painter’s room | |
| Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole | |
| From the dark pictures radiantly forth, | |
| And in the soft and dewy atmosphere | 45 |
| 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, | |
| And from the casement soberly away | 50 |
| Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, | |
| And like a veil of filmy mellowness, | |
| The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. | |
| Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully | |
| Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, | 55 |
| 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 forth | 60 |
| 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. | 65 |
| |
| “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 | 70 |
| 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! | 75 |
| 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! | 80 |
| 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— | 85 |
| 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!’ Ay—hereafter! | 90 |
| 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. | 95 |
| |
| “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, | 100 |
| 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 | 105 |
| 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— | 110 |
| 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, | 115 |
| Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! | |
| Oh heaven!—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 | 120 |
| 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! | 125 |
| |
| “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! | 130 |
| He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he ’s dead.” | |
| |
| How like a mounting devil in the heart | |
| Rules the unreigned ambition! Let it once | |
| But play the monarch, and its haughty brow | |
| Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought | 135 |
| 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 bosom for the spirit’s lip, | |
| We look upon our splendor and forget | 140 |
| 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 | 145 |
| 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, | 150 |
| 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— | 155 |
| 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— | 160 |
| If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart | |
| Must canker in its coffers—if the links | |
| Falsehood hath broken will unite no more— | |
| If the deep yearning love, that hath not found | |
| Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears— | 165 |
| If truth and fervor and devotedness, | |
| Finding no worthy altar, must return | |
| And die of their own fulness—if beyond | |
| The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air | |
| The spirit may find room, and in the love | 170 |
| Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart | |
| May spend itself—what thrice-mocked fools are we! | |
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