PARRHASIUS.

By N. P. WILLIS.

THE golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colours stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And, in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes, magical they lay.
The walls were hung with armour, and about
In the dim corners, stood the sculptured forms
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove;
And from the casement soberly away
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,
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 colour 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 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
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 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 on his brow!

Ha! grey-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 priests 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

E'en as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, e'en 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,
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 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."

THE LEPER.

By N. P. WILLIS.

IT was noon;

And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch'd
The loathsome water to his fever'd lips,
Praying that he might be so bless'd-to die!
Footsteps approach'd, and with no strength to flee,
He drew the covering closer on his lip,

Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name-
"Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone
Of a rich instrument-most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And for a moment beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill.
"Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before Him,

Love and awe

Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye
As he beheld the stranger. He was not
In costly raiment clad, nor cn His brow
The symbol of a princely lineage wore;
No followers at His back, nor in His hand
Buckler, or sword, or spear; yet in his mien
Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled,
A kingly condescension graced His lips,
The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair.

His garb was simple, and His sandals worn:
His stature modell'd with a perfect grace;
His countenance the impress of a God,
Touch'd with the opening innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; His hair unshorn
Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard
The fulness of perfected manhood bore.

He look'd on Helon earnestly a while,

As if His heart were moved, and, stooping down,

He took a little water in His hand

And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean."
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant stole.
His leprosy was cleansed; and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipp'd Him.