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And the rich blood that is in thee, swells in thy indignant
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free. And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand which cast thee from it, now command thee to return.
Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his view;
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage ap
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on,
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause, and sadly
It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him
When last I saw thee drink? . . . . Away! the fevered dream is o'er,
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too
Who said that I had given thee up?-who said that thou wert sold?
"Tis false! 'tis false! my Arab steed,-I fling them back their gold:
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,
Away, who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!
THERE stood an unsold captive in the mart,
And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer
The inhuman soldier smote him, and with threats
The ebbing blood into his pallid face.
* "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 example, to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint."-Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy.
'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun 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
But now he was alone, and from his nerves
Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek
The golden light into the painter's room
Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
Were like the winged god's, breathing from his flight.
"Bring me the captive now!
My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
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 poisoned links into his flesh!
"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!
pity the dumb victim at the altar—
A thousand lives were perishing in thine-
"Hereafter!' Ay— hereafter !
A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story-
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
"Ay- though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
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 earth to be forgot!
Oh, 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-
But for one moment-one - till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!