Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes; The golden light into the painter's room Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight. "Bring me the captive now! My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens,-around me play "Ha! bind him on his back! Look!-as Prometheus in my picture here! 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! I pity the dumb victim at the altar, But does the robed priest for his pity falter? A thousand lives were perishing in thine- "Hereafter!' Ay-hereafter! A whip to keep a coward to his track! Come from the grave to-morrow with that story "No, no, old man! we die 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, Oh 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! But for one moment-one-till I eclipse "Shivering! Hark! he mutters Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 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, Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, And from love's very bosom, and from gain, Oh, if there were not better hopes than these; Falsehood hath broken will unite no more; If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found And die of their own fullness; if beyond The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart May spend itself—WHAT THRICE-MOCKED FOOLS are we! DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. Fifty years ago, in a rude garret, near the loneliest suburbs of the city of London, lay a dying man. He was but half dressed, though his legs were concealed in long military boots. An aged minister stood beside the rough couch. The form was that of a strong man grown old through care more than age. There was a face that you might look upon but once, and yet wear it in your memory forever. Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face. A bold forehead seamed by one deep wrinkle visible between the brows; long locks of dark hair, sprinkled with gray; lips firmly set, yet quivering, as though they had a life separate from the life of the man; and then, two large eyes, vivid, burning, unnatural in their steady glare. Ay, there was something terrible in that face, something so full of unnatural loneliness, unspeakable despair, that the aged minister started back in horror. But look! those strong arms are clutching at the vacant air; the death-sweat stands in drops on that bold brow-the man is dying. Throb--throbthrob-beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. "Would you die in the faith of the Christian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there on the damp floor. The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but made no sound. Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first time he spoke. "Christian!" he echoed in that deep tone which thrilled the preacher to the heart, "Will that faith give me N back my honor? Come with me, old man, come with me, far over the waters. Ha! we are there! This is my native town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood; yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But another flag waves yonder, in place of the flag that waved when I was a child. And listen, old man, were I to pass along the streets, as I passed when but a child, the very babes in their cradles would raise their tiny hands, and curse me! The graves in yonder churchyard would shrink from my footsteps; and yonder flag would rain a baptism of blood upon my head!" That was an awful death-bed. The minister had watched "the last night" with a hundred convicts in their cells, but had never beheld a scene so terrible as this. Suddenly the dying man arose; he tottered along the floor. With those white fingers, whose nails were blue with the death-chill, he threw open a valise. He drew from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, and the wreck of a battle-flag. "Look ye, priest! This faded coat is spotted with my blood!" he cried, as old memories seemed stirring at his heart. "This coat I wore, when I first heard the news of Lexington; this coat I wore, when I planted the banner of the stars on Ticonderoga; that bullet-hole was pierced in the fight of Quebec; and now, I am a-let me whisper it in your ear!" He hissed that single burning word into the minister's ear. "Now help me, priest! help me to put on this coat of blue; for you see"-and a ghastly smile came over his face-"there is no one here to wipe the cold drops from my brow: no wife, no child. I must meet death alone; but I will meet him, as I have met him in battle, without a fear!" While he stood arraying his limbs in that worm-eaten coat of blue and silver, the good minister spoke to him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that great faith, which pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back from the face of God. "Faith!" echoed that strange man, who stood there, erect, with the death-chill on his brow, "Faith! Can it give me back my honor? Look ye, priest! there, over the waves, sits George Washington, telling to his comrades the pleasant story of the eight years' war; there, in his royal halls, sits |