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,
Like forms and landscapes magical they lay.
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 forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, hiss fine earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of His thin nostril, and his quivering lip
Were like the wingéd god's, breathing from his fight
"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
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 on 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?
"But, 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 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—
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 into 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—so—he's dead."