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 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.
'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 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! 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!
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?
Ah! 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. 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! 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."
How like a mountain devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought And unthrones peace for ever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the desert for the spirit's lip, We look upon our splendor and forget The thirst of which we perish!
57. MEETING OF SATAN AND DEATH AT THE GATE OF HELL -Milton.
Meanwhile the adversary of God and man, Satan, with thoughts inflamed of highest design, Puts on swift wings, and towards the gates of hell
Explores his solitary flight! sometimes
He scours the right hand coast, sometimes the left, Now shaves with level wing the deep, then soars Up to the fiery concave towering high.
As when far off at sea a fleet descried Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles
Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring Their spicy drugs; they, on the trading flood, Through the wide Ethiopian to the cape,
Ply stemming nightly toward the pole: so seemed Far off the flying fiend. At last appear
Hell bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof,
And thrice three-fold the gates: three folds were brass, Three iron, three of adamantine rock Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire,
Yet unconsumed. Before the gates there sat On either side a formidable shape;
The one seemed woman to the waist, and fair, But ended foul in many a scaly fold Voluminous and vast, a serpent armed With mortal sting; about her middle round A cry of hell-hounds, never ceasing, barked With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and rung A hideous peal. Far less abhorred than these Vexed Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore : Nor uglier follow the nighthag, when, called In secret, riding through the air she comes, Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance With Lapland witches, while the laboring moon Eclipses at their charms. The other shape, If shape it might be called that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb;
Or substance might be called that shadow seemed; For each seemed either; black it stood as night, Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,
And shook a dreadful dart; what seemed his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on. Satan was now at hand; and from his seat The monster moving, onward came as fast With horrid strides; hell trembled as he strode. The undaunted fiend what this might be admired, Admired, not feared; God and his son except,
Created thing naught valued he, nor shunned. And with disdainful look thus first began.
"Whence, and what art thou, execrable shape! That darest, though grim and terrible, advance Thy miscreated front athwart my way
To yonder gates? Through them I mean to pass, That be assured, without leave asked of thee: Retire or taste thy folly; and learn by proof, Hellborn! not to contend with spirits of heaven!" To whom the goblin, full of wrath, replied, "Art thou that traitor angel, art thou he,
Who first broke peace in heaven, and faith, till then Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms
Drew after him the third part of heaven's sons Conjured against the highest, for which both thou And they, outcast from God, are here condemned To waste eternal days in wo and pain?
And reckonest thou thyself with spirits of heaven, Hell-doomed! and breathest defiance here and scorn, Where I reign king, and, to inflame thee more Thy king and lord! Back to thy punishment, False fugitive! and to thy speed add wings, Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before." So spake the grisly terror, and in shape, So speaking and so threatening, grew ten-fold More dreadful and deformed: on the other side, Incensed with indignation, Satan stood Unterrified, and like a comet burned, That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head Leveled his deadly aim; their fatal hands No second stroke intend; and such a frown Each cast at the other, as when two black clouds With heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling on Over the Caspian, then stand front to front Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow To join their dark encounter in mid air: So frowned the mighty combatants, that hell
Grew darker at their frown; so matched they stood; For never but once more was either like
To meet so great a foe: and now great deeds
Had been achieved, whereof all hell had rung, Had not the snaky sorceress that sat
Fast by hell-gate, and kept the fatal key, Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between
When Music, heavenly maid! was young,- While yet, in early Greece, she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell; Exulting-trembling-raging-fainting,- Possessed beyond the muse's painting: By turns, they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired: From the supporting myrtles round, They snatched her instruments of sound; And, as they oft had heard, apart, Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each (for madness ruled the hour-) Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid; And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed-his eyes, on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre- And swept with hurried hand, the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair- Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad, by fits-by starts, 'twas wild.
But thou, Oh Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure! Still it whispered promised pleasure,
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