And the ground where he treads, as if moved with affright, Like the surge of the Caspian bends. "I am here!" said the fiend, and he thundering knocked At the gates of a mountainous cave; The gates open flew, as by magic unlocked, While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rocked "O, mercy!" cried Ellen, and swooned in his arms; But the Paint-King, he scoffed at her pain. "Prithee, love," said the monster," what mean these alarins?" She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms, That work her to horror again. She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes Black and white, red and yellow, and blue.. On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied, And anon, as he puffed the vast volumes, were seen, Legs and arms, heads and bodies emerging between, "Ah me!" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet. "Must I hang on these walls to be dried?" "O, no," said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat, Then seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair, Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair, All covered with oil to the chin. On the morn of the eighth, on a huge sable stone With a rock for his muller, he crushed every bone, Now reaching his palette, with masterly care The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair, Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim, By a team of ten glow-worms upborne. Enthroned in the midst on an emerald bright, peer; Fair Geraldine sat without In an accent that stole on the still charmed air ""Tis true," said the monster," thou queen of my heart, Thy portrait I oft have essayed; Yet ne'er to the canvas could I with my art "Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's tail,”— And he towered with pride as he spoke, "If again with these magical colors I fail, The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail, And my food shall be sulphur and smoke. "But if I succeed, then, O fair Geraldine, The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form His touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm; And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem 'Twas the fairy herself! but, alas, her blue eyes Still a pupil did ruefully lack; And who shall describe the terrific surprise That seized the Paint-King when, behold, he descries Not a speck of his palette of black! “I am lost!" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf; When, casting his eyes to the ground, He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief "I am lost!" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone; Then, rising, the fairy, in ire, With a touch of her finger, she loosened her zone, (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,) And she swelled to a column of fire. Her spear now a thunder-bolt flashed in the air, Then over the picture thrice waving her spear, The murdered Traveller.-BRYANT. WHEN Spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found, The fragrant birch, above him, hung And many a vernal blossom sprung, The red-bird warbled, as he wrought But there was weeping far away, With watching many an anxious day, They little knew, who loved him so, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Nor how, when, round the frosty pole, The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear. But long they looked, and feared, and wept, And dreamed, and started as they slept, So long they looked-but never spied Nor knew the fearful death he died Far down that narrow glen. On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.-F. G. HALLECK. GREEN be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! Tears fell, when thou wert dying, When hearts, whose truth was proven, There should a wreath be woven And I, who woke each morrow It should be mine to braid it While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. To H--CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. SWEET child, that wasted form, This world is not for thee. |