PARRHASIUS. "Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst 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 ANAT. OF MEL. THERE stood an unsold captive in the mart, He had stood there since morning, and had borne Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer Th' inhuman soldier smote him, and with threats '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 With a stout heart that long aud weary day, Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, But now he was alone, and from his nerves The needless strength departed, and he leaned Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts Gazing upon his grief. Th' Athenian's cheek The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs, Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes, The golden light into the painter's room Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvass. There Prometheus lay, Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh, Were like the winged God's, breathing from his flight. 66 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 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 poison'd 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! 'Pity' thee! So I do! I pity the dumb victim at the altar |