The frost of death was in her eye; Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ;- The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled. "I went and washed, and I received sight."-NEW YORK EVENING POST. WHEN the great Master spoke, And he saw the city's walls, He looked on the river's flood, And the flash of mountain rills, And the gentle wave of the palms, that stood He saw, on heights and plains, Creatures of every race; But a mighty thrill ran through his veins And his virgin sight beheld The ruddy glow of even, And the thousand shining orbs that filled And woman's voice before Had cheered his gloomy night, And his heart, at daylight's close, The Huma.*-LOUISA P. SMITH. FLY on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird, Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard, Fly on, nor seek a place of rest In the home of" care-worn things:" The fields of upper air are thine, I would thy home, bright one, were mine, I would never wander, bird, like thee, With wing and spirit once light and free, They should wear no more the chain With which they are bound and fettered here, For ever struggling for skies more clear There are many things like thee, bright bird; Our air is with them for ever stirred, But still in air they stay. And Happiness, like thee, fair one, Is ever hovering o'er, But rests in a land of brighter sun, On a waveless, peaceful shore, And stoops to lave her weary wings, Where the fount of "living waters" springs. The Paint King.—WASHINGTON ALLSTON. FAIR Ellen was long the delight of the young; "A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground." Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue, And bards without number, in ecstasies, sung The beauties of Ellen the fair. Yet cold was the maid; and, though legions advanced, And languished and ogled, protested and danced, Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore Like a sailor she seemed on a desolate shore, With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound but the roar From object to object still, still would she veer, Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and clear, But, rather than sit like a statue so still, When the rain made her mansion a pound, From the tiles of the roof to the ground. One morn, as the maid from her casement inclined, "Ah, what can he do"-said the languishing maid, And she knelt to the goddess of secrets, and prayed, "Oh, beautiful picture!" the fair Ellen cried, Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied, When the youth, looking back, met her eye. 'Fair damsel," said he, (and he chuckled the while,) Then take it, I pray you; perhaps 'twill beguile Then Ellen the gift, with delight and surprise, 'T'was a youth o'er the form of a statue inclined, Yet he languished as though for its beauty he pined, 'Twas the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old; Fair Ellen remembered, and sighed : "Ah, couldst thou but lift from that marble, so cold, She said: when, behold, from the canvas arose She turned, and beheld on each shoulder a wing. Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift And he sped through the air like a meteor swift, Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight, 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, "A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!" 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. |