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He dreams the chill gust is a blossoming gale,
That the straw is a rose from his dear native vale;
And murmurs, unconscious of space and of time,

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"A 1.-Extra super.--Ah, is n't it prime!

O, what are the prizes we perish to win,

To the first little "shiner" we caught with a pin!
No soil upon earth is so dear to our eyes
As the soil we first stirred in terrestrial pies!

Then come from all parties, and parts, to our feast;
Though not at the "Astor," we 'll give you at least
A bite at an apple, a seat on the grass,

And the best of old-water-at nothing a glass.

Ex. CVIIL-HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE.

HEAVY with heat and silence
Grew the afternoon of summer;
With a drowsy sound the forest

Whispered round the sultry wigwam,
With a sound of sleep the water

Rippled on the beach below it:

From the corn-fields shrill and ceaseless
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena;
And the guests of Hiawatha,*
Weary with the heat of summer,
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.

Slowly o'er the simmering landscape

Fell the evening's dusk and coolness,
And the long and level sunbeams
Shot their spears into the forest,

Breaking through its shields of shadow,
Rushed into each secret ambush,
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow;
Still the guests of Hiawatha
Slumbered in the silent wigwam.
From his place rose Hiawatha,

Bade farewell to old Nokomis,

* Christian missionaries.

LONGFELLOW.

Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,
Did not wake the guests, that slumbered:
"I am going, O Nokomis,
On a long and distant journey,
To the portals of the sunset,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the northwest wind, Keewaydin.
But these guests I leave behind me,
In your watch and ward I leave them;
See that never harm comes near them,
See that never fear molests them,
Never danger nor suspicion,
Never want of food or shelter,

In the lodge of Hiawatha !”

Forth into the village went he,
Bade farewell to all the warriors,
Bade farewell to all the young men,
Spake persuading, spake in this wise:
"I am going, O my people,
On a long and distant journey;
Many moons and many winters
Will have come, and will have vanished,
Ere I come again to see you.

But my guests I leave behind me;
Listen to their words of wisdom,
Listen to the truth they tell you,
For the Master of Life has sent them
From the land of light and morning!"
On the shore stood Hiawatha,
Turned and waved his hand at parting;
On the clear and luminous water
Launched his birch canoe for sailing,
From the pebbles of the margin,
Shoved it forth into the water;
Whispered to it "Westward, westward!"
And with speed it darted forward.
And the evening sun descending
Set the clouds on fire with redness,
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
Left upon the level water

One long track and trail of splendor,
Down whose stream, as down a river,
Westward, westward, Hiawatha
Sailed into the fiery sunset,

Sailed into the purple vapors,
Sailed into the dusk of evening.

And the people from the margin
Watched him floating, rising, sinking,
Till the birch canoe seemed lifted
High into that sea of splendor,
Till it sank into the vapors

Like the new moon, slowly, slowly
Sinking in the purple distance.

And they said, "Farewell for ever!"
Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha !”

And the forests, dark and lonely,

Moved through all their depths of darkness,
Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the waves upon the margin
Rising, rippling on the pebbles,
Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From her haunts among the fen-lands,
Screamed, "Farewell, Ö Hiawatha!"
Thus departed Hiawatha,

Hiawatha the beloved,

O

In the glory of the sunset,

In the purple mists of evening,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the northwest wind, Keewaydin,
To the islands of the blessed,
To the kingdom of Ponemah,
To the land of the hereafter!

Ex. CIX.-PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.

WILLIS.

"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 pain and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint."-Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy.

THERE stood an unsold captive in the mart,
A gray-haired and majestical old man,
Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from his place had gone,

And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
'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.

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, his 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 flight.

"Bring me the captive now!

My hands feel skillful, 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?

What a fine agony

Quick, my good pencil, now!
upon his brow!

works

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 burns-
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 Do n't let him 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 temples flutter!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!

He shudders-gasps-Jove help him-so-he's dead."

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