"But, doctor, may I not have rum?
One drop alone is all I crave.
Grant this small boon-I ask no more-
Then I'll defy-yes, e'en the grave:
Then, without fear, I'll fold my arms,
And bid the monster strike his dart
To haste me from this world of woe,
And claim his own-this ruined heart.
"A thousand curses on his head

Who gave me first the poison'd bowl,
Who taught me first this bane to drink-
Drink-death and ruin to my soul.
My soul! oh cruel, horrid thought!
Full well I know thy certain fate.
With what instinctive horror shrinks
The spirit from that awful state !
"Lost-lost-I know for ever lost!
To me no ray of hope can come.
My fate is sealed; my doom is-
But give me rum-I will have rum.
But, doctor, don't you see him there?
In that dark corner low he sits:
See how he sports his fiery tongue,
And at me burning brimstone spits!
"Go, chase him out. Look! here he comes:
Now on my bed he wants to stay ;
He shan't be there. Oh God! oh God!
Go 'way, I say! go 'way! go 'way!
Quick! chain me fast, and tie me down.
There! now he clasps me in his arms!
Down-down the window-close it tight;
Say, don't you hear my wild alarms?
"Say, don't you see this demon fierce ?

Does no one hear ?-will no one come?
Oh, save me-save me--I will give-
But rum I must have-will have rum!

Ah! now he's gone; once more I'm free:
He-the boasting knave and liar—

He said that he would take off me

Down to

-But, there! my bed's on fire!

"Fire! water! help! Come, haste—I'll die;
Come take me from this burning bed:
The smoke-I'm choking-cannot cry;
There now-it's catching at my head!
But see! again that demon's come;

Look there-he peeps through yonder crack; Mark how his burning eyeballs flash!

How fierce he grins! What brought him back?

"There stands his burning coach of fire;
He smiles, and beckons me to come.
What are those words he's written there?"
In hell we never want for rum!"

One loud, one piercing shriek was heard ;
One yell rang out upon the air;

One sound, and one alone, came forth-
The victim's cry of wild despair.

66

Why longer wait? I'm ripe for hell;
A spirit's sent to bear me down.

There, in the regions of the lost,
I sure will wear a fiery crown.
Damned, I know, without a hope!

(One moment more, and then I'll come !) And there I'll quench this awful thirst With boiling, burning, fiery rum!”

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry;
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

Allison.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight:
"I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.

"And, by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry ;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men—
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her

When oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore-
His wrath was turned to wailing.

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover ;

One lovely arm she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover

Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-oh my daughter!"

'Twas vain the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

Campbell.

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

THE golden light into the painter's room

Streamed richly, and the hidden colours stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And, in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Vike forms and landscapes magical they lay.
The walls were hung with armour, and about
In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove;
And from the casement soberly away

Fell the grotesque, long shadows, full and true,
And, like a veil of filmy mellowness,
The lint-specks floated in the twilight air.

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rock 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 wild
Forth with its reaching fancy, and with form
And colour 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
Colours 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!
What a fine agony works on his brow!
Ha! grey-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? 'Hereafter!' Ay, hereafter!

A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the sceptic's laughter?

Come from the grave to-morrow with that story,
And I may take some softer path to glory.
No, no, old man; we die

E'en as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, e'en as they.
Strain well thy fainting eye;

For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.
Yet 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 ;