Of yon Supernal Court, from whom may flow And, since in all this hope exalting lives, Let virtuous toil improve what Nature gives: O task sublime, to till the human soil Through ages back, with freshening power shall last, THE PAINT-KING. FAIR Ellen was long the delight of the young, No damsel could with her compare; 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 Of breakers high-dashing around. 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, One morn, as the maid from her casement inclined, The casement she closed, not the eye of her mind; "Ah, what can he do?" said the languishing maid; “Ah, what with that frame can he do?" And she knelt to the Goddess of Secrets and prayed, When the youth passed again, and again he displayed The frame and a picture to view. "O 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,) "This picture I see you admire : Then take it, I pray you; perhaps 't will beguile Then Ellen the gift with delight and surprise From the cunning young stripling received. But she knew not the poison that entered her eyes, When, sparkling with rapture, they gazed on the prize ; Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceived! 'T was a youth o'er the form of a statue inclined, And the sculptor he seemed of the stone; Yet he languished as though for its beauty he pined, And gazed as the eyes of the statue so blind Reflected the beams of his own. 'T was the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old; Fair Ellen remembered and sighed : “Ah, couldst thou but lift from that marble so cold, Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should enfold And press me this day as thy bride." She said when, behold, from the canvas arose She turned, and beheld on each shoulder a wing. "O Heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?" From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring, As, frowning, he thundered, "I am the PAINT-KING! And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!" 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, The air all below him becomes black as night, 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 Like an island of ice on the wave. "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 alarms?" She hears not, see sees not, the terrible charms That wake her to horror again. |