"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! 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? "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 shone, 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 Let him not 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 I 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 temple flutters! Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! He shudders--gasps--Jove help him! So--he's dead!" * * * * * How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought, And unthrones peace forever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip, We look upon our splendor and forget The thirst of which we perish! * * * * * II. ARCHITECTURE. In Architecture, too, thy rank supreme! That art where most magnificent appears The little builder, man; by thee refined, And smiling high, to full perfection brought. --THOMSON.