* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From his embrace abrupt the maiden sprang With low wild cry despairing:--In the shade Of that dark tree where still the night-bird sang, Stood a stern image statue-like, and made A shadow in the shadow;--locks of snow Crown'd, with the awe of age, the solemn brow; Lofty its look with passionless command, As some old chief's of grand inhuman Rome: Calm from its stillness moved the beckoning hand, And low from rigid lips it murmur'd "Come!"-- * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [C] Plato. [D] The foliage of the Corinthian capital is borrowed from the acanthus. PART THE THIRD. "I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope, but still bear up, and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend."--MILTON'S _Sonnet to Cyriack Skinner_. I. Years have flown by;--and Strife hath raged and ceased; Still on the ear the halted thunder rings; And still in halls, where purple tyrants feast, Glares the red warning to inebriate kings. Midnight is past: the lamp with steadfast light A silent cell, a mighty toil illumes; And hot and lurid on the student's sight Flares the still ray which, like himself, consumes Its life in gilding darkness. Damp and chill Gather the dews on aching temples wan, Wrung from the frame which fails the unconquer'd will In the fierce struggle between soul and man. II.