Part 2

_From engraving after a painting by Alexander Johnston._

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 345 _After a photogravure from life-photograph by Notman, Boston._

BRET HARTE 374 _From a photogravure after the original portrait by J. Pettie._

The tale of the fated lovers, Francesca and Paolo, whose fleeting spirits Dante saw in his visit to the realms of the dead, will always live in poetry and in art. His brief story of their approach in mutual sympathy, over the reading of a book, is given in our second volume: the scene of their tragic death at the hand of her enraged husband is the subject of this painting by ALEXANDRE CABANEL, the French artist.

POEMS OF TRAGEDY.

POEMS OF TRAGEDY.

IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON.

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom At Aulis, and when all beside the king Had gone away, took his right hand, and said: "O father! I am young and very happy. I do not think the pious Calchas heard Distinctly what the goddess spake; old age Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, While I was resting on her knee both arms, And hitting it to make her mind my words, And looking in her face, and she in mine, Might not he, also, hear one word amiss, Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?" The father placed his cheek upon her head, And tears dropt down it; but the king of men Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more: "O father! sayest thou nothing? Hearest thou not Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, Listened to fondly, and awakened me To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, When it was inarticulate as theirs, And the down deadened it within the nest?" He moved her gently from him, silent still; And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs: "I thought to have laid down my hair before Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed Her polished altar with my virgin blood; I thought to have selected the white flowers To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each By name, and with no sorrowful regret, Whether, since both my parents willed the change, I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow; And (after these who mind us girls the most) Adore our own Athene, that she would Regard me mildly with her azure eyes,-- But, father, to see you no more, and see Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!" Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, Bending his lofty head far over hers; And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. He turned away,--not far, but silent still. She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh, So long a silence seemed the approach of death, And like it. Once again she raised her voice: "O father! if the ships are now detained, And all your vows move not the gods above, When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer The less to them; and purer can there be Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer For her dear father's safety and success?" A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. An aged man now entered, and without One word stepped slowly on, and took the wrist Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw The fillet of the priest and calm, cold eyes. Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried: "O father! grieve no more; the ships can sail."

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE SACRIFICE OF POLYXENA.

FROM "HECUBA."

[It had been determined by the victorious Greeks to sacrifice Polyxena, the daughter of Priam, King of Ilium, and his wife Hecuba, on the tomb of the slain Achilleus. Odysseus, sent by the Greeks to fetch the maiden, turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of the mother, and Polyxena herself addresses the Greek:]

"I see thee, how beneath thy robe, O King, Thy hand is hidden, thy face turned from mine, Lest I should touch thee by the beard and pray: Fear not: thou hast escaped the god of prayers For my part. I will rise and follow thee, Driven by strong need; yea, and not loth to die. Lo! if I should not seek death, I were found A cowardly, life-loving, selfish soul! For why should I live? Was my sire not King Of all broad Phrygia? Thus my life began; Then I was nurtured on fair bloom of hope To be the bride of kings; no small the suit, I ween, of lovers seeking me: thus I Was once--ah, woe is me! of Idan dames Mistress and queen, 'mid maidens like a star Conspicuous, peer of gods, except for death; And now I am a slave: this name alone Makes me in love with death--so strange it is."

[Later in the drama follows the account of the heroic death of Polyxena, described to the unhappy Hecuba by the herald Talthybius.]

"The whole vast concourse of the Achaian host Stood round the tomb to see your daughter die. Achilleus' son, taking her by the hand, Placed her upon the mound, and I stayed near; And youths, the flower of Greece, a chosen few, With hands to check thy heifer, should she bound, Attended. From a cup of carven gold, Raised full of wine, Archilleus' son poured forth Libation to his sire, and bade me sound Silence throughout the whole Achaian host. I, standing there, cried in the midst these words:-- 'Silence, Achaians! let the host be still! Hush, hold your voices!' Breathless stayed the crowd; But he:--'O son of Peleus, father mine, Take these libations pleasant to thy soul, Draughts that allure the dead: come, drink the black Pure maiden's blood wherewith the host and I Sue thee: be kindly to us; loose our prows, And let our barks go free; give safe return Homeward from Troy to all, and happy voyage,' Such words he spake, and the crowd prayed assent. Then from the scabbard, by its golden hilt, He drew the sword, and to the chosen youths Signalled that they should bring the maid; but she, Knowing her hour was come, spake thus, and said: 'O men of Argos, who have sacked my town, Lo, of free will I die! Let no man touch My body: boldly will I stretch my throat. Nay, but I pray you set me free, then slay; That free I thus may perish: 'mong the dead, Being a queen, I blush to be called slave.' The people shouted, and King Agamemnon Bade the youths loose the maid, and set her free; She, when she heard the order of the chiefs, Seizing her mantle, from the shoulder down To the soft centre of her snowy waist Tore it, and showed her breasts and bosom fair As in a statue. Bending then with knee On earth, she spake a speech most piteous:-- 'See you this breast, O youth? If breast you will, Strike it; take heart: or if beneath my neck, Lo! here my throat is ready for your sword!' He, willing not, yet willing,--pity-stirred In sorrow for the maiden,--with his blade Severed the channels of her breath: blood flowed; And she, though dying, still had thought to fall In seemly wise, hiding what eyes should see not. But when she breathed her life out from the blow, Then was the Argive host in divers way Of service parted; for some, bringing leaves, Strewed them upon the corpse; some piled a pyre, Dragging pine trunks and boughs; and he who bore none, Heard from the bearers many a bitter word:-- 'Standest thou, villain? hast thou then no robe, No funeral honors for the maid to bring? Wilt thou not go and get for her who died Most nobly, bravest-souled, some gift?' Thus they Spake of thy child in death:--O thou most blessed Of women in thy daughter, most undone!"

From the Greek of EURIPIDES. Translation of JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

PARRHASIUS.

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 the 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. He had stood there since morning, and had borne From every eye in Athens the cold gaze Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer Passed on; and when, with weariness o'erspent, He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep, The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats Of torture to his children, summoned back The ebbing blood into his pallid face.

'T was 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. He had borne up With a stout heart that long and weary day, Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, But now he was alone, and from his nerves

The needless strength departed, and he leaned Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts Throng on him as they would. Unmarked of him Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood, Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek Flushed as he measured with a painter's eye The moving picture. The abandoned limbs, Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins Swollen to purple fulness; the gray hair, Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes; And as a thought of wilder bitterness Rose in his memory, his lips grew white, And the fast workings of his bloodless face Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart.

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. The walls were hung with armor, 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 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 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 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 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 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?

"'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 Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away Our life upon the chance wind, even 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 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! Oh heaven!--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! 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, oh 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 unreigned 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! Yet hath life Many a falser idol. There are hopes Promising well; and love-touched dreams for some; And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes For gold and pleasure--yet will only this Balk not the soul--Ambition, only, gives, Even of bitterness, a beaker full! Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, Troubled at best; Love is a lamp unseen, Burning to waste, or, if its light is found, Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken; Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires, And Quiet is a hunger never fed; And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose-- From all but keen Ambition--will the soul Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness To wander like a restless child away. Oh, if there were not better hopes than these-- Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame-- If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart Must canker in its coffers--if the links Falsehood hath broken will unite no more-- If the deep yearning love, that hath not found Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears-- If truth and fervor and devotedness, Finding no worthy altar, must return And die of their own fulness--if beyond The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air The spirit may find room, and in the love Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart May spend itself--what thrice-mocked fools are we!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA.

FROM "BRUTUS."

Would you know why I summoned you together? Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger, Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse! See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death! She was the mark and model of the time, The mould in which each female face was formed, The very shrine and sacristy of virtue! Fairer than ever was a form created By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild, And never-resting thought is all on fire! The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks, And whispered in his ear her strains divine, Can I conceive beyond her;--the young choir Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderful Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds, Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,-- How from the shade of those ill-neighboring plants Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace, She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections Might have called back the torpid breast of age To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind Might have abashed the boldest libertine And turned desire to reverential love And holiest affection! O my countrymen! You all can witness when that she went forth It was a holiday in Rome; old age Forgot its crutch, labor its task,--all ran, And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried, "There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she lies! That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, Torn up by ruthless violence,--gone! gone! gone! Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls, Which saw his poisoned brother,-- Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove O'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, Revenge! Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge! Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife, And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge! The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens, The gods themselves, shall justify the cry, And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge! And we will be revenged, my countrymen! Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. Brutus your king!--No, fellow-citizens! If mad ambition in this guilty frame Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one,-- By all the gods, this dagger which I hold Should rip it out, though it intwined my heart. Now take the body up. Bear it before us To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches, And in the blazing conflagration rear A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

THE ROMAN FATHER.

FROM "VIRGINIA"

Straightway Virginius led the maid A little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, Piled up with horn and hide; Close to yon low dark archway, Where, in a crimson flood, Leaps down to the great sewer The gurgling stream of blood.

Hard by, a flesher on a block Had laid his whittle down: Virginius caught the whittle up, And hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim, And his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child! Farewell!

"O, how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be, To thee, thou know'st, I was not so,-- Who could be so to thee? And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear My footstep on the threshold When I came back last year!

"And how she danced with pleasure To see my civic crown, And took my sword, and hung it up, And brought me forth my gown! Now, all those things are over,-- Yes, all thy pretty ways, Thy needlework, thy prattle, Thy snatches of old lays;

"And none will grieve when I go forth, Or smile when I return, Or watch beside the old man's bed, Or weep upon his urn. The house that was the happiest Within the Roman walls, The house that envied not the wealth Of Capua's marble halls,

"Now, for the brightness of thy smile, Must have eternal gloom, And for the music of thy voice, The silence of the tomb. The time is come! See how he points His eager hand this way! See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, Like a kite's upon the prey!

"With all his wit, he little deems That, spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath, in his despair, One fearful refuge left. He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, The portion of the slave;

"Yea, and from nameless evil, That passes taunt and blow,-- Foul outrage which thou knowest not, Which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, And give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, There is no way but this."

With that he lifted high the steel, And smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, And with one sob she died. Then, for a little moment, All people held their breath; And through the crowded forum Was stillness as of death;

And in another moment Brake forth, from one and all, A cry as if the Volscians Were coming o'er the wall. Some with averted faces Shrieking fled home amain; Some ran to call a leech; and some Ran to lift up the slain.

Some felt her lips and little wrist, If life might there be found; And some tore up their garments fast, And strove to stanch the wound. In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched; For never truer blow That good right arm had dealt in fight Against a Volscian foe.

When Appius Claudius saw that deed, He shuddered and sank down, And hid his face some little space With the corner of his gown; Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment-seat, And held the knife on high.

"O dwellers in the nether gloom, Avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you Do right between us twain; And even as Appius Claudius Hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius, And all the Claudian line!"

So spake the slayer of his child, And turned and went his way; But first he cast one haggard glance To where the body lay, And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, And then, with-steadfast feet, Strode right across the market-place Unto the Sacred Street.

Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him; alive or dead! Ten thousand pounds of copper To the man who brings his head." He looked upon his clients; But none would work his will. He looked upon his lictors; But they trembled, and stood still.

And as Virginius through the press His way in silence cleft, Ever the mighty multitude Fell back to right and left. And he hath passed in safety Onto his woful home, And there ta'en horse to tell the camp What deeds are done in Rome.

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.

MARK ANTONY, OVER THE BODY OF CÆSAR.

FROM "JULIUS CÆSAR," ACT III. SC. 2.

ANTONY.--O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure?--Fare thee well.--

(_To the people._)