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 check

Flushed as he measured with a painter's

"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!

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! 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 un

seen,

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;

His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall, His merry laugh like music trill, And I unheeding hear it all;

For, like the wrinkles on my brow, I scarcely notice such things now. But when, amid the earnest game, He stops as if he music heard,

And Honor charmed the air;

And all astir looked kind on her,

And called her good as fair,

For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true,
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo -
But honored well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair
A slight girl, lily-pale;

We fly by day and shun its light,

But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, We mount and start with early night,

And through the forest track our foe. And soon he hears our chargers leap, The flashing sabre blinds his eyes, And ere he drives away his sleep,

And rushes from his camp, he dies.

Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,

That will not ask a kind caress To swim the Santee at our need, When on his heels the foemen press, The true heart and the ready hand, The spirit stubborn to be free, The twisted bore, the smiting brand, And we are Marion's men, you see.

Now light the fire and cook the meal, The last perhaps that we shall taste; I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,

And that's a sign we move in haste. He whistles to the scouts, and hark!

You hear his order calm and low. Come, wave your torch across the dark, And let us see the boys that go.

We

may not see their forms again, God help 'em, should they find the strife!

For they are strong and fearless men,

And make no coward terms for life; They'll fight as long as Marion bids,

And when he speaks the word to shy, Then, not till then, they turn their steeds, Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.

The scouts are gone, and on the brush I see the Colonel bend his knee,

To take his slumbers too. But hush! He's praying, comrades; 't is not strange; The man that's fighting day by day May well, when night comes, take a change, And down upon his knees to pray.

Break up that hoc-cake, boys, and hand
The sly and silent jug that 's there;
I love not it should idly stand

When Marion's men have need of cheer. 'Tis seldom that our luck affords

A stuff like this we just have quaffed, And dry potatoes on our boards

May always call for such a draught.

Now pile the brush and roll the log;

Hard pillow, but a soldier's head
That 's half the time in brake and bog
Must never think of softer bed.
The owl is hooting to the night,

The cooter crawling o'er the bank,
And in that pond the flashing light
Tells where the alligator sank.