From overfeeling good or ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate,

And be the new Prometheus of new men,
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late,
Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain,
And vultures to the heart of the bestower,
Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain,
Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore!
So be it; we can bear.-But thus all they,
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power,
Which still recoils from its encumbering clay,
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er

The form which their creations may essay,
Are bards. The kindied marble's bust may wear
More poesy upon its speaking brow

Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear; One noble stroke with a whole life may glow,

Or deify the canvass till it shine With beauty so surpassing all below, That they who kneel to idols so divine

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there Transfused, transfigurated: and the line

Of poesy which peoples but the air

With thought and beings of our thought reflected,
Can do no more: then let the artist share
The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected
Faints o'er the labour unapproved-Alas!
Despair and genius are too oft connected.
Within the ages which before me pass,

Art shall resume and equal even the sway
Which with Apelles and old Phidias
She held in Hellas' unforgotten day.

Ye shall be taught by ruin to revive

The Grecian forms at least from their decay,
And Roman souls at last again shall live

In Roman works wrought by Italian hands,
And temples loftier than the old temples, give
New wonders to the world; and while still stands
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar
A dome, 12 its image, while the base expands
Into a faue surpassing all before,

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door
As this, to which all nations shall repair,

And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven.
And the bold architect unto whose care
The daring charge to raise it shall be given,
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord,
Whether into the marble chaos driven
His chisel bid the Hebrew, 13 at whose word
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone,
Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne, 14
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see,
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown,
The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me,15
The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms
Which form the empire of eternity.
Amidst the clash of swords and clang of helms,
The age which I anticipate, no less
Shall be the age of beauty, and while whelms
Calamity the nations with distress,

The genius of my country shall arise, A cedar towering o'er the wilderness. Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar,

Wafting its native incense through the skies.
Sovereigns shall pause amid their sport of war,
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze
On canvass or on stone; and they who mar
All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise,
Shall feel the power of that which they destroy;
And art's mistaken gratitude shall raise

To tyrants who but take her for a toy
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute
Her charms to pontiffs proud, 16 who but employ
The man of genius as the meanest brute
To bear a burthen, and to serve a need,
To sell his labours, and his soul to boot.
Who toils for nations may be poor indeed,

But free; who sweats for monarchs is no more Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd, Stands sleek and slavish bowing at his door.

Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power
Is likest thine in heaven in outward show,
Least like to thee in attributes divine,
Tread on the universal necks that bow;
And then assure us that their rights are thine?
And how is it that they, the sons of fame,
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine
From high, they whom the nations oftest name,
Must pass their days in penury or pain,
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame,
And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain?
Or if their destiny be borne aloof
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain,
In their own souls sustain a harder proof,

The inner war of passions deep and fierce?
Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof,
I loved thee, but the vengeance of my verse,
The hate of injuries, which every year
Makes greater and accumulates my curse,
Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear,

Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that, The most infernal of all evils here,

The sway of petty tyrants in a state;

For such sway is not limited to kings,
And demagogues yield to them but iu date

As swept off sooner; in all deadly things

Which make men hate themselves and one another, In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs From Death, the Sin-born's incest with his mother, In rank oppression in its rudest shape, The faction chief is but the sultan's brother, And the worst despot's far less human ape. Florence! when this lone spirit which so long Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape, To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, An exile, saddest of all prisoners,

Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth Where, whatsoe'er his fate-he still were hers, His country's, and might die where he had birth. Florence! when this lone spirit shall return To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, And seek to honour with an empty urn

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain.-Alas!

« What have I done to thee, my people? » '7 Stern

Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass

The limits of man's common malice, for

From overfeeling good or ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate,

And be the new Prometheus of new men, Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain,

And vultures to the heart of the bestower,
Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain,
Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore!
So be it; we can bear.-But thus all they,
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power,
Which still recoils from its encumbering clay,
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er

The form which their creations may essay,
Are bards. The kindled marble's bust may wear
More poesy upon its speaking brow

Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear;
One noble stroke with a whole life may glow,
Or deify the canvass till it shine
With beauty so surpassing all below,
That they who kneel to idols so divine

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there Transfused, transfigurated: and the line

Of poesy which peoples but the air

With thought and beings of our thought reflected,
Can do no more: then let the artist share
The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected
Faints o'er the labour unapproved-Alas!
Despair and genius are too oft connected.
Within the which before me pass,
ages

Art shall resume and equal even the sway
Which with Apelles and old Phidias
She held in Hellas' unforgotten day.

Ye shall be taught by ruin to revive

The Grecian forms at least from their decay, And Roman souls at last again shall live

In Roman works wrought by Italian hands,
And temples loftier than the old temples, give
New wonders to the world; and while still stands
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar
A dome, 12 its image, while the base expands
Into a fane surpassing all before,

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door
As this, to which all uations shall repair,

And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven.
And the bold architect unto whose care
The daring charge to raise it shall be given,
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord,
Whether into the marble chaos driven
His chisel bid the Hebrew, 13 at whose word
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone,
Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne, 14
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see,
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown,

Wafting its native incense through the skies.
Sovereigns shall pause amid their sport of war,
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and Gaze
On canvass or on stone; and they who mar
All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise,
Shall feel the power of that which they destroy;
And art's mistaken gratitude shall raise

To tyrants who but take her for a toy
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute
Her charms to pontiffs proud, 16 who but employ
The man of genius as the meanest brute
To bear a burthen, and to serve a need,
To sell his labours, and his soul to boot.
Who toils for nations may be poor indeed,
But free; who sweats for monarchs is no more
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd,
Stands sleek and slavish bowing at his door.

Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power
Is likest thine in heaven in outward show,
Least like to thee in attributes divine,
Tread on the universal necks that bow;
And then assure us that their rights are thine?
And how is it that they, the sons of fame,
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine
From high, they whom the nations oftest name,
Must pass their days in penury or pain,
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame,
And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain?
Or if their destiny be borne aloof
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain,
In their own souls sustain a harder proof,

The inner war of passions deep and fierce? Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof, I loved thee, but the vengeance of my verse, The hate of injuries, which every year Makes greater and accumulates my curse, Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear, Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that, The most infernal of all evils here,

The

sway of petty tyrants in a state;

For such sway is not limited to kings,

And demagogues yield to them but in date

As swept off sooner; in all deadly things

Which make men hate themselves and one another, In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs From Death, the Sin-born's incest with his mother, In rank oppression in its rudest shape, The faction chief is but the sultan's brother, And the worst despot's far less human ape. Florence! when this lone spirit which so long Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape, To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, An exile, saddest of all prisoners,

Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong,

The genius of my country shall arise, A cedar towering o'er the wilderness. Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar,

Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth Where, whatsoe'er his fate-he still were hers, His country's, and might die where he had birth. Florence! when this lone spirit shall return To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, And seek to honour with an empty urn

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain.-Alas!

<< What have I done to thee, my people? » 17 Stern

Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass

The limits of man's common malice, for

Michel Angiolo's, that he had designed the whole of the Divina Commedia; but that the volume containing these studies was lost by sea.

Note 16. Page 452, line 76.

Her charms to pontiffs proud, who but employ, etc.

Note 17. Page 462, line 130.
What have I done to thee, my people!"

« E scrisse più volte non solamente a particolari cittadini del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e intra l'altre una epistola assai lunga che comincia :

Vita di Dante scritta da Lionardo Aretino.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The foundation of the following story will be found partly in the account of the Mutiny of the Bounty, in the South Sea, in 1789, and partly in « Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands.»

THE ISLAND.

I.

THE morning watch was come: the vessel lay
Her course, and gently made her liquid way;
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough:
The waters with their world were all before;
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore.
The quiet night, now dappling, gan to wane,
Dividing darkness from the dawning main;
The dolphins not unconscious of the day,
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray;
The stars from broader beams began to creep,
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep;
The sail resumed its lately-shadow'd white,
And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight:
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun-
But, ere he break, a deed is to be done.

The gallant chief within his cabin slept,
Secure in those by whom the watch was kept:
His dreams were of old England's welcome shore,
Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er;
His name was added to the glorious roll
Of those who search the storm-surrounded pole.
The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure,
And why should not his slumber be secure?
Alas! his deck was trod by unwilling feet,
And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet;
Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle,
Where summer years and summer women smile;
Men, without country, who too long estranged,
Had found no native home, or found it changed,
And, half-uncivilised, preferred the cave

The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd;
The wood without a path but where they will'd;
The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pour'd
Her horn; the equal land without a lord;
The wish-which ages have not yet subdued
In man-to have no master save his mood;
The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold,
The glowing sun and produce all its gold;
The freedom which can call each grot a home;
The general garden where all steps may roam,
Where nature owns a nation as her child,

Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild;

Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know;
Their unexploring navy, the canoe;

Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase;
Their strangest sight, an European face:-

Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd
To see again—a sight they dearly earn'd.

III.

Awake, bold Bligh! the foe is at the gate! Awake! awake!--Alas! it is too late! Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer

Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear.
Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast,
The hands which trembled at thy voice, arrest :
Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand;
That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath
Its desperate escape from duty's path,
Glares round thee, in the scarce-believing eyes
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice;
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage,
Unless he drain the wine of passion―rage.

IV.

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death,
Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath :—
They come not; they are few, and, overawed,
Must acquiesce while sterner hearts applaud.
In vain thou dost demand the cause; a curse
Is all the answer, with the threat of worse.
Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade,
Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid,
The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast
In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest.
Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming, « Fire!»
But they who pitied not could yet admire;

"