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Another, to revenge his fellow farrow,

Against the giant rushed in perce career,
And reached the passage with so swift a foot
Morgante was not now in time to shoot.
Perceiving that the pig was on him close,

He gave him such a punch upon the head*
As floored him, so that he no more arose -

Smashing the very bone; and he fell dead
Next to the other. Having seen such blows,

The other pigs along the valley fled;
Morgante on his neck the bucket took,
Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor shook.
The ton was on one shoulder, and there were

The hogs on tother, and he brushed apace
On to the abbey, though by no mealis near,

Nor spilt one drop of water in his race.
Orlando, seeing him so soon appear,

With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase,
Marvelled to see his strength so very great ;-

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. Morgante becomes very popular among the almost famishing monks by the supplies which he thus brings them. The abbot, by way of rewarding him, gives him a horse; which, wholly unable to bear the monster's weight, bursts under him, to the great wonder and vexation of Morgante, who makes nothing of lifting the dead steed upon his shoulder, ard carrying bim out of sight into the wood.

Orlando is soon tired of the idle life at the monastery; and, having with great difficulty found some armour to fit Morgante, they proceed on their adventures, and thus ends the canto.

The business of translation was wholly beneath Lord Byron; and, but that it is our design to give our readers an account of all bis lordship's literary productions, we should hardly have noticed this.

The · Liberal' only weut to a fourth Number.

• "Gli dette in sulla testa un gran punzone. It is strange that Pulci should have literally anticipated the technical terms of my old friend and master Jackson, and the art which he has carried to its highest pitch. ' A punch on the head,' or

a punch in the head,'' un punzone in sulla testa,' is the exact and frequent phrase of our best pugilists, who little dream that they are talking the purest Tuscan.

CHAPTER XIV.

LORD Byron permitted himself to indulge his ill temper so far as to write a satire and not a good one on the political affairs of the times. There is one passage in it which is really interesting and beautiful: it is that in which the poet alludes to the imprisonment and death of Buonaparte. With this extract we shall dismiss the • Age of Bronze;'

But where is he, the modern, mightier far,
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car;
The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings,
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings,
And
spurn

the dust o'er which they crawled of late,
Chained to the chariot of the chieftain's state ?
Yes! where is be, the champion and the child
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild ?
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones ?
Whose table earth-whose dice were human bones ?
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle,
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile.
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ;
Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations;
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines,
O’er curtailed dishes and o'er stinted wines;
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things.
Is this the man who sconrged or feasted kings?
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs,
A surgeon's statement and an earl's harangues !
A bust delayed, a book refused, can shake
The sleep of him who kept the world awake.
Is this indeed the Tamer of the Great,
Now slave of all could tease or irritate,
The paltry gaoler and the prying spy,
The staring stranger with his note-Look nigh?
Plunged in a dungeon, be had still been great ;
How low, liow little, was this middle state,

Between a prison and a palace, where
How few could feel for what he had to bear!
Vain his complaint,---iny lord presents his bill,
His food and wine were doled out duly still:
Vain was bis sickness,-never was a clime
So free from homicide-to doubt's a crime;
And the stiff surgeon, who maintained his cause,
Hath lost his place, and gained the world's applause.
But smile-though all the pangs of brain and heart
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art;
Though, save the sew fond friends, and innaged face
Of that fair boy bis sire shall nc'er embrace,
None stand by his low bed—though even the mind
Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind;
Smile-for the feltered eagle breaks his chain,
And higher worlds than this are his again.

The subject of the next poem which Lord Byron published was suggested by the description given, in 'Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands,' of the fertility and beauty of that singular, and to us almost new, country. Lord Byron's mind received a most powerful and highly-pleasing impression from that account. He was never tired of talking of it to his friends, and announced his intention of introducing into some of his works the new and poetical feelings which his fancy had conjured up in connexion with a country rich in all the productions of nature, and uncorrupted by the vices of civilization. He was for some time at a loss for a subject, whicl, indeed, it must be obvious to every one, is not very easy to be found. History has as yet had little to do with the countries to which the descriptions were to refer, and without some foundation it is almost impossible to build up enough of a narration to answer the purpose even of a poem.

It was no less disficult so to connect the doings of the inhabitants of the old world with those of the new ove as to excite thes ympathies of such as were to be his readers. At length, in the history of the mutiny by the crew of the Bounty, in the South Seas, in the year 1789, Lord Byron found the materials which, in his hands, were soon wrought into the shape which he required.

Captain Bligh had been sent out on an expedition to the South Seas, generally for scientific purposes; and to make discoveries as well respecting the navigation in those latitudes, of which very little was then known, as to add to the knowledge which was already pos.

sessed in Europe of the natural productions of the countries which bordered them. To transplant the bread-tree was also one of the objects of his labours. Captain Bligh had made a long voyage, in which, although he had encountered many difficulties and hardships, he had been tolerably successful. He had made a stay of twenty-three weeks at the island of Otaheite, where he had procured some valuable additions to his collections. The crew behaved very well; and with a large, and in his situation a very valuable cargo, Captain Bligh sailed for home. A few days afterwards, while the ship was near one of the South-Sea Islands, Captain Bligh was awakened in the moru, ing by finding himself seized by some of his crew : they bound him, and carried him on deck with many threats. Fletcher Christian, the master's mate, was the leader of this mutiny; and by him all the rest of the rebellious crew were commanded. The long-boat was then lowered, and such of the crew as were, or were supposed to be, attached to the captain's interests—in all fourteen persons were ordered into her. Some cordage, and a very small quantity of provisions, being stowed in the boat, the captain was released, and made to join the boat's crew. The mutineers offered him no other violence; but, casting off, the boat was lest to make its way as well as it could. After the most dreadful difficulties Captain Bligh reached England; but the whole of his labours had been, of course, frustrated by the loss of his ship, and the collections which it contained. The mutineers went back to Otaheite, where they remained until a ship, which had been dispatched from England for the purpose of bringing the mutineers to justice, arrived there. Some of the matineers were taken; others were killed in desending themselves, and of the latter number was Christian. The inducements to the mutiny are supposed, by Captain Bligh, to have been the beauty and amiability of the women of Otaheite, as well as the richness and salubrity of the climate:

• It will naturally be asked,' he says, 'what could be the cause of such a revolt? In answer, I can only conjecture that the mutineers had flattered themselves with the hope of a happier life among the Oiaheitans than they could possibly enjoy in England; which, joined to some female connexions, most probably occasioned the whole transaction.

• The women of Olabeite are handsome, mild, and cheerful in inanners and conversation; possessed of great sensibility; and have sufficient delicacy to make them be admired and beloved. The chiefs were so much attached to our people, that they rather encouraged their stay among them than otherwise, and even made them promises of large possessions. Under these and many other concomitant circumstances, it ought hardly to be the subject of surprise that a set of sailors, most of them void of connexions, should be led away, where they had the power of fixing themselves in the midst of plenty, in one of the finest islands in the world, where there was no necessity to labour, and where the allurements of dissipation are beyond any conception that can be formed of it. The utmost, however, that a commander could have expected, was desertions, such as have already happeved more or less in the South Seas, and not an act of open mutiny.!

Upon this subject, and availing himself particularly of the latter topic, in order to introduce that interest which is indispensably necessary to poems of this sort, Lord Byron founded his poem of The Island, or Christian and his Comrades.'

The first canto is occupied with telling the tale of the mutiny. The second begins with a paraphrase of the prose translation from one of the songs of the Tonga islanders, printed in Mariner's Account.' It is extremely pretty; and the mode of expressing the idea of sweetness and beauty being connected with the flowers which bloom over the graves of heroes is new at least to our poetry :

Come, let us to the islet's softest shade,
And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said:
The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo,
Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo;
We'll call the flowers that grow above the dead,
For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head;
And we will sit in twilight's face, and see
The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree,
The lofty accents of whose sighing bough
Shall sadly please us as we lean below;
Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain
Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main,
Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray.
How beautiful are these! how happy they,
Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives,
Steal to look down where nought but Ocean strives !
Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon,
And smooths his ruffled manc beneath the moon.

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