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shall be the fruit of your victories. It will be an epoch for the admiration of posterity; you will enjoy the immortal glory of changing the aspect of affairs in the finest part of Europe. The free people of France, not regardless of moderation, shall accord to Europe a glorious peace; but it will indemnify itself for the sacrifices of every kind which it has been making for six years past.
You will again be restored to your fire-sides and homes; and your fellowcitizens, pointing you out, shall say, “There goes one who belonged to the army of Italy!'
CHARACTER OF MICHAEL ANGELO.-Fuseli.
SUBLIMITY of conception, grandeur of form and breadth of manner, are the elements of Michael Angelo's style. By these principles he selected or rejected the objects of imitation. As painter, as sculptor, as architect, he attempted, and above any other man succeeded, in uniting magnificence of plan and endless variety of subordinate parts with the utmost simplicity and breadth.
His line is uniformly grand. Character and beauty were admitted only as far as they could be made subservient to grandeur. The child, the female, meanness, deformity, were by him indiscriminately stamped with grandeur. A beggar rose from his hand the patriarch of poverty; the hump of his dwarf is impressed with dignity; his infants teem with the man; his men are a race of giants.
To give the appearance of perfect ease to the most perplexing difficulty, was the exclusive power of Michael Angelo. He is the inventor of epic painting, in that sublime circle of the Sistine Chapel, which exhibits the origin, the progress, and the final dispensations of theocracy. He has personified motion in the groups of the cartoon of Pisa; embodied sentiment on the monuments of St. Lorenzo, unravelled the features of meditation in the prophets and sibyls of the chapel of Sixtus; and, in the last judgment, with every attitude that varies the human body, traced the master trait of every passion that sways the human heart.
Though as sculptor, he expressed the character of Aesh more perfectly than all who went before or came after him, yet he never submitted to copy an individual, Julio the second only excepted; and in him he represented the reigning passion rather than the man.
In painting, he contented himself with a negative colour, and, as the painter of mankind, rejected all meretricious ornament. The fabric of St. Peter, scattered into infinity of jarring parts by Bramante and his successors,
he concentrated; suspended the cupola, and, to the most complex, gave the air of the most simple of edifices.
Such was Michael Angelo, the salt of art: sometimes he, no doubt, had his moments of dereliction, deviated into manner, or perplexed the grandeur of his forms with futile and ostentatious anatomy. These faults met with armies of copyists, whilst his grandeur had no rival.
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams his song of triumph heard;
As Eden's garden bird.
An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
*To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!'
Bozzaris cheer his band;
your fires, Strike-for the green graves of your sires, God-and
They fought-like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, death!
Come to the mother, when she feels For the first time her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals Which close the pestilence are broke, And crouded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine, And thou art terrible: the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee—there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.
MOONLIGHT-AND A FIELD OF BATTLE.-Shelley
How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh
The orb of day,
Ah! whence yon glare
In countless echoes through the mountains ring,
The gray morn
forest is a gloomy glenEach tree which guards its darkness from the day, Waves o'er a warrior's tomb.