Though clouds o'ercast our native sky, And seem to dim the sun, We will not down in languor lie, Or deem the day is done: The rural arts we loved before No less we'll cherish now; And crown the banquet, as of yore, With Honour to the Plough.
In these fair fields, whose peaceful spoil To faith and hope are given, We'll seek the prize with honest toil, And leave the rest to Heaven. We'll gird us to our work like men Who own a holy vow, And if in joy we meet again, Give Honour to the Plough.
Let Art, array'd in magic power, With Labour hand in hand, Go forth, and now in peril's hour Sustain a sinking land. Let never Sloth unnerve the arm, Or Fear the spirit cow; These words alone should work a charm-- All Honour to the Plough.
The heath redress, the meadow drain, The latent swamp explore, And o'er the long-expecting plain Diffuse the quickening store: Then fearless urge the furrow deep Up to the mountain's brow, And when the rich results you reap, Give Honour to the plough.
So still shall Health by pastures green And nodding harvests roam, And still behind her rustic screen Shall Virtue find a home: And while their bower the muses build Beneath the neighbouring bough, Shall many a grateful verse be fill'd With Honour to the Plough.
The study of literary history offers an extraordinary charm, when it tends to raise the veil, frequently thrown by inattention and forgetfulness, over noble and graceful forms, which deserved to excite the interest, or even to receive the active thanks of posterity. At such moments, we find the mysterious sources of inspiration admired, through a long period, for their fulness and sincerity: we go back to the forgotten or falsely interpreted causes of celebrated actions, of classic writings, of resolutions, whose renown rang through many ages; the vagueness of poetic pictures gives place to positive forms; and that which appeared but a brilliant phantom is sometimes transformed into a living reality.
Among the glorious titles which have borne the name of Michel Angelo Buonarotti to so high a pitch of celebrity, the least popular is that derived from the composition of his poetical works. The best judges, however, regard these productions not only with profound esteem, but yet more often with an ardent admiration. Michel Angelo lived during the _golden age_ of the Lingua Toscana. Among the poets who filled the interval between the publication of the _Orlando_ and that of the _Aminta_--first, in order of date, of the _chefs-d'o[eu]vres_ of Torquato--not one has raised himself above, nor, perhaps, to the level, of Buonarotti. In the study of his writings, we recognise all the essential characteristics of his genius, as revealed to the world in his marbles, frescos, and the edifices erected by his hand. It is a copious poetry--masculine and vigorous--fed with high thoughts--serious and severe in the expression. Berni wrote truly of it to Fra Sebastiano--"Ei dice cose: voi dite parole!" The poet exists always in entire possession of himself: enthusiasm elevates, carries him away, but seduces him never. We admire in his mind a constitution firm, healthful, and fertile--a constant equilibrium of passion, will, and conception--often of fervency--nowhere of delirium. The qualities necessary to the artist do no harm to those which make the thinker and good citizen--every where, as in the literary laws of ancient Greece, consonance, _sophrosyne_, moderation. Michel Angelo, amid the passions and illusions of his time, knew how to hold the helm of "that precious bark, which singing sailed."[50] Sincere and humble Christian, with a leaning to the austere, he succeeded in keeping himself free from all superstition; declared republican, he avoided all popular fanaticism, and bore, even during the siege of Florence, the _honourable_ hostility of the Arrabiati; admirer of Savonarola, he combated the sickly exaggerations of the _esprit piagnone_, and remained faithful to the worship of art; and last, guest of Leo X., favourite sculptor of Julius II., he never suffered himself to be seduced by the Pagan intoxication of the Renaissance; from his early youth, the frame, in which he was destined to form so many sublime conceptions, was irrevocably determined.