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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 suinmer women smile ;
Men without country, who, too long estranged,
Had found no native home, or found it changed,
And, half-uncivilized, preferred the cave
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave;
The gushing fruits that nature gave untillid;
The wood without a path but where they willd;
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.


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;

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.



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, overa
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 levellid 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 ;
Some lurking remnant of their former awe
Restrain'd them longer than their broken law :
They would not dip their souls at once in blood,
But left thee to the mercies of the flood.


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6. Hoist out the boat! was now the leader's cry:
And who dare answer No” to mutiny,
In the first dawning of the drunken hour,
The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power ?
The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate,
With its slight plank between thee and thy fate :
Her only cargo such a scant supply
As promises the death their hands deny;
And just enough of water and of bread
To keep, some days, the dying from the dead.
Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and twine,
But treasures all to hermits of the brine,
Were added after, to the earnest prayer
Of those who saw no hope save sea and air ;
And last, that trembling vassal of the pole,
The feeling compass, navigation's soul.


And now the self-elected chief finds time
To stun the first sensation of his crime,
And raise it in his followers" Ho ! the bowi!”
Lest passion should return to reason's shoal.
Brandy for heroes!”

Burke could once exclaim,
No doubt a liquid path to epic fame!
And such the new-born heroes found it here,
And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer.
“ Huzza ! for Otaheite!” was the cry;
How strange such shouts from sons of mutiny!
The gentle island, and the genial soil,
The friendly hearts, the feast without a toil,
The courteous manners but from nature caught,
The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought;
Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys driven
Before the mast by every wind of heaven?
And now, even now, prepar'd with others' woes
To earn mild virtue's vain desire--repose ?

Alas ! such is our nature : all but aim
At the same end, by pathways not the same ;
Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name,
Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame,
Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay
Than aught we know beyond our little day.
Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through gain's silence, and o'er glory's din :
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,
Man's conscience is the oracle of God!


The launch is crowded with the faithful few
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew :
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck
Of that proud vessel-now a moral wreck-
And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes ;
While others scoff*d his augur'd miseries,
Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail,
And the slight bark, so laden and so frail.
The tender nautilus who steers his prow,
The sea-born sailor of his shell canoe,
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea,
Seems far less fragile, and, alas! more free!
He, when the lightning-wing'd tornadoes sweep
The surge, is safe—his port is in the deep_
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind,
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind.


When all was now prepared, the vessel clear
Which hail'd her master in the mutineer-
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates,
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates ;
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye,
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ;
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth,
Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth.
But, soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn,
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn.
Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy
His chief had cherish'd only to destroy,
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath,
Exclaim'd, “ Depart at once! delay is death!
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all
In that last moment could a word recall
Remorse for the black as yet half done,
And what he hid from many show'd to one :

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