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النشر الإلكتروني

She teem'd and heav’d with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid earth,
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
And hang their horrours in the neighb’ring skies,
While through the stygian veil, that blots the

day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. But oh! what muse, and in what pow'rs of

song,

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Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man.
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninform'd and idle mass;

Without a soil t'invite the tiller's care,

a

Or blade that might redeem it from despair.

Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?)
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live.
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, 31
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,
O charming Paradise of shortliv'd sweets!
The selfsame gale, that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound:
Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below.
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,
That only future ages can restore.

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Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,

Who write in blood the merits of your cause,

Who strike the blow, then plead your own de

fence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence, Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires

The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!

VOL. II.

2 B

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Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domain, And tells

you

where ye have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbours', and their own Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road; At ev'ry step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth seems a garden in it's loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, Attend to finish what the sword begun; And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, And Folly pays, resound at your return. A calm succeeds—but Plenty, with her train Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again, And years of pining indigence must show What scourges are the gods that rule below.

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Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease) Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, Gleans

up

the refuse of the gen’ral spoil, Rebuilds the tow’rs, that smok'd

upon And the sun gilds the shining spires again.

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the plain,

Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqu’ror's part; And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more,

That wealth within is ruin at the door.

What are ye, monarchs, laurell’d heroes, say,
But Ætnas of the suff'ring world ye sway?
Sweet Nature, stripp'l of her embroider'd robe,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe;
And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar,
то prove you there destroyers as ye are.

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O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile;

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Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,
No crested warrior dips his plume in blood;
Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won;

Where to succeed is not to be undone;

A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign!

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ON THE

RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK,

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I sce,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”

,

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