She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth, That shook the circling seas and solid earth, 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, Can trace the torrent as it burns along? Havoc and devastation in the van, It marches o'er the prostrate works of man. 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, Or blade that might redeem it from despair. 20 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, Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, That only future ages can restore. 40 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! 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! 51 The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, At ev'ry step beneath their feet they tread Earth seems a garden in it's loveliest dress 60 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, 70 Rebuilds the tow'rs, that smok'd upon the plain, And the sun gilds the shining spires again. 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, O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile; 80 Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! ON THE 90 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 see, 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!" |