Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd
All night, ine resting quiet in the fold,
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,
I could expound the melancholy tone;
Should deem it by our old companion made,
The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd,
And being lost, perhaps, and wand'ring wide,
Might be suppos'd to clamour for a guide.
But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear
That owns a carcass and not quake for fear?
Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd,
And fang'd with brass, the damons are abroad;
I hold it therefore wisest and most fit,
That, life to save, we leap into the pit.
Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.
How leap into the pit our life to save?
To save our life leap all into the grave?
For can we find it less? Contemplate first
The depth how awful! falling there we burst;
Or should the brambles, interpos'd, our fall
In part abate, that happiness were small:
For with a race like theirs no chance I see
Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.
Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bra;
Or be it not, or be it whose it may,
And rush those other sounds, that seem by tonues
Of demons utter'd from whatever lungs,
Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear,
We have at least commodious standing here.
Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast
From Earth or Hell, we can but plunge at last.
While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals, For Reynard, close attended at his heels By panting dog, tir'd man, and spatter'd horse, Through mere good fortune, took a diff'rent course
The flock grew calm again, and I tne road
Foll'wing, that led me to my own abode.
Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found
Such cause of terrour in an empty sound,
So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.
Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day, Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.
WHEN the British warriour queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods.
Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Ev'ry burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief
Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
"Tis because resentment ties
All the terrours of our tongues.
Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she hast spill'd;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings
Shall a wider world command.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due.
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
THERE was a time when Etna's silent fire
Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire ;
When, conscious of no danger from below,
She tower'd a cloudcapt pyramid of snow.
No thunders shook with deep intestine sound
The blooming groves that girdled her around.
Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines,
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines,)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assur'd,
In peace upon her sloping sides matur’d.
When on a day, like that of the last doom,
A conflagration lab'ring in her womb,
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 O! what muse, and in what pow'rs of song,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havock 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 vear.
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.
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,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious and unsafe retreats,
O charming Paradise of short-liv'd sweets!
The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound:
Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below.
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,
That only future ages can restore.
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 defence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;
Behold in Ætna's emblematick 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!
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad.
Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road.
At ev'ry step bencath their fect they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth scems a garden in its loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son,
Attend to finish what the sword begun.
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