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HEROIS M.

THERE was a time when Ætna's filent fire
Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire;
When, confcious of no danger from below,
She towered a cloud-capt pyramid of fnow.
No thunders fhook with deep inteftine found
The blooming groves, that girdled her around.
Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines
(Unfelt the fury of those burfting mines)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, afsured,
In peace upon her floping fides matured.
When on a day, like that of the last doom,
A conflagration labouring in her womb,

She teemed and heaved with an infernal birth,
That fhook the circling feas and folid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,

And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies,
While through the ftygian veil, that blots the day,
In dazzling ftreaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse, and in what powers of fong,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?

Havoc and devaftation in the van,

It marches o'er the proftrate 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 uninformed and idle mafs;
Without a foil to invite the tiller's care,
Or blade, that might redeem it from defpair.
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.
Oh blifs precarious, and unsafe retreats,

Oh charming paradife of thort-lived sweets!
The self-fame gale, that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the diftant ear a fullen found:
Again the mountain feels the imprisoned foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below.

Ten thousand swains the wafted scene deplore,
That only future ages can restore.

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, Who write in blood the merits of your caufe, Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence,

Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires

The mischiefs your ambitious pride infpires!

Faft by the ftream, that bounds your juft domain,
And tells you were 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 founds, your legions fwarm abroad,
Through the ripe harveft lies their deftined road;
At every step beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth feems a garden in its loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine, and peftilence, her first-born son,
Attend to finish what the sword begun ;
And echoing praifes, fuch as fiends might earn,
And folly pays, refound at your return.
A calm fucceeds-but plenty, with her train
Of heart felt joys, fucceeds not foon again,
And years of pining indigence muft fhow
What fcourges are the gods that rule below.
Yet man, laborious man by flow degrees,
(Such is his thirft of opulence and ease)

Plies all the finews of induftrious toil,

Gleans up the refufe of the general spoil,

Rebuilds the towers, that smoked upon the plain, And the fun gilds the fhining fpires again.

Increafing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conquerors part; And the fad leffon must be learned once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurelled heroes, say, But Ætnas of the fuffering world ye fway? Sweet nature, ftripped of her embroidered robe, Deplores the wafted regions of her globe; And ftands a witness at truth's awful bar, To prove you there, deftroyers as ye are.

Oh place me in fome heaven-protected isle, Where peace, and equity, and freedom smile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crefted warrior dips his plume in blood; Where power fecures what induftry has won; Where to fucceed is not to be undone; A land that diftant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's ifle, beneath a George's reign!

ON THE RECEIPT OF

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

1

OUT OF NORFOLK.

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

On that thofe lips had language! Life has paffed
With me but roughly fince I heard thee last.
Thofe lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I fee,
The fame, that oft in childhood folaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here fhines on me ftill the fame.
Faithful remembrancer of one fo dear,

Oh welcome gueft, though unexpected here!
Who biddeft me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother loft fo long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:

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