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In the blood that she has spilt;
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renowned,
Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms fhall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.
From the forests of our land,
VIII. Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Felt them in her bosom glow:
XI. Ruffians, pitilefs as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
There was a time when Ætna's filent fire Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire; When, conscious of no danger from below, She towered a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. No thunders fhook with deep intestine found The blooming groves, that girdled her around. Her unđuous olives, and her purple vines (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines) The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured, In peace upon her sloping fides matured. When on a day, like that of the last doon, A conflagration labouring in her womb, She teemed and heaved with an infernal birth, That shook the circling seas and solid earth. Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies, While through the stygian veil, that blots the day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song, Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van,
Revolving seasons, frnitless as they pass,
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 emblematic fires
Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domain,
Yet man, laborious man by flow degrees, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease)