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When the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

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There was a tisie 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 snow.
No thunders thock with deep inteftine found
The blooming groves, that girdled her around.
Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines
(Unfelt the futy of those burfting mines)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, affured,
In peace upon her floping lides 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 shook the circling seas and solid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies,
While through the ffygian veil, that blots the day,
In dazzling ftreaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?

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