With all these hideous howlings to the skies, I could be much compos'd nor should appear, For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear. Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd All night, me resting quiet in the fold. Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, I could expound the melancholy tɔne; 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 demons 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 bray, Or be it not, or be it whose it may,
And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues 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, the road Foll'wing, that led me to my own abode, Much wonder'd, that the silly sheep had found Such cause of terror 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 warrior 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 terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish-write that word In the blood that she has spilt; 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 groundHark! 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.
Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow: Rush'd to battle, fought and died Dying hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
ere was a time when Etna's silent fire unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire ; n, conscious of no danger from below, ower'd a cloud-capt 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 horrors 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; Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, 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. 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 pliss 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 th'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 honor 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 Etna's emblematic fires,
The mischief 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 beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth seems 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 ; And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, And Folly pays, resound at your return. A calm succeeds-but Plenty, with her train Of heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again, And years of pining indigence must show What scourges are the gods that rule below. 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, 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 learnt once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, But Etnas of the suff'ring world ye sway? Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, To prove you there destroyers as ye are.
O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,
No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won ; Where to succeed is not to be undone ; A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign!
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!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
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