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Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines,
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines,
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assur’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, Bleeding from the Roman rods,
That shook the circling seas and solid earth. Sought, with an indignant mien,
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, Counsel of her country's gods,
And hang their horrours in the neighb'ring skies, Sage beneath the spreading oak
While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day, Sat the Druid, hoary chief ;
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse, and in what pow'rs of song, Ev'ry burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief.
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van, « Princess! if our aged eyes
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man, Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.
Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,
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") Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce lire. Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, “ Rome, for empire far renown'd,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. Tramples on a thousand states ;
() bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
() charming Paradise of short-liv'd sweets! Hark! the Gaul is at her gates !
The self-same gale, that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound : * Other Romans shall arise,
Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd foe, Heedless of a soldier's name;
Igain pours ruin on the vale below,
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
That only future ages can restore. Harmony the path to fame.
Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, " Then the progeny that springs
Who write in blood the merits of your cause, From the forests of our land,
Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, Arın'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Glory your aim, but justice your pretence; Shall a wider world command.
Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires ! “ Regions Cæsar never knew
l'ast by the streamn, that bounds your just domain, Thy posterity shall sway;
And tells you where ye have a right to reign, Where his eagles never few,
A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,
Studious of peace, their neighbours', and their own.
11l-fated race! how deeply must they rue Such the bard's prophetic words,
Their only crime, vicinity to you !
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Bending as he swept the chords
Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd ruad; Of his sweet but aweful lyre.
At every step beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth seems a garden in it's 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, “ Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
And Folly pays, resound at your return.
A calm succeeds — but Plenty, with her train Empire is on us bestow'd,
Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again,
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,) HEROISM.
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the gen'ral spoil, THERE was a time when Ætna's silent fire Rebuilds the tow'rs, that smok'd upon the plain, Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire ; And the Sun gilds the shining spires again. When, conscious of no danger froin below,
Increasing commerce and reviving art She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.
Renew the quarrel on the conqu'rors part; No thunders shook with deep intestine sound And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, The blooming groves, that girdled her around. That wealth within is ruin at the door.
What are ye, monarchs, laurell’a heroex, say, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile ; A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Where no volcano pours his fiery Hood,
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, No crested warrior dips his pluie in blood; That thou mightst know ine safe and warmly laid ; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, Where to succeed is not to be undone ;
The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain,
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
All this, and more endearing still than all,
That humour interpos’d too often makes;
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay O that those lips had language ! Life has passid Such honours to thee as my numbers may; With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here. The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, * Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" The violet, the pink, and jessamine, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. Could those few pleasant days again appear, (here? Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them O welcome guest, though unexpected here ! I would not trust my heart — the dear delight Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might. Affectionate, a motheç lost so long.
But no- what here we call our life is such, I will obey, not willingly alone,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, But gladly, as the precept were her own :
That I should ill requite thee to constrain And, while that face renews my filial grief, Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Fancy shall weave a charın for my relief,
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) A momentary dream that thou art she.
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorr'wing son,
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? While airs impregnated with incense play Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can wecp in bliss — So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, Ah that maternal smile! it answers Yes.
“ Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
And thy lov'd consort on the dang 'rous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
Always from port withheld, always distress'd-
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. What ardently I wish’d, I long believ'd,
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
From loins enthron’d, and rulers of the Earth; By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd,
But higher far my proud pretensions rise Dupe of lo-morrow even from a child.
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
farewell - Time unrevok'd has run Till, all my stock of infant-sorrow spent,
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. I seem t' have liv’d my childhood o'er again;
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor ; Without the sin of violating thine; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way,
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
But will sincerity suffice ? And I can view this mimic show of thee,
It is indeed above all price, Time has but half succeeded in his theft
And must be made the basis;
But ev'ry virtue of the soul
All shining in their places.
A fretful temper will divide
The closest knot that may be tied, What virtue, or what mental grace
By ceaseless sharp corrosion ;
A temper passionate and fierce
May suddenly your joys disperse
At one immense explosion.
In vain the talkative unite
In hopes of permanent delight If every polish'd gem we find
The secret just committed,
Forgetting it's important weight,
They drop through mere desire to prate,
And by themselves outwitted.
How bright soe'er the prospect seems,
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams, No knare but boldly will pretend
If envy chance to creep in ;
An envious man, if you succeed,
May prove a dang'rous foe indeed,
But not a friend worth keeping.
As envy pines at good possessid,
So jealousy looks forth distressid Candid, and generous, and just,
On good, that seems approaching;
And, if success his steps attend,
Discerns a rival in a friend,
And hates him for encroaching.
Hence authors of illustrious name,
Unless belied by common fame, But here again a danger lies,
Are sadly prone to quarrel,
To deem the wit a friend displays
A tax upon their own just praise,
And pluck each other's laurel.
A man renown'd for repartee
Will seldom scruple to make free An acquisition rather rare
With friendship's finest feeling;
Will thrust a dagger at your breast,
And say he wounded you in jest,
By way of balm for healing.
Whoever keeps an open ear
For tattlers will be sure to hear
The trumpet of contention;
Aspersion is the babbler's trade,
To listen is to lend him aid,
And rush into dissension.
A friendship, that in frequent fits
Of controversial rage emits T exhibit in full bloom disclos’d
The sparks of disputation, The graces and the beauties,
Like Hand in Hand insurance plates, That form the character he seeks,
Most unavoidably creates
The thought of conflagration.
Some fickle creatures boast a soul
True as a needle to the Pole,
Their humour yet so various -
They manifest their whole life through 'Tis senseless arrogance t' accuse
The needle's deviations too, Another of sinister views,
Their love is so precarious. Our own as much distorted.
But 't is not timber, lead, and stone, An architect requires alone,
To finish a fine building The palace were but half complete, If he could possibly forget
The carving and the gilding.
The man that hails you Tom or Jack,
How he esteems your merit,
To pardon or to bear it.
HACKNEY'D in business, wearied at that oar,
Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast, | At such a sight to catch the poet's flame,
This universal frame, thus wondrous fair; From cities humming with a restless crowd, Thy pow'r divine, and bounty beyond thought, Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,
Ador'd and prais'd in all that thou hast wrougtit. Whose highest praise is that they live in vain, Absorb'd in that immensity I see, The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain, I shrink abas'd, and yet aspire to thee; Where works of man are cluster'd close around, Instruct me, guide me to that heav'nly day, And works of God are hardly to be found, Thy words, more clearly than thy works, display, To regions where, in spite of sin and woe,
That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine, Traces of Eden are still seen below,
I may resemble thee, and call thee mine.”
The recompense that arts or arms can yield,
The bar, the senate, or the tented field. True wisdom will attend his feeble call,
Compar'd with this sublimest life below, And grace his action ere the curtain fall
Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show ? Souls, that have long despis'd their heav'nly birth, Thus studied, us'd and consecrated thus, Their wishes all impregnated with Earth,
On Earth what is, seems form'd indeed for us: For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care Not as the plaything of a froward child, In catching smoke and feeding upon air,
Fretful unless diverted and beguil'd, Conversant only with the ways of man,
Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires Rarely redeem the short remaining ten,
Of pride, ambition, or impure desires, Invetrate habits choke th' unfruitful heart, But as a scale, by which the soul ascends Their fibres penetrate it's tend'rest part,
From mighty means to more important ends, And, draining it's nutritious pow'rs to feed Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, Their noxious growth, starve ev'ry better seed. Mounts from inferior beings up to God,
Happy, if full of days — but happier far, And sees by no fallacious light or dim, If, ere we yet discern life's ev’ning star,
Earth made for man, and man himself for him Sick of the service of a world, that feeds
Not that I mean t' approve, or would enforce It's patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, A superstitious and monastic course: We can escape from Custom's idiot sway,
Truth is not local, God alike pervades To serve the Sou'reign we were born t' obey.
And fills the world of traffic and the shades, Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd And may be fear'd amidst the busiest scenes, (Infinite skill) in all that he has made !
Or scori'd where business never intervencs To trace in Nature's most minute design
But 't is not easy with a mind like ours. The signature and stamp of power divine,
Conscious of weakness in it's noblest pow'rs, Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease,
And in a world, where, other ills apart, Where unassisted sight no beauty secs,
The roving eye misleads the careless heart, The shapely limb and lubricated joint,
To limit thought, by nature prone to stray Within the small dimensions of a point,
Wherever freakish Fancy points the way; Muscle and nerve miraculously spun,
To bid the pleadings of Self-love be still, His mighty work, who speaks and it is done, Resign our own, and seek our Maker's will; Th’invisible in things scarce seen reveal'd, To spread the page of Scripture, and compare To whom an atom is an ample field;
Our conduct with the laws engraven there;
To measure all that passes in the breast,
Ourselves, and our recov'ry from our fall.
From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increaside Would mock the majesty of man's high birth,
How to secure in some propitious bour, Despise liis bulwarks, and unpeople earth : The point of int'rest, or the post of pow'r, Then with a glance of fancy to survey,
A soul serene, and equally retir'd l'ar as the faculty can stretch a way,
From objects too much dreaded or desir'd, Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute, From urns, that never fail, through ev'ry land; At least are friendly to the great pursuit. These like a deluge with impetuous force,
Up'ning the map of God's extensive plan, Those winding modestly a silent course;
We find a little isle this life of man; The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales; Eternity's unknown expanse appears Seas, on which ev'ry nation spreads her sails; Circling around and limiting his years. The Sun, a world whence other worlds drink light, The busy race examine and explore The crescent Moon, the diadem of night ;
Each creek and cavern of the dang 'rous shore, Stars countless, cach in his appointed place, With care collect what in their eyes cxcels, Last anchor'd in the deep abyss of space
Some shining pebbles, and some welds and shalls;