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MERCATOR, vigiles oculos ut fallere poffit,
Nomine fub ficto trans mare mittit opes;
Lenè fonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis,
Sed folam exoptant te, mea vota, Chlöe.
Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia crines,
Cum dixit mea lux, heus, cane, fume lyram.
Namque lyram juxtà pofitam cum carmine vidit,
Suave quidem carmen dulcifonamque lyram,
Fila lyræ vocemque paro, fufpiria furgunt,
Et mifcent numeris murmura mæsta meis,
Dumque tuæ memoro laudes, Euphelia, formæ,
Tota anima intereá pendet ab ore Chlöes.
Then the progeny that springs
From the forefts of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæfar never knew,
Thy pofterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.
Such the bards prophetic words,
Pregnant with celeftial fire,
Bending as he fwept the chords.
Of his fweet but awful lyre.
She with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bofom glow,
Rufh'd to battle, fought and died,
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pittilefs as proud,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due,
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
THERE was a time when Etna's filent fire
Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire,
When confcious of no danger from below,
She towr'd 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 thofe bursting mines).
The peafant's hopes, and not in vain, affur'd,
peace upon her floping fides matur'd.
A a 3
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 feas and folid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ring fkies,
While through the ftygian veil that blots the day,
In dazzling streaks the vivid light'nings play.
But oh! what mufe, and in what pow'rs of fong,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havock and devaftation in the van,
It marches o'er the proftrate works of man,
Vines, olives, herbage, forefts disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.
Revolving feafons, fruitless as they pass,
See it an uninform'd and idle mass,
Without a foil t'invite the tiller's care,
Or blade that might redeem it from defpair.
Yet time at length (what will not time atchieve?)
Cloaths it with earth, and bids the produce live,
Once more the fpiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the fhade.
Oh blifs precarious, and unsafe retreats,
Oh charming paradise of short liv'd sweets!
The self-fame gale that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the diftant ear a fullen found,
Again the mountain feels th' imprifon'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below,
Ten thousand fwains 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 ftrike the blow, then plead your own de
Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;
Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires,
Faft by the ftream that bounds your just do