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Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kifs the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans fhall arife,

Heedlefs of a foldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, fhall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

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 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,

Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for

you.

HEROISM.

HERE was a time when Ætna's filent fire
Slept unperceived, the mountain yet
entire ;

When, confcious of no danger from below,
She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.
No thunders shook with deep intestine found
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, assured,
In peace upon her floping fides matured.
When on a day, like that of the last doom,
A conflagration labouring in her womb,
She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling feas and folid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rife,
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 mufe, and in what powers of fong,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation 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 seasons, fruitless as they pass,

See it an uninform'd and idle mass;
Without a foil to invite the tiller's care,

Or blade that might redeem it from defpair.
Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?)
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live.
Once more the fpiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O blifs precarious, and unfafe retreats,

O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets!
The felfsame gale that wafts the fragrance round
Brings to the diftant ear a fullen found:
Again the mountain feels the 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 honour draws,
Who write in blood the merits of your caufe,
Who ftrike the blow, then plead your own defence,
Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;
Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires

The mischiefs your ambitious pride infpires!

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 muft they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet founds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their deftined road; At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth feems a garden in its lovelieft dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Peftilence, her first-born fon,

Attend to finish what the fword begun ;
And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn,
And Folly pays, refound at your return.
A calm fucceeds; but Plenty, with her train
Of heartfelt joys, fucceeds not soon again:
And years of pining indigence must show
What scourges are the gods that rule below.
Yet man, laborious man, by flow degrees
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease)
Plies all the finews of industrious toil,

Gleans up

the refuse of the general spoil, Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain, And the fun gilds the fhining fpires again. Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; And the fad leffon must be learn'd once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door.

What are ye, monarchs, laurel'd heroes, say, But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway? Sweet Nature, ftripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wafted regions of her globe; And ftands a witness at Truth's awful bar, To prove you there destroyers as ye are.

O place me in fome Heaven-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 Power fecures what Industry has won ; Where to fucceed is not to be undone ; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign!

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ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S

PICTURE

Out of Norfolk, the Gift of my Coufin,
Ann Bodham.

THAT those lips had language! Life
has pass'd

With me but roughly since I heard thee
laft.

Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The fame that oft in childhood folaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of thofe dear eyes
(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me ftill the fame.
Faithful remembrancer of one fo dear,

O welcome gueft, though unexpected here!
Who bidft me honour with an artless fong,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elyfian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou waft dead, Say, waft thou confcious of the tears I fhed?

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