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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,
In peace upon her sloping sides matur'd.

When on a day, like that of the last doom,
HEN the British warrior queen,

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.
'T is because resentment ties
All the terrours of our tongues.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,
See it an uninform'd and idle mass;

Without a soil t'invite the tiller's care,
“ Rome shall perish — write that word
In the blood that she has spilt ;

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,
None invincible as they."

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 !
Pregnant with celestial fire,

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!
She, with all a monarch's pride,

Earth seems a garden in it's loveliest dress
Felt them in her bosom glow;

Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;

Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son,
Dying hurld them at the foe.

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.
Heav'n awards the vengeance due ;

A calm succeeds — but Plenty, with her train Empire is on us bestow'd,

Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again,
Shame and ruin wait for you."


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
But Ætnas of the suff'ring world ye sway? In scarlet-mantle warm, and velvet cap,
Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, 'T is now become a list'ry little known,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe;

That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
And stands a witness at Truth's aweful bar, Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair,
To prove you there destroyers as ye are.

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
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd!

All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,

That humour interpos’d too often makes;
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM. And still to be so to my latest age,

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
I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away,

Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !

Always from port withheld, always distress'd-
But was it such? — It was. – Where thou art gone, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. Sails ripp’d, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost,
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, And day by day some current's thwarting force
The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he !
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

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,

• Garth.

And now,


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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;
Thyself removod, thy pow'r to soothe me left.

But ev'ry virtue of the soul
Must constitute the charming whole,

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 ;
But men unqualified and base

A temper passionate and fierce
Will boast it their possession ?

May suddenly your joys disperse
Profusion apes the noble part

At one immense explosion.
Of liberality of heart,
And dulness of discretion.

In vain the talkative unite

In hopes of permanent delight If every polish'd gem we find

The secret just committed,
Illuminating heart or mind,

Forgetting it's important weight,
Provoke to imitation ;

They drop through mere desire to prate,
No wonder friendship does the same

And by themselves outwitted.
That jewel of the purest flame,
Or rather constellation

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 ;
The requisites that form a friend,

An envious man, if you succeed,
A real and a sound one;

May prove a dang'rous foe indeed,
Nor any fool, he would deceive,

But not a friend worth keeping.
But prove as ready to believe,
And dream that he had found one.

As envy pines at good possessid,

So jealousy looks forth distressid Candid, and generous, and just,

On good, that seems approaching;
Boys care but little whom they trust,

And, if success his steps attend,
An errour soon corrected

Discerns a rival in a friend,
For who but learns in riper years,

And hates him for encroaching.
That man, when smoothest he appears,
Is most to be suspected ?

Hence authors of illustrious name,

Unless belied by common fame, But here again a danger lies,

Are sadly prone to quarrel,
Lest, having misapplied our eyes,

To deem the wit a friend displays
And taken trash for treasure,

A tax upon their own just praise,
We should unwarily conclude

And pluck each other's laurel.
Friendship a false ideal good,
A mere Utopian pleasure.

A man renown'd for repartee

Will seldom scruple to make free An acquisition rather rare

With friendship's finest feeling;
Is yet no subject of despair ;

Will thrust a dagger at your breast,
Nor is it wise complaining,

And say he wounded you in jest,
If either on forbidden ground,

By way of balm for healing.
Or where it was not to be found
We sought without attaining.

Whoever keeps an open ear

For tattlers will be sure to hear
No friendship will abide the test,
That stands on sordid interest,

The trumpet of contention;
Or mean self-love erected;

Aspersion is the babbler's trade,
Nor such as may awhile subsist,

To listen is to lend him aid,
Between the sot and sensualist,

And rush into dissension.
For vicious ends connected.

A friendship, that in frequent fits
Who seek a friend should come dispos'd,

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
For 't is a union, that bespeaks

The thought of conflagration.
Reciprocated duties.

Some fickle creatures boast a soul
Mutual attention is implied,

True as a needle to the Pole,
And equal truth on either side,

Their humour yet so various -
And constantly supported :

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.

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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,
And proves by thumps upon your back

How he esteems your merit,
Is such a friend, that one had need
Be very much his friend indeed,

To pardon or to bear it.

HACKNEY'D in business, wearied at that oar,
Which thousands, once fast chain’d to, quit no more,
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego ;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, inan of trade,
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,
Where, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a sequester's spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er,
And add a smile to what was sweet before,
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of Ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having liv'd a trifler, die a man.

Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast, | At such a sight to catch the poet's flame,
Though long rebell’d against, not yet suppressid, And with a rapture like his own exclaim,
And calls a creature form’d for God alone, “ These are thy glorious works, thou source of good,
For Heav'n's high purposes, and not his own, How dimly seen, how faintly understood!
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care,
From what debilitates, and what inflames,

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.”
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove, O blest proficiency! surpassing all,
Remind him of his Maker's pow'r and love. That men erroneously their glory call,
"T is well if, look'd for at so late a day,

The recompense that arts or arms can yield,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,

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 wonder at a thousand insect forms,

To measure all that passes in the breast,
These hatch'd and those resuscitated worms, Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test;
New life ordain'd and brighter scenes to share, To dive into the secret deeps within,
Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, (size, To spare no passion and no fav’rite sin,
Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and And search the themes, important above all,
More hideous foes than fancy can devise ;

Ourselves, and our recov'ry from our fall.
With helmet-heads, and dragon-scales adorn'd, But leisure, silence, and a mind releas'd
The mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd,

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;

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