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I. When the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods,

II. Sage beneath the spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief.

III. 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 abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

V. Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates!

VI. Other Romans all arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

VII. Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

VIII. Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy pofterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.

IX. Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celeftial 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:
Rushed to battle, fought, and died;
Dying hurled them at the foe.

XI. Ruffians, pitilefs as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

VOL. 11.


THERE was a time when Ætna's filent fire
Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire ;
When, conscious of no danger from below,
She towered a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.
No thunders shook with deep inteftine 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, affured,
In peace upon her floping fides matured.
When on a day, like that of the laft doom,
A conflagration labouring in her womb,
She teemed and heaved with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
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 muse, and in what powers of song,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?

Havoc and devaftation in the van,
It marches o'er the proftrate works of man,
Vines, olives, herbage, forefts disappear, I
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,
See it an uninformed and idle mass;
Without a soil 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 spiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
Oh bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,
Oh charming paradise of short-lived sweets !
The self-fame gale, that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the diftant ear a sullen found:
Again the mountain feels the imprisoned foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below.
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,
That only future ages can reftore.

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour 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 Ætna's emblematic fires The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires !

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