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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 rife,

And hang their horrors in the neighb’ring skies,
While through the ftygian veil that blots the day,
In dazzling streaks, the vivid lightnings play.
But, ch! what muse, and in what pow'rs of fong,
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,

And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,

See it an uninform'd and idle mafs;

Without a foil t' invite the tiller's care,

Or blade that might redeem it from despair.
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 fhade.
Oh, blifs precarious, and unfafe retreats,

Oh, charming paradife of fhort-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' imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below.

Ten thousand swains 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 cause,

Who strike the blow, then plead your own defenceGlory your aim, but juftice your pretence;

Behold in Etna's emblematic fires

The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!

Faft by the stream that bounds your just domain, And tells you where ye haye 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 must they rue
Their only crime, vicinity to you!

The trumpet founds, your legions fwarm abroad,
Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road;
At ev'ry step beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth feems a garden in its loveliest drefs
Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine, and peftilence, her first-born fon,
Attend to finish what the sword begun ;
And, echoing praises fuch as fiends might earn,
And folly pays, refound at your return;
A calm fucceeds-but plenty, with her train
Of heart-felt joys, fucceeds not foon 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 refuge of the gen'ral spoil,

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Rebuilds the tow'rs that fmok'd upon the plain, And the fun gilds the fhining fpires again.

Increasing commerce and reviving art

Renew the quarrel on the conqu'rors' 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, fay→
But Ætnas of the suff'ring world ye sway?
Sweet nature, ftripp'd of her embroider'd robe,
Deplores the wafted regions of her globe;
And ftands a witnefs at truth's awful bar,
To prove you, there, deftroyers as ye are.
Oh, place me in fome heav'n-protected ifle,
Where peace, and equity, and freedom, smile;
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,

No crested warrior dips his plume in blood;
Where pow'r fecures what industry has won
Where to fucceed is not to be undone;
A land that diftant tyrants hate in vain,

In Britain's ifle, beneath a George's reign!

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THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND

SENSITIVE PLANT.

AN Oyster, caft upon the fhore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well-worded,

And worthy thus to be recorded—

Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell

For ever in my native fhell;

Ordain'd to move when others please,

Not for my own content or eafe;

But tofs'd and buffeted about,

Now in the water and now out.
'Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder fhape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And fenfibilities fo fine!

I envy that unfeeling shrub,

Faft-rooted against ev'ry rub.

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