X.

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.

XI.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heav'n awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us beftow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

HERO IS M.

THERE was a time when Etna's filent fire
Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire;
When, conscious of no danger from below,
She tow'r'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 those burfting mines)
The peafant's hopes, and not in vain, affur'd,
In peace upon her floping fides matur'd.
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 solid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rife,

And hang their horrors in the neighb’ring fkies,
While through the ftygian veil that blots the day,
In dazzling ftreaks, the vivid lightnings play.
But, oh! what mufe, 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 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 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 distant 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 cause, Who ftrike the blow, then plead your own defence

Glory your aim, but juftice your pretence;
Behold in Etna's emblematic fires

The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!
Faft by the ftream that bounds your juft 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!