Ruffians, pityless as proud,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due,
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
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 shook with deep inteftine found
The blooming groves that girdled her around,
Her unctuous olives and her purple vines,
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting 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 folid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ring skies,
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?
Havock and devaftation in the van,
It marches o'er the proftrate works of man,
Vines, olives, herbage, forefts difappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.
Revolving feasons, 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 atchieve?)
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 fweets!
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 fcene 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 Etna's emblematic fires
The mischiefs your ambitious pride infpires.
Fast by the ftream that bounds your just domain,
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 deftin'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 lovelieft drefs
Before them, and behind a wilderness;
Famine, and peftilence her fir- burn fon,
Attend to finish what the fword 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 fcourges 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 toi!,
Gleans up the refufe of the general spoil,
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, say,
But Ætnas of the fuff'ring 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.
Oh place me in fome heav'n protected ifle,
Where peace and equity and freedom finile,
Where no volcano pours his fiery food,
No crefted warrior dips his plume in blood,
Where pow'r fecures what industry has won,
Where to fucceed is not to be undone,
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