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Felt them in her bosom glow :
Dying hurl'd them at the foe.
XI. Ruffians, pitiless 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 Ætna's silent fire
Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninform'd and idle mass;
Without a soil to' invite the tiller's care,
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 !
Fast by the stream, that bounds your just 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 must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm 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 seems a garden in its loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son,
Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease) Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, Gleans up the refuse of the gen’ral spoil, Rebuilds the tow'rs, that smok'd upon the plain, And the sun gilds the shining spires again.
Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conq’ror's part ; And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, But Ætnas of the suff’ring world ye sway? Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, To prove you there destroyers as ye are.
O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile ; Where no volcano pours his fiery food, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won; Where to succeed is not to be undone; A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign !
On the receipt of my Mother's Picture out of None
folk, the gift of my cousin Ann Bodham.
O TAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorr'wing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?