Dark and voluminous the vapours rife,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ring fkies,
While through the flygian veil that blots the day.
In dazzling streaks 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 devastation 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 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 defpair.
Yet time at length (what will not time atchieve?)
Cloaths it with earth, and bids the produce live,
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
Oh blifs precarious, and unsafe retreats,
Oh charming paradife of fhort-liv'd fweets!
The felf-fame gale that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the distant ear a fullen sound,
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 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 justice your pretence; Behold in Etna's emblematic fires
The mifchiefs your ambitious pride infpires.
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 founds, your legions fwarm abroad,
Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road,
At ev'ry ftep beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread;
Earth feems a garden in its lovelicft drefs.
Before them, and behind a wilderness;
Famine, and peftilence her first-born 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 scourges are the gods that rule ow.
Yet man, laborious man, by flow degrees, Such is his thirst of opulence and cafe) Plies all the finews of industrious toil, Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil, Rebuilds the tow'rs that fmok'd upon the plain, And the fun gilds the fhining fpires again. Increafing commerce and reviving art Renewing 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 Etnas of the fuff'ring world ye fway? Sweet nature ftripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wasted 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 isle, Where peace and equity and freedom fimile, Where no Volcano pours his fiery flood,. No crefted warrior dips his plume in blood, Where pow'r fecures what induftry has won, Where to fuceecd is not to be undone, A land that diftant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's ifle, beneath a George's reign.
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 shell,
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease,
But tofs'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water, and now out.
"Twere better to be born a ftone-
Of ruder shape and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And fenfibilities fo fine;
envy that unfeeling fhrub,
Fast rooted against ev'ry rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the fneer with fcorn enough,
Was hurt, difgufted, mortify'd,
And with afperity replied.
When, cry the botanists, and ftare,
Did plants call'd fenfitive grow there?
No matter when a poet's mufe is
To make them grow juft where the chufes..
You fhapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fifh,
I fcorn your coarfe infinuation,
And have moft plentiful occafion
To wish myfelf the rock I view,
Or fuch another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he ;
And when I bend, retire and fhrink,
Says, well 'tis more than one would think
Thus life is fpent, oh fie upon't, !
In being touch'd, and crying don't
A poet in his evening walk, .
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
And your fine sense, he said, and yours,、
Whatever evil it endures,
Deferves not, if fo foon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Difputes though fhort, are far too long,,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account..
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