Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires

The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!

Faft by the ftream, that bounds your juft domain,
And tells you were 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 fwarm abroad,
Through the ripe harvest lies their deftined road;
At every flep beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth feems a garden in its loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine, and peftilence, her first-born son,
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 thirft of opulence and ease)

Plies all the finews of induftrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil,
Rebuilds the towers, that Imoked upon
the plain,
And the fun gilds the fhining fpires again.

Increafing commerce and reviving art
Renew the quarrel on the conquerors part;
And the fad leffon must be learned once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.
What are ye, monarchs, laurelled heroes, say,
But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway?
Sweet nature, ftripped of her embroidered 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 some heaven-protected ifle,
Where peace, and equity, and freedom smile;
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,
No crefted. warrior dips his plume in blood;
Where power 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!.

ON THE RECEIPT OF

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK.

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

On that those lips had language! Life has paffed
With me but roughly fince I heard thee laft.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see,
The fame, that oft in childhood folaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how diftin&t they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here fhines on me still the fame.
Faithful remembrancer of one fo dear,

Oh welcome gueft, though unexpected here!
Who biddeft me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother loft so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:

And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy fhall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall fteep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art the.

My mother! when I learned that thou waft dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I fhed? Hovered thy fpirit o'er thy forrowing fon, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in blissAh that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearfe, that bore thee flow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long figh, and wept a laft adieu!

But was it fuch?-It was.-Where thou art gone

Adieus and farewells are a found unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting found fhall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wifhed, I long believed,

And, disappointed ftill, was ftill deceived.

By disappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a fad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learned at laft fubmiffion to my lot,

But, though I lefs deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In fcarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short lived poffeffion! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a ftorm, that has effaced

A thousand other themes lefs deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightest know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The bifcuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks beftowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;