Her unctuous olives and her purple vines
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assur'd,
In peace upon her sloping sides 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 seas and solid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapors rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ring
skies;
[day,
While through the Stygian veil that blots the
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play:
But O! what muse, and in what pow'rs of
song,

Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate work of man;
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,
See it an unform'd and an idle mass,
Without a soil to invite the tiller's care,
Or blade that might redeem it from despair.
Yet time at length (what will not time
achieve?)
[live:
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats!
O charming paradise of short-liv'd sweets!
The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance
round,

Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound:
Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below;
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,
That only future ages can restore.

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honor
draws,

Who write in blood the merit of your cause, Who strike the blow, then plead your own de

fence,

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,
Attend to finish what the sword begun ;
And echoing praises such as fiends might earn,
And folly pays, resound at your return.
A calm succeeds--but Plenty, with her train
Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again;

And years of pining indigence must show
What scourges are the gods that rule below.

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 conqu'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, laurel'd heroes, say, But Etnas 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 flood, 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.

§ 224. Art above Nature. PETER PINDAR. NATURE's a coarse, vile, daubing jade— I've said it often, and repeat itShe doth not understand her tradeArtists, ne'er mind her work; I hope you'll beat it.

Look now, for Heav'n's sake, at her skies! What are they?-Smoke, for certainty, I know;

From chimney-tops, behold! they rise,
Made by some sweating cooks below.
Look at her dirt in lanes, from whence it

comes

From hogs, and ducks, and geese, and horses' bums

Then tell me, Decency, I must request,
Who'd copy such a dev'lish nasty beast?
Paint by the yard-your canvass spread,

Broad as the mainsail of a man of war-
Your whale shall eat up ev'ry other head,
E'en as the sun licks up each sneaking star!
I do assure you, bulk is no bad trick-

By bulky things both men and maids are

taken

Mind, too, to lay the paints like mortar thick,
And make your pictures look as red as bacon.
All folks love size, believe my rhime;
Burke says, 'tis part of the sublime.
A Dutchman, I forget his name,-Van Grout,
Van Slabberchops, Van Stink, Van Swab,
No matter, though I cannot make it out-
At calling names I never was a dab-
This Dutchman, then, a man of taste,
Holding a cheese that weigh'd a hundred
pound,

Thus, like a burgomaster, spoke with judge

ment vast:

"No poet like my broder step de ground,

He be de bestest poet, look!
"Dat all the vorld must please;
"Vor he heb vrite von book,
"So big as all this cheese!"

If at a distance you would paint a pig,
Let not the caxon a distinctness lack;
Else all the lady critics will so stare,
And angry vow," "Tis not a bit like hair!"
Be smooth as glass-like Denner, finish high;
Then every tongue commends-
For people judge not only by the eye,

But feel your merit by their finger ends!
Make out each single bristle on his back.
Or if your meaner subject be a wig,
Nay, closely nosing, o'er the picture dwell,
As if to try the goodness by the smell.

Claude's distances are too confus'd-
One floating scene-nothing made out—
For which he ought to be abus'd,
Whose works have been so cried about.
Give me the pencil, whose amazing style
Makes a bird's beak appear at twenty mile;
And to my view, eyes, legs, and claws will
With every feather of his tail and wing. [bring,
Make all your trees alike, for Nature's wild-
Fond of variety-a wayward child—- [sume;
To blame your taste some blockheads may pre-
But mind, that ev'ry one be like a broom.

tors.

Of steel and purest silver form your waters, And make your clouds like rocks and alliga[willing Whene'er you paint the moon, if you are To gain applause why, paint her like a shilling;

Or Sol's bright orb-be sure to make him glow Precisely like a guinea or a jo*.

In short, to get your pictures prais'd and sold, Convert, like Midas, ev'ry thing to gold.

I see, at excellence you'll come at lastYour clouds are made of very brilliant stuff; The blues on china mugs are now surpass'd, Your sun-sets yields not to brick-walls nor buff. In stumps of trees your art so finely thrives, They really look like golden-hafted knives! Go on, my lads, leave Nature's dismal hue, And she ere long will come and copy you. § 225. The Crooked Sixpence. BRAMSTON +.

-Sing, Maiden Muse, Sixpence, Hoop-petticoat, and Church on fire. HAPPY the maid, who, from green sickness free, In canvass or in Holland pocket bears A crooked Sixpence. She envieth not New-married folks, nor sighs at others' banns. At eve, when Sol this hemisphere forsakes, She to her needle or her wheel repairs: Then, not unmindful of the man, dear man, Whose faith, by promises and am'rous oaths, And crooked Sixpence, was to her betroth'd, William or Thomas; at her work she cries, His year next March is up, and so is mine. Meanwhile he shoes, japans, or buckling wigs, Sings Durfey's songs by Purcellini set.

North-British lad, full famous in records
Of England's chronicle for selling kings,
When he o'er hoary hills, or craggy cliffs,
Or rugged rocks, where eagles build their nest,
Rides on a galloway, though small, yet strong,
Voy'ging from Dungbay Head through she-
riffdoms

Barren and bleak, with chequer'd plaid superb,
Intent with clipp'd Jacobuses to buy
French wine in Lusitanian casks ypent,
Which well-paid perjurers vouch all for port,
Though they perhaps the growth of Bourdeaux
be,

Chatteau, Margout, or the renown'd Pontack.
Thus while in qualms my heavy moments

creep,

A wight, in habit velvet all and gold,
Formal and fine, dread monster! doctor hight,
With solemn face into the kitchen stalks,
His bony fingers thrice my pulse assay;
Thrice secrets deep he asks; surprised, I dread
The voice obscene, and hate the sickly sound,
What shall I do? Amaz'd, confounded, dumb
I stand, nor answer give to his demands,
Nauseous to virgin ears; my frizzled hair
Stands upright, to its roof my tongue sticks dry,
Retentive faculty my bowels lose,

So horrible he seems.-His horse-hair wig
Stiffen'd with angry curls, his agate cane
And gilded sword (too oft by cowards worn)
Disastrous deeds forbode; in his right-hand
The desperate pen he takes, which, tinged with
ink,

Strange characters and figures dire inscribes,
Illegible to maid, or man, or witch.

Oh, may such plagues averted ever be
From modest spinsters! Lo! behind him sneaks
Another mortal, not unlike himself,
Of jargon full, with terms obscure o'ercharg'd,
Apothecary call'd, whose foetid hands
With power mechanic, and with charms arcane,
Apollo, god of medicine, has endued.
If he gilt pills, powder, or bolus brown,
Haply into the open mouth convey
Of patient; straight his body to the dose
Obsequious (as erst La Mancha's knight)
Is to a feather bed well-warm'd convey'd :
Sheets never to be chang'd, and watchful nurse
The captive wretch incarcerate, till Time,
The best physician, set the patient free.

Beware, ye virgins, of your health beware; Be circumspect to romp or run; ascend The mountain's airy top; the empiric crew Will else oft visit your abode, by fees

* A Portuguese Johannes.

To time and destiny's relentless doom
A miserable victim, quite decay'd
With many services, and cleft throughout,
All useless lies: ah! sight of saddest woe
To wretched me! of ev'ry hope bereft,
Of every gleam of comfort. So the wretch,
Who near or Ætna or Vesuvius dwells,
Beholds the sulph'rous flames, the molten rocks,
And feels the ground trembling beneath his
feet;

Till with a horrid yawn it opens wide
Before his eyes, all glaring with affright;
Swallows his cultur'd vines, his gardens, house,
With all his soul held dear, his lovely wife,
And prattling babes, the hopes of years to come;
All, all are lost, in ruin terrible!

Of freedom bless; who wantons uncontroll'd
Where Ease invites, or Pleasure's syren voice:
Him the stern tyrant with his iron scourge
Annoys not, nor the dire oppressive weight
Of galling chain: but when the blushing morn
Purples the east, with eager transport wild,
O'er hill, o'er valley, on his panting steed
He bounds exulting, as in full career
With horns, and hounds, and thund'ring shouts
he drives

The flying stag; or when the dusky shades
Of eve, advancing, veil the darken'd sky,
To neighb'ring tavern, blithsome, he resorts
With boon companion, where they drown their

cares

In sprightly bumpers, and the mantling bowl. Far otherwise within these darksome walls, Whose gates, with rows of triple steel secur'd, And many a bolt, prohibit all egress,

I spend my joyless days; ere dawn appears, Rous'd from my peaceful slumbers by the sound

Of awe-inspiring bell, whose every stroke
Chills my heart-blood, all trembling, I descend
From dreary garret, round whose ancient roof,
Gaping with hideous chinks, the whistling blast
Perpetual raves, and fierce descending rains
Discharge their fury-dire lethargic dews
Oppress my drowsy sense; still fancy teems
With fond ideal joys, and, fir'd with what
Or poets sing, or fable tale records,
Presents transporting visions, goblets crown'd
With juice of nectar, or the food divine
Of rich ambrosia, tempting to the sight!
While in the shade of some embowering grove,
I lie reclin'd, or through Elysian plains
Enraptur'd stray; where every plant and flow'r
Send forth an odorous smell, and all the air
With songs of love and melody resounds.
Meanwhile benumbing cold invades my joints,
To where, of antique mould, a lofty dome

As with slow faltering footsteps I resort,
Rears its tremendous front; here all at once
From thousand different tongues à mighty hum
Assaults my ear; loud as the distant roar
Of tumbling torrents; or as in some mart
Of public note, for traffic far renown'd,
Where Jew with Grecian, Turk with African,
Assembled, in one general peal unite
Of dreadful jargon.-Straight on wooden bench
I take my seat, and con with studious care
Th'appointed tasks; o'er many a puzzling page
Poring intent, and sage Athenian bard,
With dialect, and mood, and tense perplex'd;
And conjugations varied without end.

66

When lo! with haughty stride (in size like him

Who erst, extended on the burning lake,
Lay floating many a rood") his sullen brow
With low'ring frowns and fearful glooms o'er

rage:

Or when (if mighty themes like these allow
An humble metaphor) the sportive race
Of nibbling heroes, bent on wanton play,
Beneath the shelter of some well-stor'd barir,
In many an airy circle wheel around;
Some eye, perchance, in private nook conceal'd,
Beholds Grimalkin; instant they disperse
In headlong flight, each to his secret cell,
If haply he may 'scape impending fate.

Thus ceas'd the general clamor; all remain In silent terror wrapt, and thought profound. Meanwhile, the Pedagogue throughout the dome

His fiery eye-balls, like two blazing stars, Portentous rolls, on some unthinking wretch To shed their baleful influence; whilst his voice,

Like thunder, or the cannon's sudden burst, Three times is heard, and thrice the roofs re

sound!

A sudden paleness gathers in my face; Through all my limbs a stiffening horror spreads, Cold as the dews of death; nor heed my eyes Their wonted function, but in stupid gaze Ken the fell monster; from my trembling hands

The time-worn volume drops; oh, dire presage Of instant woe! for now the mighty sound, Pregnant with dismal tidings, once again Strikes my astonish'd ears: transfix'd with awe,