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Felt them in her bofom glow :
XI. Ruffians, pitilefs as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us beftowed,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
HERO IS M.
THERE was a time when Ætna's filent fire
Havoc and devaftation in the van,
Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,
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 !
Faft by the stream, 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 muft they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road; At every 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 peftilence, her first-born son, Attend to finish what the sword begun; And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, And folly pays, refound at your return. A calm succeeds--but plenty, with her train Of heart felt joys, succeeds not soon again, And years of pining indigence muft show What scourges are the gods that rule below. Yet man,
laborious man by Now degrees, (Such is his thirft of opulence and ease) Plies all the finews of induftrious toil, Gleans up the refuse of the general fpoil, Rebuilds the towers, that smoked upon the plain, And the sun gilds the shining spires again.
Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conquerors part; And the sad leffon must be learned once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurelled heroes, say, But Etnas of the suffering world ye fway? Sweet nature, stripped of her embroidered robe, Deplores the wasted 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 ille, Where peace, and equity, and freedom smile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where power secures what industry has won; Where to succeed is not to be undone ; A land, that diftant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign!