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Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
Thy posterity shall sway,
None invincible as they.”
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
Felt them in her bosom glow,
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.
Heaven awards the vengeance due ;
Shame and ruin wait for you!
HEROISM. There was a time when Ætna's silent fire Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire, When conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. No thunders shook with deep intestine sound The blooming groves that girdled her around; Her unctuous olives and her purple vines, (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines,) The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured, In peace upon her sloping sides matured. When on a day, like that of the last doom, A conflagration labouring in her womb, She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth, That shook the circling seas and solid earth. Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies, While through the Stygian veil that blots the day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song,
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 !
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 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 Pestilence her first-born son,
Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees,
Increasing commerce and reviving art
What are ye monarchs, laureld heroes, say,
Oh place me in some heaven-protected isle,
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE
“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 toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water, and now out. 'Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine, And sensibilities so fine ! I envy that unfeeling shrub, Fast-rooted against every rub.”The plant he meant grew not far off, And felt the sneer with scorn enough, Was hurt, disgusted, mortified, And with asperity replied.
When, cry the botanists, and stare, Did plants callid Sensitive grow there ? No matter when-a poet's muse is To make them grow just where she chooses.
“You shapeless nothing in a dish! You that are but almost a fish, I scorn your coarse insinuation, And have most plentiful occasion To wish myself the rock I view, Or such 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 shrink, Says, well—'tis more than one would think.Thus life is spent, 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, Deserves not, if so soon offended, Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
“ You in your grotto-work enclosed
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
His censure reach'd them as he dealt it,
REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
Unwin, I should but ill repay
The kindness of a friend,
As ever friendship penn’d,
Not rash or in sport,
And faithful in its sort,