X. She, with all a monarch's pride, Rufh'd to battle, fought, and died; XI. Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heav'n awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us beftow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you. HERO IS M. THERE was a time when Etna's filent fire Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines, She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth, And hang their horrors in the neighb’ring fkies, It marches o'er the proftrate works of man— Revolving feafons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninform'd and idle mass; Without a foil t' invite the tiller's care, Or blade that might redeem it from despair. Once more the fpiry myrtle crowns the glade, Oh, blifs precarious,' and unfafe retreats, Again the mountain feels th' imprifon'd foe, Ten thousand fwains the wafted scene deplore, 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 juftice your pretence; The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires! |