And hurtle round in dreadful hail;

Their limbs, their hearts, their senses fail,

While many a victim, by the way,

Buried alive in ashes lay,

Or perish'd by the lightning's stroke,

Before the slower thunder broke.

A few the open field explore;

The throng seek refuge on the shore,

Between two burning rivers hemm'd,

Whose rage nor mounds nor hollows stemm'd;

Driven like a herd of deer, they reach

The lonely, dark, and silent beach,

Where, calm as innocence in sleep,

Expanded lies the' unconscious deep.
Awhile the fugitives respire,

And watch those cataracts of fire
(That bar escape on either hand,)

Rush on the ocean from the strand;
Back from the onset rolls the tide,

But instant clouds the conflict hide;

The lavas plunge to gulphs unknown,

And as they plunge relapse to stone.

Meanwhile the mad volcano grew

Tenfold more terrible to view;

And thunders, such as shall be hurl'd
At the death-sentence of the world;

And lightnings, such as shall consume
Creation, and creation's tomb,

Nor leave, amidst the' eternal void,

One trembling atom undestroy'd;

Such thunders crash'd, such lightnings glared:

-Another fate those outcasts shared,

When, with one desolating sweep,

An earthquake seem'd to' ingulph the deep,

Then threw it back, and from its bed

Hung a whole ocean overhead;

The victims shriek'd beneath the wave,

INCOGNITA:

Written at Leamington, in 1817, on viewing the Picture
of an unknown Lady.

"She was a phantom of delight."-WORDSWORTH.

IMAGE of One, who lived of yore!

Hail to that lovely mien,

Were all earth's breathing forms to pass

Before me in Agrippa's glass, *

Many as fair as Thou might be,

But Oh! not one,-not one like Thee.

Henry Cornelius Agrippa, of Nettesheim, counsellor to Charles V. Emperor of Germany, the author of Occult Philosophy, and other profound works,- is said to have shewn to the Earl of Surrey the image of his mistress Geraldine, in a magical mirror.

H

Thou art no Child of Fancy;-Thou

The very look dost wear,

That gave enchantment to a brow,
Wreathed with luxuriant hair;

Lips of the morn embathed in dew,
And eyes of evening's starry blue;
Of all who e'er enjoy'd the sun,

Thou art the image of but One.

And who was she, in virgin prime,

And May of womanhood,

Whose roses here, unpluck'd by Time, In shadowy tints have stood;

While many a winter's withering blast Hath o'er the dark cold chamber pass'd,

In which her once-resplendent form

Slumber'd to dust beneath the storm?

Of gentle blood;-upon her birth,
Consenting planets smiled,

And she had seen those days of mirth,

That frolic round the child;

To bridal bloom her strength had sprung, Behold her beautiful and young!

Lives there a record, which hath told,

That she was wedded, widow'd, old?

How long her date, 'twere vain to guess
The pencil's cunning art
Can but a single glance express,

One motion of the heart;

A smile, a blush,-a transient grace

Of air, and attitude, and face;

One passion's changing colour mix;

One moment's flight for ages fix.

Her joys and griefs, alike in vain
Would fancy here recall;

Her throbs of exstacy or pain

Lull'd in oblivion all;

With her, methinks, life's little hour
Pass'd like the fragrance of a flower,
That leaves upon the vernal wind
Sweetness we ne'er again may find.