Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/100

100 The rush of those firm cohorts, when the earth, Trampled and trembling,—and the echoing hills Attested the dire onset?—With deep groans A mighty earthquake rent the rocks, and made Cities an heap,—yet smote not their mad ear Who mid the clash of sword and buckler fought, With hatred horrible.— —Man's passions mock The strife of nature.—Her worst deluge spared The righteous household.—The storm-stricken main In wrath remembereth mercy,—wrecks not all That to its bosom cling.— —Vesuvius saves Even in the height of his mad victory, The little Hermitage that timid asks Mercy of him, and bids his molten fires Ripen to richer zest its vineyards green.— —But the blind haste, and headlong rage of war, What know they of compassion?—Bid him speak, Who in thy dark and watery deep doth rest,— The stern Flaminius,—he who saw defeat The eagle standard quell, and fled to hide His burning shame with thee, holding the frown And grasp of pitiless Death, less terrible Than Rome's upbraiding eye.— In earth he dream'd To strike a root eternal, and to hang Unfading garlands on the fickle sky Of stormy honour.—Even then was spread Thy bulrush pall for him,—and from their cells Thy scaly monsters throng'd at his approach To gaze upon him.—