Page:The Emigrants.pdf/57



Stripp'd of its unripe produce, was thick strewn With various Death­—the war‐horse falling there By famine, and his rider by the sword. The moping clouds sail'd heavy charg'd with rain, And bursting o'er the mountains misty brow, Deluged, as with an inland sea, the vales5 ; Where, thro' the sullen evening's lurid gloom, Rising, like columns of volcanic fire, The flames of burning villages illum'd The waste of water; and the wind, that howl'd Along its troubled surface, brought the groans Of plunder'd peasants, and the frantic shrieks Of mothers for their children; while the brave, To pity still alive, listen'd aghast To these dire echoes, hopeless to prevent The evils they beheld, or check the rage,