175

I have never seen "Volcanoes"
But, when Travellers tell
How those old—phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still

Bear within—appalling Ordnance
Fire, and smoke, and gun
Taking Villages for breakfast
And appalling Men

If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place

If at length the smouldering anguish
Will not overcome
And the palpitating Vineyard
In the dust, be thrown?

If some loving Antiquary
On Resumption Morn
Will not cry with joy "Pompeii"!
To the Hills return!