FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILACAJA.
Here, from laborious Art, proud Towns, ye rose!
Here, in an instant, sunk!—nor aught remains
Of all ye were!—on the wide, lonely plains
Not e’en a stone, that might these words disclose,
“Here stood Catania;”—or whose surface shows
That this was Syracuse:—but louring reigns
A trackless Desolation.—Dim domains!
Pale, mournful strand! how oft, with anxious throes,
Seek I sad relics, which no spot supplies!—
A Silence—a fix’d Horror sears my soul.—
Inexplicable doom of human crimes,
What art thou?—Ye o’erwhelmed cities, rise!
That your terrific skeletons may scowl
Portentous warning to succeeding times!