Volume 3 — SONNET LXXXIII. ON CATANIA AND SYRACUSE SWALLOWED UP BY AN EARTHQUAKE. 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!