Though black the death clouds over Ætna hung,
Forgot the anguish in Pompeii’s face,
Beneath her half-drawn winding sheet disclosed;
Forgot white Lisbon’s doom, nor called to mind—
In pleasant Zancle taking noonday ease—
How, from its ashes by the western seas
A stricken Phœnix rises, stone and steel.
Fresh as her Poro flowers at early dawn,
When over Hybla’s hills the yellow bees
From aromatic blossoms shake the dew;