Of every gleam of comfort. So the wretch,
Who near or Ætna or Vesuvius, dwells,
Beholds the sulphurous flames, the molten rocks,
And feels the ground trembling beneath his feet;
Till with a horrid yawn it opens wide
Before his eyes, all glaring with affright;
Swallows his cultur’d vines, his gardens, house,
With all his soul held dear, his lovely wife,
And prattling babes, the hopes of years to come;
All, all are lost, in ruin-terrible!