11
The deep foundations of the island rock,
And town and rampart quiver to the shock.
The eye alone can reach to Etna's head;
Above the woody girdle round it spread
No tiller ventures, and no foot can tread.
Now pitchy gloom it vomits forth, and shrouds
The glorious daylight with its inborn clouds;
Now threats the stars with masses hurl'd on high,
That, plunging back, fresh fuel still supply.
Yet, mid that raging heat, its fury knows
To keep due compact with the circling snows;
And while its flames ascend, its cinders glare,
The frost of ages sits regardless there.
What force expansive in its caves abides,
And whirls the fragments of its riven sides?
From what deep fountain flow its burning tides?
Is it the wind, that works its stealthy way
Where veiny clefts the secret pass betray—
Then strives for freedom—and at every gust
The crumbling caverns shatters into dust?
Or through those sulph'rous beds th' admitted deep,
That, swell'd by fire, uplifts the ponderous heap?
The Mother there her sacred pledge bestows:
Then, fondly deeming all secure, she goes
