I have never seen “Volcanoes”-
But, when Travellers tell
How those old-phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still-

Bear within-appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men-

If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place-

If at length the smouldering anguish
Will not overcome-
And the palpitating Vineyard
In the dust, be thrown?

If some loving Antiquary,
On Resumption Morn,
Will not cry with joy “Pompeii”!
To the Hills return!