Classic Poem

The fire, mean time, walks in a broader gross,
To either hand his wings he opens wide:
He wades the streets, and straight he reaches cross,
And plays his longing flames on th' other side.

At first they warm, then scorch, and then they take:
Now with long necks from side to side they feed:
At length, grown strong, their Mother fire forsake,
And a new Collony of flames succeed.

To every nobler portion of the Town,
The curling billows roul their restless Tyde:
In parties now they straggle up and down,
As Armies, unoppos'd, for prey divide.

One mighty Squadron, with a side wind sped,
Through narrow lanes his cumber'd fire does haste:
By pow'rful charms of gold and silver led,
The Lombard Banquers and the Change to waste.

Another backward to the Tow'r would go,
And slowly eats his way against the wind:
But the main body of the marching foe
Against th' Imperial Palace is design'd.

Now day appears, and with the day the King,
Whose early care had robb'd him of his rest:
Far off the cracks of falling houses ring,
And shrieks of subjects pierce his tender breast.

Near as he draws, thick harbingers of smoke,
With gloomy pillars, cover all the place:
Whose little intervals of night are broke
By sparks that drive against his Sacred Face.

*****

Nor with an idle care did he behold:
(Subjects may grieve, but Monarchs must redress.)
He chears the fearful, and commends the bold,
And makes despairers hope for good success.

Himself directs what first is to be done,
And orders all the succours which they bring.
The helpful and the good about him run,
And form an Army worthy such a King.

He sees the dire contagion spread so fast,
That where it seizes, all relief is vain:
And therefore must unwillingly lay waste
That Country which would, else, the foe maintain.

The powder blows up all before the fire:
Th' amazed flames stand gather'd on a heap;
And from the precipices brinck retire,
Afraid to venture on so large a leap.

Thus fighting fires a while themselves consume,
But straight, like Turks , forc'd on to win or die,
They first lay tender bridges of their fume,
And o'r the breach in unctuous vapours flie.

Part stays for passage till a gust of wind
Ships o'r their forces in a shining sheet:
Part, creeping under ground, their journey blind,
And, climbing from below, their fellows meet.

Thus, to some desart plain, or old wood side,
Dire night-hags come from far to dance their round:
And o'r brode Rivers on their fiends they ride,
Or sweep in clowds above the blasted ground.

No help avails: for, Hydra -like, the fire,
Lifts up his hundred heads to aim his way.
And scarce the wealthy can one half retire,
Before he rushes in to share the prey.