The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud; The air seems never to have borne a cloud, Save where volcanoes send to heav'n their curl'd And solemn smokes, like altars of the world. (Edward Coote Pinkney)

The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud; The air seems never to have borne a cloud, Save where volcanoes send to heav'n their curl'd And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.

Edward Coote Pinkney

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