"To paint th' ecstatic tumult of their souls, / The rapture of deliverance from death / Thus threatenting, and the mutual joys of safety, / Description aims not, for too weak her power, / Too faint her colours: diffident she points / To fancy's faithful mirror, and then drops / Her useless pencil."
— Kett, Henry (1761-1825)
Lo! where of late along the neighbouring strand
Lisbon's pale citizen's in throngs assembled,
No murmur of a human voice was heard,
No mortal figure struck their eager gaze;
But all was solitude, and dismal silence.
The earth had op'd her wide-extending jaws,
And, with the swiftness of the arrow's flight,
Had all entomb'd; quick overwhelming tides
Fill'd the deep bosom of the black abyss,
And spread a foaming deluge vast and wide.
Their friends, all conscious that the arm of Heaven
Had snatch'd them from th' immeasurable gulph;
To Him, whose potent word arrests destruction,
Ev'n when she seems secure to grasp her prey,
Pour'd the warm tribute of o'erflowing hearts.
To paint th' ecstatic tumult of their souls,
The rapture of deliverance from death
Thus threatenting, and the mutual joys of safety,
Description aims not, for too weak her power,
Too faint her colours: diffident she points
To fancy's faithful mirror, and then drops
Her useless pencil.--
See Juvenile Poems, by Henry Kett, M.A. Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford. (Oxford: Printed for J. Fletcher; and sold by Messrs. Rivington, St. Paul’s Church-Yard; and Messrs. Egerton, Whitehall, London, 1793).