The Poems of Robert Fergusson :: :: University of Virginia Library

List, O ye slumberers on the peaceful shore!
Whose lives are one unvariegated calm
Of stillness and of sloth: And hear, O nymph!
In heaven yclepit Pleasure; from your throne
Effulgent send a heavenly radiant beam,
That, cheer'd by thee, the Muse may bend her way,
For from no earthly flight she builds her song,
But from the bosom of green Neptune's main
Would fain emerge, and, under Phebe's reign,
Transmit his numbers to inclining ears.

Now when the choiring songsters quit the groves,
And solemn sounding whisp'rings lull the spray
To meditation sacred, let me roam
O'er the blest floods that wash our natal shore,
And view the wonders of the deep profound,
While now the western breezes reign around,
And Boreas, sleeping in his iron cave,
Regains his strength and animated rage
To wake new tempests and inswell new seas.

And now Favonius wings the sprightly gale;
The willing canvass, swelling with the breeze,
Gives life and motion to our bounding prow,
While the hoarse boatswain's pipe shrill sounding far,
Calls all the tars to action. Hardy sons!
Who shudder not at life's devouring gales,
But smile amidst the tempest's sounding jars,
Or 'midst the hollow thunders of the war:
Fresh sprung from Greenland's cold, they hail with joy
The happier clime, the fresh autumnal breeze
By Syrius guided to allay the heat

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That else would parch the vigour of their veins.
Hard change, alas! from petrifying cold
Instant to plunge to the severest ray
That burning Dog-star or bright Phebus sheds,
Like comet whirling thro' th'etherial void,
Now they are reddened with the solar blaze,
Now froze and tortur'd by the frigid zone.

Thrice happy Britons! whose well temper'd clay
Can face all climes, all tempests, and all seas.
These are the sons that check the growing war;
These are the sons that hem Britannia round
From sudden innovation, awe the shores,
And make their drooping pendants hail her queen
And mistress of the globe.—They guard our beds,
While fearless we enjoy secure repose,
And all the blessings of a bounteous sky.
To them in fev'rous adoration bend,
Ye fashioned Macaronies! whose bright blades
Were never dimm'd or stain'd with hostile blood,
But still hang dangling on your feeble thigh,
While through the Mall or Park you shew away,
Or thro' the drawing-room on tiptoe steal.

On poop aloft, to messmates laid along,
Some son of Neptune, whose old wrinkl'd brow
Has bay'd the rattling thunder, tells his tale
Of dangers, sieges, and of battles dire,
While they, elate with success of the day,
Cheer him with happy smiles, or bitter sighs,
When fortune with a sourer aspect grins.

Ah! how unstable are the joys of life?
The pleasures, ah! how few?—Now smile the skies
With visage mild, and now the thunders shake,
And all the radiance of the heavens deflow'r.
Thro' the small op'ning of the mainsail broad,
Lo, Boreas steals, and tears him from the yard,
Where long and lasting he has play'd his part.
So suffers Virtue. When in her fair form
The smallest flaw is found, the whole decays.

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In vain she may implore with piteous eye,
And spread her naked pinions to the blast.
A reputation maim'd finds no repair
Till death, the ghastly monarch, shuts the scene.

And now we gain the May, whose midnight light,
Like vestal virgins off'rings undecay'd,
To mariners bewilder'd acts the part
Of social friendship, guiding those that err
With kindly radiance to their destin'd port.

Thanks, kindest Nature! for those floating gems,
Those green-grown isles, with which you lavish strew
Great Neptune's empire. But for thee! the main
Were an uncomfortable mazy flood.
No guidance then would bless the steersman's skill,
No resting place would crown the mar'ner's wish,
When he to distant gales his canvass spreads,
To search new wonders.—Here the verdant shores
Teem with new freshness, and regale our sight
With haunts that antient time, in days of yore,
Sequester'd for the haunt of Druid lone,
There to remain in solitary cell,
Beyond the power of mortals to disjoin
From holy meditation.—Happy now
To cast our eyes around from shore to shore,
While by the oozy caverns on the beech
We wander wild, and listen to the roar
Of billows murmuring with incessant noise.

And now, by fancy led, we wander wild
Where o'er the rugged steep the buried dead
Remote lie anchor'd in their parent mould;
Where a few fading willows point the state
Of man's decay. Ah, death! where-e'er we fly,
Whether we seek the busy and the gay,
The mourner or the joyful, there art thou.
No distant isle, no surly swelling surge,
E'er aw'd thy progress, or controul'd thy sway,
To bless us with that comfort, length of days,
By all aspir'd at, but by few attain'd.

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To Fife we steer, of all beneath the sun
The most unhallow'd 'midst the Scotian plains!
And here, sad emblem of deceitful times!
Hath sad hypocrisy her standard borne.
Mirth knows no residence, but ghastly fear
Stands trembling and appall'd at airy sights.
Once, only only once! Reward it, O ye powers!
Did Hospitality, with open face,
And winning smile, cheer the deserted sight,
That else had languish'd for the blest return
Of beauteous day, to dissipate the clouds
Of endless night, and superstition wild,
That constant hover o'er the dark abode.
O happy Lothian! Happy thrice her sons!
Who ne'er yet ventur'd from the southern shore,
To tempt misfortune on the Fifan coast,
Again with thee we dwell, and taste thy joys,
Where sorrow reigns not, and where every gale
Is fraught with fullness, blest with living hope,
That fears no canker from the year's decay.