 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
ODE to HORROR.
O thou who with incessant gloomCourt'st the recess of midnight tomb!
Admit me of thy mournful throng,
The scattered woods and wilds among;
If e'er thy discontented ear
The voice of sympathy can chear,
My melancholy bosom's sigh
Shall to your mournful plaint reply;
There to the fear foreboding owl
The angry Furies hiss and howl;
Or near the mountain's pendent brow
Where rush-clad streams in cadent murmurs flow.
EPODE.
WHO's he that with imploring eyeSalutes the rosy dawning sky?
The cock proclaims the morn in vain,
His sp'rit to drive to its domain;
For morning light can but return
To bid the wretched wail and mourn:
Not the bright dawning's purple eye
Can cause the frightful vapours fly,
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Can bid surrounding fears begone;
The gloom of night will still preside,
While angry conscience stares on either side.
STROPHE.
TO ease his sore distemper'd head,
Sometimes upon the rocky bed
Reclin'd he lies, to list the sound
Of whispering reed in vale profound.
Happy if Morpheus visits there
A while to lull his woe and care;
Send sweeter fancies to his aid,
And teach him to be undismay'd;
Yet wretched still, for when no more
The gods their opiate balsam pour,
Ah, me! he starts, and views again
The Lybian monster prance along the plain.
Sometimes upon the rocky bed
Reclin'd he lies, to list the sound
Of whispering reed in vale profound.
Happy if Morpheus visits there
A while to lull his woe and care;
Send sweeter fancies to his aid,
And teach him to be undismay'd;
Yet wretched still, for when no more
The gods their opiate balsam pour,
Ah, me! he starts, and views again
The Lybian monster prance along the plain.
Now from the oozing caves he flies,
And to the city's tumults hies,
Thinking to frolick life away,
Be ever chearful, ever gay:
But tho' enwrapt in noise and smoke,
They ne'er can heal his peace when broke;
His fears arise, he sighs again
For solitude on rural plain;
Even there his wishes all conveen
To bear him to his noise again.
Thus tortur'd, rack'd, and sore opprest,
He constant hunts, but never finds his rest.
And to the city's tumults hies,
Thinking to frolick life away,
Be ever chearful, ever gay:
But tho' enwrapt in noise and smoke,
They ne'er can heal his peace when broke;
His fears arise, he sighs again
For solitude on rural plain;
Even there his wishes all conveen
To bear him to his noise again.
Thus tortur'd, rack'd, and sore opprest,
He constant hunts, but never finds his rest.
ANTISTROPHE.
Oh exercise! thou healing power,The toiling rustic's chiefest dower;
Be thou with parent virtue join'd
To quell the tumults of the mind;
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From ruffian winter, bleakly bare,
As from the pure ætherial blaze
That wantons in the summer rays;
The humble cottage then can bring
Content, the comfort of a king;
And gloomy mortals wish no more
For wealth and idleness to make them poor.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |