 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
51
CONSCIENCE. An ELEGY.
Leave her to heaven,
And to the thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her.
Shakespeare.
And to the thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her.
Shakespeare.
No choiring warblers flutter in the sky;
Phœbus no longer holds his radiant sway;
While nature with a melancholy eye,
Bemoans the loss of his departed ray.
Phœbus no longer holds his radiant sway;
While nature with a melancholy eye,
Bemoans the loss of his departed ray.
O happy he whose conscience knows no guile!
He to the sable night can bid farewel;
From cheerless objects close his eyes a while,
Within the silken folds of sleep to dwell.
He to the sable night can bid farewel;
From cheerless objects close his eyes a while,
Within the silken folds of sleep to dwell.
Elysian dreams shall hover round his bed,
His soul shall wing, on pleasing fancies born,
To shining vales where flow'rets lift their head,
Wak'd by the breathing zephyrs of the morn.
His soul shall wing, on pleasing fancies born,
To shining vales where flow'rets lift their head,
Wak'd by the breathing zephyrs of the morn.
But wretched he whose foul reproachful deeds
Can thro' an angry conscience wound his rest;
His eye too oft the balmy comfort needs,
Tho' slumber seldom knows him as her guest.
Can thro' an angry conscience wound his rest;
His eye too oft the balmy comfort needs,
Tho' slumber seldom knows him as her guest.
To calm the raging tumults of his soul,
If wearied nature should an hour demand,
Around his bed the sheeted spectres howl,
Red with revenge the grinning furies stand.
If wearied nature should an hour demand,
Around his bed the sheeted spectres howl,
Red with revenge the grinning furies stand.
Nor state nor grandeur can his pain allay;
Where shall he find a requiem to his woes?
Power cannot chace the frightful gloom away,
Nor music lull him to a kind repose.
Where shall he find a requiem to his woes?
Power cannot chace the frightful gloom away,
Nor music lull him to a kind repose.
52
Where is the king that Conscience fears to chide?
Conscience, that candid judge of right and wrong,
Will o'er the secrets of each heart preside,
Nor aw'd by pomp, nor tam'd by soothing song.
Conscience, that candid judge of right and wrong,
Will o'er the secrets of each heart preside,
Nor aw'd by pomp, nor tam'd by soothing song.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |