 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
The BUGS.
Thou source of song sublime! thou chiefest Muse!
Whose sacred fountain of immortal fame
Bedew'd the flowrets cull'd for Homer's brow,
When he on Grecian plains the battles sung
Of frogs and mice: Do thou, thro' Fancy's maze
Of sportive pastime, lead a lowly Muse
Her rites to join, while, with a faultering voice,
She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown.
Whose sacred fountain of immortal fame
Bedew'd the flowrets cull'd for Homer's brow,
When he on Grecian plains the battles sung
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Of sportive pastime, lead a lowly Muse
Her rites to join, while, with a faultering voice,
She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown.
Nor you, ye Bards! who oft have struck the lyre,
And tun'd it to the movement of the spheres
In harmony divine, reproach the lays,
Which, though they wind not thro' the starry host
Of bright creation, or on earth delight
To hunt the murm'ring cadence of the floods
Thro' scenes where Nature, with a hand profuse,
Hath lavish strew'd her gems of precious dye;
Yet, in the small existence of a gnat,
Or tinny bug, doth she, with equal skill,
If not transcending, stamp her wonders there,
Only disclos'd to microscopic eye.
And tun'd it to the movement of the spheres
In harmony divine, reproach the lays,
Which, though they wind not thro' the starry host
Of bright creation, or on earth delight
To hunt the murm'ring cadence of the floods
Thro' scenes where Nature, with a hand profuse,
Hath lavish strew'd her gems of precious dye;
Yet, in the small existence of a gnat,
Or tinny bug, doth she, with equal skill,
If not transcending, stamp her wonders there,
Only disclos'd to microscopic eye.
Of old the dryads near Edina's walls
Their mansions rear'd, and groves unnumber'd rose
Of branching oak, spread beech, and lofty pine,
Under whose shade, to shun the noontide blaze,
Did Pan resort, with all his rural train
Of shepherds and of nymphs.—The Dryads pleas'd,
Would hail their sports, and summon echo's voice,
To send her greetings thro' the waving woods;
But the rude ax, long brandish'd by the hand
Of daring innovation, shav'd the lawns;
Then not a thicket or a copse remain'd
To sigh in concert with the breeze of eve.
Their mansions rear'd, and groves unnumber'd rose
Of branching oak, spread beech, and lofty pine,
Under whose shade, to shun the noontide blaze,
Did Pan resort, with all his rural train
Of shepherds and of nymphs.—The Dryads pleas'd,
Would hail their sports, and summon echo's voice,
To send her greetings thro' the waving woods;
But the rude ax, long brandish'd by the hand
Of daring innovation, shav'd the lawns;
Then not a thicket or a copse remain'd
To sigh in concert with the breeze of eve.
Edina's mansions with lignarian art
Were pil'd and fronted.—Like an ark she seem'd
To lie on mountain's top, with shapes replete,
Clean and unclean, that daily wander o'er
Her streets, that once were spacious, once were gay.
To Jove the Dryads pray'd, nor pray'd in vain,
For vengeance on her sons.—At midnight drear
Black show'rs descend, and teeming myriads rise
Of Bugs abhorrent, who by instinct steal
Thro' the diseased and corrosive pores
Of sapless trees, that late in forest stood
With all the majesty of summer crown'd.
Were pil'd and fronted.—Like an ark she seem'd
To lie on mountain's top, with shapes replete,
Clean and unclean, that daily wander o'er
Her streets, that once were spacious, once were gay.
To Jove the Dryads pray'd, nor pray'd in vain,
For vengeance on her sons.—At midnight drear
Black show'rs descend, and teeming myriads rise
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Thro' the diseased and corrosive pores
Of sapless trees, that late in forest stood
With all the majesty of summer crown'd.
By Jove's command dispers'd, they wander wide
O'er all the city.—Some their cells prepare
'Midst the rich trappings and the gay attire
Of state luxuriant, and are fond to press
The waving canopy's depending folds;
While others, destin'd to an humbler fate,
Seek shelter from the dwellings of the poor,
Plying their nightly suction in the bed
Of toil'd mechanic, who, with folded arms,
Enjoys the comforts of a sleep so sound,
That not th'alarming sting of glutting Bug
To murd'rous deed can rouse his brawny arm
Upon the blood-swoln fiend, who basely steals
Life's genial current from his throbbing veins.
O'er all the city.—Some their cells prepare
'Midst the rich trappings and the gay attire
Of state luxuriant, and are fond to press
The waving canopy's depending folds;
While others, destin'd to an humbler fate,
Seek shelter from the dwellings of the poor,
Plying their nightly suction in the bed
Of toil'd mechanic, who, with folded arms,
Enjoys the comforts of a sleep so sound,
That not th'alarming sting of glutting Bug
To murd'rous deed can rouse his brawny arm
Upon the blood-swoln fiend, who basely steals
Life's genial current from his throbbing veins.
Happy were Grandeur, could she triumph here,
And banish from her halls each misery,
Which she must brook in common with the poor,
Who beg subsistence from her sparing hands;
Then might the rich, to fell disease unknown,
Indulge in fond excess, nor ever feel
The slowly creeping hours of restless night,
When shook with guilty horrors—But the wind,
Whose fretful gusts of anger shake the world,
Bear more destructive on th'aspiring roofs
Of dome and palace, than on cottage low,
That meets Eolus with his gentler breath,
When safely shelter'd in the peaceful vale.
And banish from her halls each misery,
Which she must brook in common with the poor,
Who beg subsistence from her sparing hands;
Then might the rich, to fell disease unknown,
Indulge in fond excess, nor ever feel
The slowly creeping hours of restless night,
When shook with guilty horrors—But the wind,
Whose fretful gusts of anger shake the world,
Bear more destructive on th'aspiring roofs
Of dome and palace, than on cottage low,
That meets Eolus with his gentler breath,
When safely shelter'd in the peaceful vale.
Is there a being breathes, howe'er so vile,
Too pitiful for Envy.—She, with venom'd tooth
And grinning madness, frowns upon the bliss
Of every species.—From the human form
That spurns the earth, and bends his mental eye
Thro' the profundity of space unknown,
Down to the crawling Bug's detested race.
Too pitiful for Envy.—She, with venom'd tooth
And grinning madness, frowns upon the bliss
Of every species.—From the human form
That spurns the earth, and bends his mental eye
Thro' the profundity of space unknown,
Down to the crawling Bug's detested race.
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Thus the lover pines, that reptile rude
Should 'midst the lillies of fair Cloe's breast
Implant the deep carnation, and enjoy
Those sweets which angel modesty hath seal'd
From eyes profane—Yet murmur not, ye few
Who gladly would be Bugs for Cloe's sake!
For soon, alas! the fluctuating gales
Of earthly joy invert the happy scene;
The breath of spring may, with her balmy pow'r,
And warmth diffusive, give to Nature's face
Her brightest colours—But how short the space!
Till angry Eurus, from his petrid cave,
Deform the year, and all these sweets annoy.
Should 'midst the lillies of fair Cloe's breast
Implant the deep carnation, and enjoy
Those sweets which angel modesty hath seal'd
From eyes profane—Yet murmur not, ye few
Who gladly would be Bugs for Cloe's sake!
For soon, alas! the fluctuating gales
Of earthly joy invert the happy scene;
The breath of spring may, with her balmy pow'r,
And warmth diffusive, give to Nature's face
Her brightest colours—But how short the space!
Till angry Eurus, from his petrid cave,
Deform the year, and all these sweets annoy.
Ev'n so befalls it to this creeping race,
This envy'd commonwealth—For they a while
On Cloe's bosom, alabaster fair,
May steal ambrosial bliss—or may regale
On the rich viands of luxurious blood,
Delighted and suffic'd. But mark the end:
Lo! Whitsuntide appears with gloomy train
Of growing desolation.—First Upholsterer rude
Removes the waving drapery, where, for years,
A thriving colony of old and young
Had hid their numbers from the prying day;
Anon they fall, and gladly would retire
To safer ambush, but his merciless foot,
Ah, cruel pressure! cracks their vital springs,
And with their deep-dy'd scarlet smears the floor.
This envy'd commonwealth—For they a while
On Cloe's bosom, alabaster fair,
May steal ambrosial bliss—or may regale
On the rich viands of luxurious blood,
Delighted and suffic'd. But mark the end:
Lo! Whitsuntide appears with gloomy train
Of growing desolation.—First Upholsterer rude
Removes the waving drapery, where, for years,
A thriving colony of old and young
Had hid their numbers from the prying day;
Anon they fall, and gladly would retire
To safer ambush, but his merciless foot,
Ah, cruel pressure! cracks their vital springs,
And with their deep-dy'd scarlet smears the floor.
Sweet pow'rs! has pity in the female breast
No tender residence—no lov'd abode?
To urge from murd'rous deed th'avenging hand
Of angry house-maid—She'll have blood for blood!
For lo! the boiling streams from copper tube,
Hot as her rage, sweep myriads to death.
Their carcases are destin'd to the urn
Of some chaste Naiad, that gives birth to floods,
Whose fragrant virtues hail Edina, fam'd
For yellow limpid—Whose chaste name the Muse
Thinks too exalted to retail in song.
No tender residence—no lov'd abode?
To urge from murd'rous deed th'avenging hand
Of angry house-maid—She'll have blood for blood!
For lo! the boiling streams from copper tube,
Hot as her rage, sweep myriads to death.
Their carcases are destin'd to the urn
Of some chaste Naiad, that gives birth to floods,
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For yellow limpid—Whose chaste name the Muse
Thinks too exalted to retail in song.
Ah me! No longer they at midnight shade,
With baneful sting, shall seek the downy couch
Of slumbering mortals.—Nor shall love-sick swain,
When, by the bubling brook, in fairy dream,
His nymph, but half reluctant to his wish,
Is gently folded in his eager arms,
E'er curse the shaft envenom'd, that disturbs
His long-lov'd fancies.—Nor shall hungry bard,
Whose strong imagination, whetted keen,
Conveys him to the feast, be tantaliz'd
With pois'nous tortures, when the cup, brimful
Of purple vintage, gives him greater joy
Than all the Heliconian streams that play
And murmur round Parnassus. Now the wretch,
Oft doom'd to restless days and sleepless nights,
By bugbear conscience thrall'd, enjoys an hour
Of undisturb'd repose—The miser too,
May brook his golden dreams, nor wake with fear
That thieves or kindred (for no soul he'll trust)
Have broke upon his chest, and strive to steal
The shining idols of his useless hours.
With baneful sting, shall seek the downy couch
Of slumbering mortals.—Nor shall love-sick swain,
When, by the bubling brook, in fairy dream,
His nymph, but half reluctant to his wish,
Is gently folded in his eager arms,
E'er curse the shaft envenom'd, that disturbs
His long-lov'd fancies.—Nor shall hungry bard,
Whose strong imagination, whetted keen,
Conveys him to the feast, be tantaliz'd
With pois'nous tortures, when the cup, brimful
Of purple vintage, gives him greater joy
Than all the Heliconian streams that play
And murmur round Parnassus. Now the wretch,
Oft doom'd to restless days and sleepless nights,
By bugbear conscience thrall'd, enjoys an hour
Of undisturb'd repose—The miser too,
May brook his golden dreams, nor wake with fear
That thieves or kindred (for no soul he'll trust)
Have broke upon his chest, and strive to steal
The shining idols of his useless hours.
Happy the Bug, whose unambitious views
To gilded pomp ne'er tempt him to aspire;
Safely may he, enwrapt in russet fold
Of cobweb'd curtain, set at bay the fears
That still attendant are on Bugs of state:
He never knows at morn the busy brush
Of scrubbing chambermaid: his coursing blood
Is ne'er obstructed with obnoxious dose
By Oliphant prepar'd—Too pois'nous drug!
As deadly fatal to this crawling tribe
As ball and powder to the sons of war.
To gilded pomp ne'er tempt him to aspire;
Safely may he, enwrapt in russet fold
Of cobweb'd curtain, set at bay the fears
That still attendant are on Bugs of state:
He never knows at morn the busy brush
Of scrubbing chambermaid: his coursing blood
Is ne'er obstructed with obnoxious dose
By Oliphant prepar'd—Too pois'nous drug!
As deadly fatal to this crawling tribe
As ball and powder to the sons of war.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |