AN EXPEDITION

TO FIFE & THE ISLAND OF MAY.

On board the BLESSED ENDEAVOUR, of Dunbar, Captain Rox. BURGH, Commander.

LIST, O ye slumb'rers on the peaceful shore!
Whose lives are one unvariegated calm
Of stillness and of sloth: and hear, O nymph!
In heav'n yclept Pleasure: from your throne
Effulgent send a heav'nly 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 Phoebe's reign, Transmit her numbers to inclining ears.

Now when the choiring songsters quit the

groves,

And solemn sounding whispers 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 canvas, swelling with the breeze,
Gives life and motion to our bounding prow,
While the hoarse boatswain's pipe shrill sound-
ing far,

Calls all the tars to action. Hardy sons!`
Who shudder not at life's devouring gales,
But smile amidst the tempest-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 Sirius guided to allay the heat,

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 Phoebus sheds. Like comet whirling thro' th' etherial void, Now they are redden'd with the solar blaze, Now froze and tortur'd with 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 fashion'd Macaronies! whose bright blades
Were never dimm'd or stain'd in hostile blood,
But still hang dangling at your feeble thigh,
While thro' 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 ratling thunder, tell's 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 heav'ns deflow'r. Thro' the small op'nings 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.
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 who 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 caves that ancient Time, in days of yore,
Sequester'd for the haunt of Druid lone,
There to remain in solitary cell,
Beyond the pow'r 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 murm'ring 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'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.

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 once! Reward it, O ye Pow'rs!