The following lines were suggested by the circumstance of a boat, from the Faro Islands, stopping at Lerwick, on her way to Leith, in quest of a supply of provisions, the Islands being at the time under the calamity of famine.
PART I.
O YE , who bask where smiling nature pours
Her bounty, and with plenty crowns the hours;
Receive with gentle, kind humanity,
The famish’d, woe-worn wanderers of the sea;
Forc’d from their sterile home, by Want’s command,
They seek relief, even in a hostile land,
Driven to accept it from the enemy’s hand.
All enemies their piteous state disarms,
Subdues each heart, and gives a truce to arms.
Dire famine! how imperative thy call;
They leave their homes, their wives, their babes, their all,
And trust, in slender bark, the dangerous main,
In hopes some general succour to obtain;
Assail’d by want, they war and tempests brave,
Almighty Power! these struggling heroes save,
And land them safely on the British strand,
Where gladly opens every liberal hand,
As instruments, which Providence employs,
To bid these tenants of the rock rejoice.
To her, how tedious creeps the anxious day
At home who watches their uncertain stay;
Flung on the homely couch, she late repairs,
To court some respite from distracting fears.
If friendly slumber hover o’er her eyes;
Lo! terrifying visions round arise.
Her absent husband captive now appears
Amid the foe, and chains and fetters wears;
For ’tis the doom of human nature still
To weep the fancied as the real ill.
But, O! sad dame of Faro’s lonely rock,
While thee vain images of horror shock,
Safe, cherish’d is the object thou dost mourn,
And fondly meditates a quick return.
Let not thy startled fancy Britain wrong,
Thou and thy joyful children shall, ere long,
And all the inhabitants of those bleak isles,
With countenances drest in sudden smiles,
Bless Albion’s natives, bless her fertile fields
Which, to the miserable, succour yields.
Mutual anxieties the heart invade
Of him, who pants to view his lowly shed.
Who, like a wand’ring bird in quest of food,
Seeks succour to relieve the tender brood.
By fancy wafted, every danger past,
He treads his dear, his native shore at last,
With eager hands he opes the treasur’d hoards
Which British liberality affords;
O, blissful vision! feeds his darling child,
Each toil forgotten, every care beguil’d.
But, ah! awakening reason rallies all
Sad possibilities which may befal;
Impatient does imagination sweep,
Wafting the ample treasure o’er the deep,
Stung with the dread, (but O, forbid it Fate!)
The generous supply may reach too late.
O may this Ark, form’d in far slenderer mould
Than that which first essayed the deep of old;
Although the branch of Peace do not appear,
Yet may it home the Horn of Plenty bear!
But, soft–Britannia asks, where is the need
To prompt her children to the generous deed?
Part II
NOT yet seven weeks, their anxious cares had roll’d,
Ere travellers, from sea, the news unfold;
“A British vessel, bounding o’er the main,
“Seeks Faro’s Islands, richly lade with grain.”
What sudden transport vibrates through the heart,
While the delightful tidings they impart!
Well might the Thulian natives sympathize,
Well might our bosoms beat with heartfelt joys;
Our captur’d seamen, when to Norway bore,
Met generous treatment on the hostile shore.
Now borne on fleet imagination’s wing,
The Muse, of Faro’s lonely Isles would sing;
Where nigh extinguish’d Hope, quick at the sight
Of an approaching sail, rekindles bright.
Towards the shore the thronging natives pour,
To wait the issue of th’ eventful hour.
The British ensigns, waving now appear,
Uncertain yet, if friendly terms they bear;
The mind still fluctuates ‘twixt joy and grief,
This points to ruin, that towards relief.
With heightened tenderness is ardent prest
The infant to the mother’s throbbing breast.
The British ensigns, as they nearer draw,
Steal strength from hope, and shed an anxious awe.
What renovation doth the sight induce,
When view’d, attemper’d, under sign of Truce!
Now grateful thanks in every bosom springs,
First to the Power who rules the heart of Kings,
Then to great George, the delegate of Heaven,
Whose generous aid, no sooner ask’d than given;
Favour’d by Him, whom winds and waves obey,
Had o’er the ocean quickly found its way.
The echoing caverns of the rocks around
With British generosity resound.
The new-born joy expires, a transient guest,
Sudden admitted and as soon represt,
Quick, on the varying cheek, the change appears,
Late flush’d with joy–now pale with ghastly fears;
For in the skiff advancing to the shore,
The eye, the well-known forms, fails to explore:
Wives, parents, children, through the crowded strand
Rush eager, and their relatives demand–
As when the brothers from the Egyptian road
Their asses led, sore bent beneath the load
Of dearly purchas’d, life-sustaining grain,
The Patriarch’s eyes his darling sought in vain.
Such anguish now their care-worn bosoms rends,
“Here is relief–but where–oh where our friends?”
Some welcome hand straight to their sight reveals
The silent messengers–quick fly the seals;
The thought imparting page delight inspires,
“Warm from the heart, and faithful to its fires.”
By these inform’d, their fears are soon assuag’d,
The objects, who their tender cares engag’d,
Only remain till the Necessity *
Refits, and is prepar’d to trust the sea.
O may they, safely, their lov’d home regain,
Ere wintry storms embroil the angry main;
Then, when the waning year, on ebon wings,
The Christian Festival returning brings,
While jocundly they sport, and laugh, and sing,
Fain would they drain a cup to Britain’s King,
Though, by the pledge, their wish they must not show,
The grateful impulse, in the heart, will glow.
But, to return–A busy scene takes place,
Activity doth listless languor chase;
The flitting skiffs unload the welcome hoard,
The vacant granaries are amply stor’d;
Anticipated plenty, even beguiles
The present moment, sighs give way to smiles.
No more the heart-wrung mother, steep’d in tears,
Her infant’s calls for food, in anguish hears.
What beauteous form on yonder cliff is seen
Bending, in fond attention, o’er the scene?
Britannia’s Genius, full confest, appears,
Her cheek bedew’d with pleasure’s precious tears,
And whispers, in self-gratulating meed,
“How prompt my children, to the generous deed!”
(Margaret Chalmers)
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