Classic Poem

Poor floating isle, tossed on ill fortune's waves,
Ordained by fate to be the land of slaves:
Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand,
Thou, fixed of old, be now the moving land?
Although the metaphor be worn and stale
Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail;
Let me suppose thee for a ship awhile,
And thus address thee in the sailor style.

Unhappy ship, thou art returned in vain:
New waves shall drive thee to the deep again.
Look to thyself, and be no more the sport
Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port.
Lost are thy oars that used thy course to guide,
Like faithful counsellors on either side.
Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood
The single pillar for his country's good,
To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind,
Behold, it cracks by yon rough eastern wind.
Your cables burst, and you must quickly feel
The waves impetuous entering at your keel.
Thus, commonwealths receive a foreign yoke,
When the strong cords of union once are broke.
Torn by a sudden tempest is your sail,
Expanded to invite a milder gale.

As when some writer in a public cause,
His pen to save a sinking nation draws,
While all is calm, his arguments prevail,
The people's voice expands his paper sail;
Till power, discharging all her stormy bags,
Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags.
The nation scared, the author doomed to death,
Who fondly put his trust in popular breath.

A larger sacrifice in vain you vow;
There's not a power above will help you now:
A nation thus, who oft heaven's call neglects,
In vain from injured heaven relief expects.

'Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke,
That thy descent is from the British oak:
Or when your name and family will boast,
From fleets triumphant o'er the Gallic coast.
Such was Ierne's claim, as just as thine,
Her sons descended from the British line;
Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains
On French records for twenty long campaigns;
Yet from an empress, now a captive grown,
She saved Britannia's right, and lost her own.

In ships decayed no mariner confides,
Lured by the gilded stern, and painted sides.
So, at a ball, unthinking fools delight
In the gay trappings of a birthday night:
They on the gold brocades and satins raved,
And quite forgot their country was enslaved.

Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just,
Nor change thy course with every sudden gust:
Like supple patriots of the modern sort,
Who turn with every gale that blows from court.

Weary and seasick when in thee confined,
Now, for thy safety, cares distract my mind.
As those who long have stood the storms of state,
Retire, yet still bemoan their country's fate.
Beware, and when you hear the surges roar,
Avoid the rocks on Britain's angry shore:
They lie, alas! too easy to be found,
For thee alone they lie the island round.