Indolence

There is no type of indolence like this: —
A ship in harbour, not a signal flying,
The wave unstirr'd about her huge sides lying,
No breeze her drooping pennant-flag to kiss,
Or move the smallest rope that hangs aloft:
Sailors recumbent, listless, stretch'd around
Upon the polish'd deck or canvass — soft
To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found
A bed more tender, since his mother's knee
The stripling left to tempt the changeful sea.
Some are asleep, some whistle, try to sing,
Some gape, and wonder when the ship will sail,
Some ' damn' the calm and wish it was a gale;
But every lubber there is lazy as a king.