The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 3 (of 3)
by Philip Morin Freneau · English · Gutenberg #39909 · 630,746 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 3 (of 3)
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 3 (of 3)
Author: Philip Morin Freneau
Editor: Fred Lewis Pattee
Release date: June 3, 2012 [eBook #39909]
Most recently updated: December 15, 2023
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39909
Credits: Produced by David Starner, Stephen Hope and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU, POET OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. VOLUME 3 (OF 3) ***
Produced by David Starner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU
VOLUME III
THE
POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU
POET OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION
EDITED FOR
THE PRINCETON HISTORICAL ASSOCIATION
BY
FRED LEWIS PATTEE
OF THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE COLLEGE, AUTHOR OF
"A HISTORY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE,"
"THE FOUNDATIONS OF AMERICAN LITERATURE," ETC.
VOLUME III
PRINCETON, N. J.
THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
1907
Copyright, 1907, by
THE PRINCETON UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
PRESS OF
THE NEW ERA PRINTING COMPANY
LANCASTER, PA.
CONTENTS
VOLUME III
PAGE
PART IV
_The Period of Editorship. 1790-1797_
NEVERSINK 3
THE RISING EMPIRE 5
LOG-TOWN TAVERN 19
THE WANDERER 22
ON THE DEMOLITION OF FORT GEORGE 24
CONGRESS HALL, N. Y. 26
EPISTLE TO PETER PINDAR, ESQ. 28
THE NEW ENGLAND SABBATH-DAY CHACE 29
ON THE SLEEP OF PLANTS 31
ON THE DEMOLITION OF AN OLD COLLEGE 33
ON THE DEATH OF DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 36
EPISTLE FROM DR. FRANKLIN TO HIS POETICAL PANEGYRISTS 36
CONSTANTIA 38
STANZAS OCCASIONED BY LORD BELLAMONT'S, LADY HAY'S AND
OTHER SKELETONS BEING DUG UP 40
THE ORATOR OF THE WOODS 41
NANNY 42
NABBY 44
THE BERGEN PLANTER 45
TOBACCO 46
THE BANISHED MAN 47
THE DEPARTURE 49
THE AMERICAN SOLDIER 51
OCCASIONED BY A LEGISLATION BILL 52
LINES OCCASIONED BY A LAW PASSED FOR CUTTING DOWN THE TREES 53
TO THE PUBLIC 56
LINES BY H. SALEM 57
MODERN DEVOTION 59
THE COUNTRY PRINTER 60
SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND NINETY ONE 65
LINES WRITTEN ON A PUNCHEON OF JAMAICA SPIRITS 66
THE PARTING GLASS 68
A WARNING TO AMERICA 70
THE DISH OF TEA 71
ON THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY 72
TO CRISPIN O'CONNOR 74
CRISPIN'S ANSWER 75
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN 76
TO MY BOOK 78
STANZAS TO ROBERT SEVIER AND WILLIAM SEVIER 79
TO A PERSECUTED PHILOSOPHER 80
TO AN ANGRY ZEALOT 81
THE PYRAMID OF THE FIFTEEN AMERICAN STATES 82
ON THE DEMOLITION OF THE FRENCH MONARCHY 84
ON THE FRENCH REPUBLICANS 88
ON THE PORTRAITS OF LOUIS AND ANTOINETTE 89
TO A REPUBLICAN 90
ODE TO LIBERTY 92
ODE 99
ON THE DEATH OF A REPUBLICAN PRINTER 101
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE STORMING OF THE BASTILLE 102
THOUGHTS ON THE EUROPEAN WAR SYSTEM 103
A MATRIMONIAL DIALOGUE 104
ON THE MEMORABLE NAVAL ENGAGEMENT BETWEEN THE AMBUSCADE
AND THE BOSTON 106
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN 109
PESTILENCE 110
ON DR. SANGRADO'S FLIGHT 111
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A BLACKSMITH 112
TO SYLVIUS 113
THE BLESSINGS OF THE POPPY 114
QUINTILIAN TO LYCIDAS 115
THE BAY ISLET 116
JEFFERY, OR THE SOLDIER'S PROGRESS 117
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN 119
TO A WINTER OF PANEGYRIC 119
THE FOREST BEAU 120
EPISTLE TO A STUDENT OF DEAD LANGUAGES 121
TO A NOISY POLITICIAN 122
THE SEXTON'S SERMON 122
ON A LEGISLATIVE ACT PROHIBITING THE USE OF SPIRITUOUS LIQUORS 126
ADDRESSED TO A POLITICAL SHRIMP 127
HERMIT'S VALLEY 128
TO MY BOOK 129
THE REPUBLICAN GENIUS OF EUROPE 129
THE RIVAL SUITORS FOR AMERICA 130
MR. JAY'S TREATY 132
PARODY 133
ON THE INVASION OF ROME IN 1796 135
ON THE DEATH OF CATHARINE II. 136
PREFATORY LINES TO A PERIODICAL PUBLICATION 137
ON THE WAR PROJECTED WITH THE REPUBLIC OF FRANCE 139
TO MYRTALIS 141
TO MR. BLANCHARD 142
ON HEARING A POLITICAL ORATION 144
MEGARA AND ALTAVOLA 146
THE REPUBLICAN FESTIVAL 151
ODE FOR JULY THE FOURTH, 1799 [1797] 152
ADDRESS TO THE REPUBLICANS OF AMERICA 154
TO PETER PORCUPINE 156
ON THE ATTEMPTED LAUNCH OF A FRIGATE 157
ON THE LAUNCHING OF THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION 158
ON THE FREE USE OF THE LANCET 159
THE BOOK OF ODES
ODE I. 161
ODE II. TO THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION 162
ODE III. TO DUNCAN DOOLITTLE 164
ODE IV. TO PEST-ELI-HALI 166
ODE V. TO PETER PORCUPINE 167
ODE VI. ADDRESS TO A LEARNED PIG 169
ODE VII. ON THE FEDERAL CITY 171
ODE VIII. ON THE CITY ENCROACHMENTS ON THE RIVER HUDSON 173
ODE IX. ON THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION 174
ODE X. TO SANTONE SAMUEL 176
ODE XI. TO THE PHILADELPHIA DOCTORS 178
ODE XII. THE CROWS AND THE CARRION 179
ODE XIII. ON DEBORAH GANNET 182
ON THE FEDERAL CITY 184
THE ROYAL COCKNEYS IN AMERICA 185
TO THE SCRIBE OF SCRIBES 185
TO THE AMERICANS OF THE UNITED STATES 187
TO A NIGHT-FLY 189
THE INDIAN CONVERT 189
THE PETTIFOGGER 189
ON A CELEBRATED PERFORMER ON THE VIOLIN 193
NEW YEAR'S VERSES, 1798 194
PART V
_The Final Period of Wandering. 1798-1809_
ON ARRIVING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 199
ODE TO THE AMERICANS 203
ON THE WAR PATRONS 207
TO THE DEMOCRATIC COUNTRY EDITORS 210
THE SERIOUS MENACE 213
REFLECTIONS ON THE MUTABILITY OF THINGS 215
THE POLITICAL WEATHER-COCK 216
REFLECTIONS 217
COMMERCE 220
ON FALSE SYSTEMS 221
ON THE PROPOSED SYSTEM OF STATE CONSTITUTIONS 225
ON A PROPOSED NEGOTIATION WITH THE FRENCH REPUBLIC 226
STANZAS TO AN ALIEN 228
STANZAS WRITTEN IN BLACKBEARD'S CASTLE 229
LINES WRITTEN AT SEA 231
STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL WASHINGTON 232
STANZAS UPON THE SAME SUBJECT 234
STANZAS OCCASIONED BY CERTAIN ABSURD, EXTRAVAGANT, AND EVEN
BLASPHEMOUS PANEGYRICS ON THE LATE GENERAL WASHINGTON 235
TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD RUTLEDGE, ESQ. 238
ON THE DEPARTURE OF PETER PORCUPINE 240
THE NAUTICAL RENDEZVOUS 242
TO THE MEMORY OF AEDANUS BURKE 243
TO THE REV. SAMUEL S. SMITH, D.D. 244
STANZAS PUBLISHED AT THE PROCESSION TO THE TOMB OF THE PATRIOTS 246
THE TOMB OF THE PATRIOTS 249
ON THE PEAK OF PICO 254
A BACCHANALIAN DIALOGUE 255
STANZAS WRITTEN AT THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA 257
ON THE PEAK OF TENERIFFE 261
ANSWER TO A CARD OF INVITATION TO VISIT A NUNNERY 263
ON SENIORA JULIA 265
LINES ON SENIORA JULIA 266
ON A RURAL NYMPH 268
ON GENERAL MIRANDA'S EXPEDITION 271
ON THE ABUSE OF HUMAN POWER 272
OCTOBER'S ADDRESS 273
TO A CATY-DID 275
ON PASSING BY AN OLD CHURCHYARD 277
STANZAS OCCASIONED BY AN OLD ENGLISH TOBACCO BOX 278
ON THE DEATH OF A MASTER BUILDER 281
ON THE DEATH OF A MASONIC GRAND SACHEM 283
ON A HONEY BEE 285
ON THE FALL OF AN ANCIENT OAK TREE 285
STANZAS ON THE DECEASE OF THOMAS PAINE 286
PART VI.
_The War of 1812. 1809-1815._
ON THE SYMPTOMS OF HOSTILITIES 291
LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. JEFFERSON 293
ON THE PROSPECT OF WAR 296
ON THE BRITISH COMMERCIAL DEPREDATIONS 300
TO AMERICA 301
THE SUTTLER AND THE SOLDIER 304
MILITARY RECRUITING 308
ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIERE 310
THEODOSIA 312
IN MEMORY OF JAMES LAWRENCE, ESQUIRE 313
ON THE LAKE EXPEDITIONS 314
THE BATTLE OF LAKE ERIE 315
ON THE CAPTURE OF THE UNITED STATES FRIGATE ESSEX 318
THE TERRIFIC TORPEDOES 321
THE NORTHERN MARCH 329
ON POLITICAL SERMONS 330
LINES ON NAPOLEON BONAPARTE 333
ON THE DISMISSION OF BONAPARTE 334
THE PRINCE REGENT'S RESOLVE 336
THE VOLUNTEER'S MARCH 337
THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON 338
ON THE BRITISH INVASION 341
ON THE ENGLISH DEVASTATIONS AT WASHINGTON 343
ON THE CONFLAGRATIONS AT WASHINGTON 344
TO THE LAKE SQUADRONS 347
THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN 349
A DIALOGUE AT WASHINGTON'S TOMB 352
SIR PETER PETRIFIED 354
ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL ROSS 356
ON THE NAVAL ATTACK NEAR BALTIMORE 357
ON THE BRITISH BLOCKADE 358
ROYAL CONSULTATIONS 361
ON THE LOSS OF THE PRIVATEER BRIGANTINE GENERAL ARMSTRONG 363
ON THE BRIGANTINE PRIVATEER PRINCE DE NEUFCHATEL 366
THE PARADE AND SHAM-FIGHT 368
RETALIATION 373
ON THE LAUNCHING OF THE INDEPENDENCE 374
THE BROOK OF THE VALLEY 376
APPENDIX.
A. THE AMERICAN VILLAGE, &C.
THE AMERICAN VILLAGE 381
THE FARMER'S WINTER EVENING 394
THE MISERABLE LIFE OF A PEDAGOGUE 396
UPON A VERY ANCIENT DUTCH HOUSE ON LONG ISLAND 399
B. LIST OF OMITTED POEMS 401
C. BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE POETRY OF PHILIP FRENEAU 407
INDEX 419
PART IV
THE PERIOD OF EDITORSHIP
1790-1797
THE
POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU
In February, 1790, Freneau left the sea and settled down in the employ
of the New York _Daily Advertiser_. During the next seven years he was
successively editor of the _National Gazette_, _The Jersey Chronicle_,
and _The Time Piece and Literary Companion_. The period ends late in
1797 when he left New York and went for a time to Charleston, South
Carolina.
NEVERSINK[1]
These Hills, the pride of all the coast,
To mighty distance seen,
With aspect bold and rugged brow,
That shade the neighbouring main:
These heights, for solitude design'd,
This rude, resounding shore--
These vales impervious to the wind,
Tall oaks, that to the tempest bend,
Half Druid, I adore.
From distant lands, a thousand sails
Your hazy summits greet--
You saw the angry Briton come,
You saw him, last, retreat!
With towering crest, you first appear
The news of land to tell;
To him that comes, fresh joys impart,
To him that goes, a heavy heart,
The lover's long farewell.
'Tis your's to see the sailor bold,[2]
Of persevering mind,
To see him rove in search of care,
And leave true bliss behind;
To see him spread his flowing sails
To trace a tiresome road,
By wintry seas and tempests chac'd
To see him o'er the ocean haste,
A comfortless abode!
Your thousand springs of waters blue
What luxury to sip,
As from the mountain's breast they flow
To moisten Flora's lip!
In vast retirements herd the deer,
Where forests round them rise,
Dark groves, their tops in æther lost,
That, haunted still by Huddy's[3] ghost,
The trembling rustic flies.
Proud heights! with pain so often seen,
(With joy beheld once more)
On your firm base I take my stand,
Tenacious of the shore:--
Let those who pant for wealth or fame
Pursue the watery road;--
Soft sleep and ease, blest days and nights,
And health, attend these favourite heights,
Retirement's blest abode!
[1] The first trace I can find of this poem is in the _Freeman's
Journal_, February 2, 1791, where it is entitled "Stanzas written on the
Hills of Neversink near Sandy Hook, 1790." In the republication of the
poem in the _National Gazette_, November 28, 1791, the month "July" was
added to the title. It was the poet's valedictory to the ocean after his
wanderings. He was married in May, 1790, and he now evidently looked
forward to a settled career. The poem has been placed slightly out of
order as will be seen. It was republished only in the 1795 edition which
the text follows. The first five lines of the original version were as
follows:
"In early days and vanished years
To rougher toils resigned,
You saw me rove in search of care
And leave true bliss behind;
You saw me rig the barque so trim," etc.
[2] "I quit your view no more."--_Freeman's Journal, 1791._
[3] See Volume II, page 193.
THE RISING EMPIRE[4]
ON AMERICAN ANTIQUITY.[5]
America, to every climate known,
Spreads her broad bosom to the burning zone,
To either pole extends her vast domain
Where varying suns o'er different summers reign.
Wide wandering streams, vast plains, and pathless woods,
Bold shores, confined by circumscribing floods,
Denote this land, whose fertile, flowery breast
Teems with all life--and man, its nobler guest.
In days of old, from ocean's deepest bed,
Gulphs unexplored, and countries of the dead,
Rous'd by some voice, that shook all nature's frame,
From the vast depths this new creation came:
Perpetual change its varying nature feels,
The wave once flow'd that now with frost congeals,
Suns on its breast have shed a feebler fire,
Oceans have roll'd where mountains now aspire.
The soil's proud lord a changeful temper knows,
From differing earths his various nature grows:
Long, long before the time that sophists plan
Existed in these woods the race of man,
Warm'd into life by some creating flame,
All worlds pervading, and through all, the same!
Not from the west their swarthy tribes they brought,
As Europe's pride and Asia's folly taught;--
With the same ease the great disposing power
Produced a man, a reptile, or a flower:--
See the swift deer, in lonely wilds that strays,
See the tall elk, that in the valley plays,
See the fierce tiger's raging, ravenous band,
And wolves (their race as ancient as the land)
Did these of old from bleak Kamschatka come,
And traverse seas, to find a happier home?--
No?--from the dust, this common dust, they drew
Their different forms, proud man, that moulded you.
At first, half beasts, untaught to till the land,
Careless, you fed from Nature's fostering hand;
In depths of deserts dream'd your lives away,
Sought no new worlds, nor look'd beyond to-day:
The Almighty power, that lives and breathes through all,
Bade some faint rays on these dark nations fall;
Early, to them did reasoning souls impart,
Inventive genius, and some dawn of art;
Then left them here, with sense enough to win,
Or cheat the bear, or panther of his skin;
Mean huts to build, regardless of their form,
Completely blest, if shelter'd from the storm;
To see the seasons change, day turn to night:
Bow to the lamps of heaven that gave them light,
Beam'd on the spring, or bade the summer glow,
Their harvests ripen, and their gardens grow--
A VIEW OF RHODE ISLAND[6]
Wash'd by surrounding seas, and bold her coasts,
A grateful soil the fair _Rhode Island_ boasts.
The admiring eye no happier fields can trace,
Here seas are crowned with the scaly race,
Nature has strove to make her native blest
And owns no fairer Eden in the west:
Here lovliest dames in frequent circles seen,
Catch the fine tint of health from beauty's queen,
No aid they want to seize the enraptur'd view
Nor art's false colours to improve the true;
Here, love the traveller holds--loth to depart
Some charming creature slays his wandering heart,
Bids him forget from clime to clime to rove,
And even dull prudence--here--submits to love.
On grassy farms, their souls enslav'd to gain,
Reside the masters of the rural reign;
Vast herds they feed, that glut the abundant pail,
Break the stiff sod, or freight the adventurous sail;
The nervous steed, the stanchest of the kind
Here walks his rounds in pastures unconfin'd:--
Half that the lands produce or seas contain
To other shores transported o'er the main
Returns in coin, to cheer the miser's eye,
In foreign _sweets_, that fancied wants supply,
Or tawdry stuffs, to deck the limbs of pride,
That thus expends what avarice strove to hide.
But, hostile to themselves, this jarring race
In desperate interests, different plans embrace--
_One_, bold in wrong, his paper fabric rears
And steels his bosom to the orphan's tears
To those he ruin'd grants no late relief!
But leaves the wretched to subsist on grief!
In lost advice his days the gownsman spends,
He gives his prayers and teachings to the winds,--
In vain he tells of virtue's sure reward;
No words but this attract a swain's regard--
Talk not of Laws!--where innocence must fall,
One spark of honour more than damns them all;
And vainly Science her assistance lends
Where knavery shapes it to the basest ends,
Fraud walks at large,--each selfish passion reigns,
And cheats enforce what honesty disdains.
Hurt at the view, I leave the ungrateful shore
And thy rough soil, Connecticut, explore:
TERRA VULPINA, OR, THE LAND OF FOXES[7]
Here fond remembrance stampt her much loved names,
Here boasts the soil its London and its Thames;
Through all her shores commodious ports abound,
Clear flow the waters of the unequal ground;
Cold nipping winds a lengthened winter bring,
Late rise the products of the unwilling spring,
The impoverished fields the labourer's pains disgrace,
And hawks and vultures scream through all the place;
The broken soil a nervous breed requires,
Where the rough glebe no generous crops admires--
Dame Nature meanly did her gifts impart,
But smiles to see how much is forced by art.
As Boreas keen, who guides their wintry reign,
All bow to lucre, all are bent on gain.
In contact close their neat abodes are thrown,
Its house, each acre; every mile, its town;
With glittering spire the frequent church is seen,[8]
Where yews and myrtles wave their gloomy green,
Where fast-day sermons tell the hungry guest
That a cameleon's dinner is the best:
There mobs of deacons awe the ungodly wight,
And hell's black master meets the unequal fight--
Eternal squabblings grease the lawyer's paw,
All have their suits, and all have studied Law:
With tongue, that Art and Nature taught to speak,
Some rave in Latin, some dispute in Greek:
Proud of their parts, in ancient lore they shine,
And one month's study makes a learned Divine;[9]
Bards of huge fame in every hamlet rise,
Each (in idea) of Virgilian size:
Even beardless lads a rhyming knack display--
Iliads begun, and finished in a day!
Rhymes, that of old on Blackmore's wheel were spun,
Come rattling down on Zion's reverend son;[10]
Madly presumed time's vortex to defy!
Things born to live an hour--then squeak and die.
Some, to grow rich, through Indian forests roam,
Some deem it best to stay and thrive at home:
In spite of all the priest and squire can say,
This world--this wicked world--will have its way;
Honest through fear, religious by constraint,
How hard to tell the sharper from the saint!--
Fond of discourse, with deep designing views
They pump the unwary traveller of his news;
Fond of that news, but fonder to be paid,
Each house a tavern, claims a tavern's trade,
While he that comes as surely hears them praise
The hospitality of modern days.
Yet, brave in arms, of enterprizing soul,
They tempt old Neptune to the farthest pole,
In learning's walks explore the mazy way,
(For genius there has shed his golden ray)
In war's bold art through many a contest tried
True to themselves, they took the nobler side,
And party feuds forgot, joined to agree
That power alone supreme--that left them free.
MASSACHUSETTS[11]
Here, in vast flocks, the fleecy nation strays,
Here, endless herds the upland meadow graze,
Here smiling plenty crowns the labourer's pain
And blooming beauty weds the industrious swain:
Were this thy all, what happier state could be!--
But avarice drives the native to the sea,
Fictitious wants all thoughts of ease controul,
Proud Independence sways the aspiring soul,
'Midst foreign waves, a stranger to repose,
Through the moist world the keen adventurer goes;
Not India's seas restrain his daring sail,
Far to the south he seeks the polar whale:
From those vast banks where frequent tempests rave,
And fogs eternal brood upon the wave,
There (furled his sail) his daring hold he keeps,
Drags from their depths the natives of those deeps;
Then to some distant clime explores his way,
Bold avarice spurs him on--he must obey.
Yet from such aims one great effect we trace
That holds in happier bonds this restless race;
Like some deep lake, by circling shores comprest,
Man's nature tends to universal rest:
Unfed by springs, that find some secret pass
To mix their current with the mightier mass,
Unmoved by moons, that some strange impulse guides
To lift its waters, and propel its tides,
Unvext by winds, that scowl across its waste,
Tear up the wave, and discompose its breast,
Soon would that lake (a putrid nuisance grown,)
Lose all its virtue, praised or prized by none:
Thus, avarice lends new vigour to mankind,
Not vainly planted in the unsteady mind;
With her, Ambition linked, they proudly drive,
Rule all our race, and keep the world alive.
Here, first, to quench her once loved Freedom's flame,
With their proud fleets, Britannia's warriors came;
Here, sure to conquer, she began her fires,
Here, sent her lords, her admirals, and her squires:
All, all too weak to effect the vast design[12]
For which we saw half Europe's arms combine,
Uncounted navies rove from main to main,
Threats, bribery, treachery--tried and tried again;
Mandate on mandate, edict, and decree,
To rivet fetters, and enslave the free!
Long, long from Boston's hills shall strangers gaze
On those vast mounds that magic seemed to raise;
Stupendous piles that hastened Britain's flight,
Extended hills, the offspring of a night!--
In that devoted town they hoped to stay
And, fed by rapine, sleep soft years away:
Vain hopes, vain schemes--the unconquered spirit rose
That still survived through all succeeding woes;
Imprisoned crowds, in cruel durance held,
Disarmed, restrained from honour's earliest field;
Imprisoned thousands, worn with poignant grief,
Now, half adoring, met their guardian chief,[A]
Whose thundering cannon bade the foe retreat,
Disgrace their portion, and their rout complete.
[A] Washington.--_Freneau's note._
A BATAVIAN PICTURE[13]
Sons of the earth, for plodding genius fam'd,
Batavia long her earth-born natives claim'd:
Begot from industry, and not from love,
Swarming at length, to these fair climes they move.--
Still in these climes their numerous race survive,[14]
And, born to labour, still are found to thrive;
Thro' rain and sunshine toiling for their heirs
They hold no nation on this earth like theirs.
Fond of themselves, no generous motives bind,
To those that speak their gibberish, only kind:--
Yet still some virtues, candour must confess,
And truth shall own, some virtues they possess:
Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around
Groves bend with fruit and plenty clothes the ground;
No barren trees to shade their domes are seen,
Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean,
No idle fancy dares its whims apply,
Or hope attention from the master's eye,
All tends to something that must pelf produce,
All for some end, and every thing its use:--
Eternal scowerings keep their floors afloat,
Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat;
The hoe, the loom, the female band employ,
These all their pleasure, these their darling joy;--
The strong-ribb'd lass no idle passions move,
No frail ideas of romantic love;
He to her heart the readiest path can find
Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind,
She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth,
Minds not the swain--but asks him what he's worth.
No female fears in her firm breast prevail,
The helm she handles and she trims the sail,
In some small barque the way to market finds,
Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds,
While placed a-head, subservient to her will,
Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill.
Health to their toils--thus may they still go on--
Curse on my pen! What pictures have I drawn!
Is this the general taste? No (Truth replies)--
If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise,
See--(where, the social circle meant to grace)
The fair Cesarean shades her lovely face,--
She, earlier held to happier tasks at home,
Prefers the labours that her sex become,
Remote from view, directs some favourite art,
And leaves to hardier man the ruder part.
PENNSYLVANIA
[A Fragment]
Spread with stupendous hills, far from the main,
Fair Pennsylvania holds her golden rein,
In fertile fields her wheaten harvest grows,
Charged with its freights her favorite Delaware flows;
From Erie's Lake her soil with plenty teems
To where the Schuylkill rolls his limpid streams--
Sweet stream! what pencil can thy beauties tell--
Where, wandering downward through the woody vale,
Thy varying scenes to rural bliss invite,
To health and pleasure add a new delight:
Here Juniata, too, allures the swain,
And gay Cadorus roves along the plain;
Sweetara, tumbling from the distant hill,
Steals through the waste, to turn the industrious mill--
Where'er those floods through groves or mountains stray,
That God of Nature still directs the way,
With fondest care has traced each river's bed
And mighty streams thro' mighty forests led,
Bade agriculture thus export her freight,
The strength and glory of this favoured State.
She, famed for science, arts, and polished men,
Admires her Franklin, but adores her Penn,
Who, wandering here, made barren forests bloom,
And the new soil a happier robe assume:
He planned no schemes that virtue disapproves,
He robbed no Indian of his native groves,
But, just to all, beheld his tribes increase,
Did what he could to bind the world in peace,
And, far retreating from a selfish band,
Bade Freedom flourish in this foreign land.
Gay towns unnumbered shine through all her plains,
Here every art its happiest height attains:
The graceful ship, on nice proportions planned,
Here finds perfection from the builder's hand,
To distant worlds commercial visits pays,
Or war's bold thunder o'er the deep conveys.[15]
MARYLAND
Laved by vast depths that swell on either side
Where Chesapeake intrudes his midway tide,
Gay Maryland attracts the admiring eye,
A fertile region with a temperate sky.
In years elapsed, her heroes of renown
From British Anna named one favourite town:[B]
But, lost her commerce, though she guards their laws,
Proud Baltimore that envied commerce draws.
Few are the years since there, at random placed,
Some wretched huts her quiet-port disgraced;
Safe from all winds, and covered from the bay,
There, at his ease, the thoughtless native lay.
Now, rich and great, no more a slave to sloth,
She claims importance from her towering growth--
High in renown, her streets and domes arranged,
A groupe of cabins to a city changed.
Though rich at home, to foreign lands they stray,
For foreign trappings trade the wealth away.
Politest manners through their towns prevail,
And pleasure revels, though their funds should fail;
In each gay dome, soft music charms its lord,
Where female beauty strikes the trembling chord;
On the fine air with nicest touches dwells,
While from the tongue the according ditty swells:
Proud to be seen, 'tis their's to place delight
In dances measured by the winter's night,
The evening feast, that wine and mirth prolong,
The lamp of splendor, and the midnight song.
Religion here no gloomy garb assumes,
Exchanged her tears for patches and for plumes:
The blooming belle (untaught heaven's beaus to win)
Talks not of seraphs, but the world she's in:
Attached to earth, here born, and to decay,
She leaves to better worlds all finer clay.
In those, whom choice or different fortunes place
On rural scenes, a different mind we trace;
There solitude, that still to dullness tends,
To rustic forms no sprightly action lends;
Heeds not the garb, mopes o'er the evening fire;
And bids the maiden from the man retire.
On winding floods the lofty mansion stands,
That casts a mournful view o'er neighbouring lands;
There the sad master strays amidst his grounds,
Directs his negroes, or reviews his hounds;
Then home returning, plies his pasteboard play,
Or dreams o'er wine, that hardly makes him gay:
If some chance guest arrive in weary plight,
He more than bids him welcome for the night;
Kind to profusion, spares no pains to please,
Gives him the product of his fields and trees;
On his rich board shines plenty from her source,
--The meanest dish of all his own discourse.
[B] Annapolis.--_Freneau's note._
OLD VIRGINIA[16]
Vast in extent, Virginia meets our view,
With streams immense, dark groves, and mountains blue;
First in provincial rank she long was seen,
Built the first town, and first subdued the plain:
This was her praise--but what can years avail,
When times succeeding see her efforts fail!
On northern fields more vigorous arts display,
Where pleasure holds no universal sway;
No herds of slaves parade their sooty band
From the rough plough to save the fopling's hand,
Where urgent wants the daily pittance ask,
Compel to labour, and complete the task.[17]
A race of slaves, throughout their country spread,
From different soils extort the owner's bread;[18]
Averse to toil, the natives still rely
On the sad negro for the year's supply;[19]
He, patient, early quits his poor abode,
Toils at the hoe, or totes some ponderous load,[20]
Sweats at the axe, or, pensive and forlorn,
Sighs for the eve, to parch his stinted corn!
With watchful eye maintains his much-loved fire,
Nor even in summer lets its sparks expire--
At night returns, his evening toils to share,
Lament his rags, or sleep away his care,
Bind up the recent wound, with many a groan;
Or thank his gods that Sunday is his own.
To these far climes the scheming Scotchman flies,
Quits his bleak hills to court Virginian skies;
Removed from oat-meal, sour-crout, debts, and duns,
Prudent, he hastes to bask in kinder suns;
Marks well the native--views his weaker side,
And heaps up wealth from luxury and pride,
Exports the produce of a thousand plains,
Nor fears a rival, to divide his gains.
Deep in their beds, as distant to their source
Here many a river winds its wandering course:
Proud of her bulky freight, through plains and woods
Moves the tall ship, majestic, o'er the floods,
Where James's strength the ocean brine repels,
Or, like a sea, the deep Potowmack swells:
Yet here the sailor views with wondering eye
Impoverished fields that near their margins lie,
Mercantile towns, where languor holds her reign,
And boors inactive, on the exhausted plain.[21]
[4] In the _Charleston City Gazette or Daily Advertiser_ of February 2,
1790, appeared "A Characteristic Sketch of the Long Island Dutch. From
The Rising Empire: a Poem." Two days later the New York _Daily
Advertiser_ published "A View of Rhode Island. [Extracted from a new
Poem, entitled The Rising Empire, not yet published.]" That Freneau for
a time was actively engaged upon this projected volume is evident from
the poems on the states which appeared in the _Daily Advertiser_,
chiefly during the month of March, 1790. The last of these poems, "A
Descriptive Sketch of Virginia," appeared June 11, 1790. On June 25
Freneau issued proposals for a new volume of poems, presumably to bear
the title "The Rising Empire," but the volume was never published. Many
of the pieces that undoubtedly would have gone to make up the book
appeared in the _Daily Advertiser_. Of those that came directly under
the title (and they are doubtless but a fragment of what the poet
intended to write) all but "A View of Rhode Island" appeared in a
greatly changed form in the poet's later volumes. I have followed in
each case the edition of 1809.
[5] In the _Daily Advertiser_ of March 13, 1790, this poem bore the
title "Philosophical Sketch of America."
[6] Text from the New York _Daily Advertiser_ of February 4, 1790.
[7] In the original version published in the _Daily Advertiser_, May 10,
1790, this bore the title "Description of Connecticut."
[8] Followed in the original version by the line:
"Sacred to him, that taught them to be keen;"
[9] The fourteen lines following this are not in the original version.
[10] In the edition of 1795 this reads "Greenfield's reverend son,"
alluding to Dr. Dwight.
[11] In the index to the 1809 edition the title was "Lines on the old
patriotic state, Massachusetts."
[12]
"All, all too weak to effect the vast design
That swell'd, poor GAGE, that puny heart of thine,
That urg'd BURGOYNE to slight his _Celia's_ charms,
The brother HOWES to furbish up their arms
And modern PERCIES lose their wonted sleep
To conquer countries, that they could--not keep."
--Original version in the _Daily Advertiser_, March 29, 1790.
[13] The original title of this poem was "A Characteristic Sketch of the
Long Island Dutch."
[14] The original version in the _Daily Advertiser_ began at this point.
[15] The earliest version, as it appeared in the _Daily Advertiser_,
March 17, 1790, had the following in place of the last six lines:
"Thy followers, FOX, pacific in each aim,
In this far climate still revere your name;
To them long practice prudent foresight gave,
Proof to the projects of the keenest knave.
On things to come they fix an anxious eye
Fond to be thought the favourites of the sky,
Paths of their own they clear to future bliss,
Praise _other_ worlds but keep their hold on _this_.
Nor mean I, hence, to censure or condemn,
Perhaps 'twere best the world should think like them;--
What tho' on visions they may place their trust,
I hold their general principles are just,
_Good will to all, themselves their first great care,
Precise in dealing, foes to blood and war_;
Let kings invade, or potentates assault,
No aid they lend, for passive to a fault,
They still are found, all complaisant to power
To bow to ruffians in the trying hour."
[16] In the edition of 1795 this bore the title "Virginia. [A Fragment]"
[17] The original version in the _Daily Advertiser_, June 11, 1790,
added here these lines:
"Yet shall not malice rob them of their due,
Not all their worth is center'd in a few:
On Fame's bright lists their sages they enroll,
Theirs is the brave, and high aspiring soul,
Heroes and chiefs, the firm unconquer'd mind
That rul'd in councils, or in battles shin'd,
Sent traitorous bands new regions to explore
And drove their titled miscreant[a] from the shore."
[a] Lord Dunmore.--_Freneau's note._
[18] The original version added here the following:
"Rais'd by their care, _tobacco_ spreads its leaf,
The master's pleasure, and the labourer's grief;
Hence comes the lofty port, the haughty air,
The proud demeanour, and the brow severe."
[19] The original version added here the couplet:
"While the keen lash some little tyrant wields,
Foe to the free-born genius of the fields."
[20] The original version added here:
"Silent beholds (proud object of reproach)
His whole year's labour lost on Mammon's coach!"
[21] As originally printed in the _Daily Advertiser_ the poem ended as
follows:
"Mercantile towns where dullness holds her reign
And boors, too lazy to manure the plain:--
There, where two creeks divide the sickly lands,
Mis-shapen pile, the gloomy college stands,
With mingled _chess_ the sophs their vigils keep
And _William_ nods to _Mary_--half asleep;
The mopish muse no lively theme essays
But toils in _law_, that best her toil repays,
With modern Latin, ancient trash explains,
Or deals in Logic--for the want of brains.
"Attach'd to other times, I cast my view
To former days, when all was fresh & new,
When _Pocahunta_, in her bearskin clad,
Sigh'd to be happy with her English lad:
Queen of those woods, embarking on the main,
(With _Tomocomo_ following in her train)
First of her race, she reach'd the British shore
But doom'd to perish, saw her own no more!
Chang'd is the scene--where once her gardens smil'd
A negro race now wander through the wild
And with base gabbling, vex that injur'd shade
Where Freedom flourish'd and _Powhatan_ stray'd."
LOG-TOWN TAVERN[22]
[By Hezekiah Salem][23]
Through sandy wastes and floods of rain
To this dejected place I came,
Where swarthy nymphs, in tattered gowns,
From pine-knots catch their evening flame:
Where barren oaks, in close array,
With mournful melody condole;
Where no gay fabrics meet the eye,
Nor painted board, nor barber's pole.
Thou town of logs! so justly called,
In thee who halts at evening's close,
Not dreams from Jove, but hosts of fleas
Shall join to sweeten his repose.
A curse on this dejected place
Where cold, and hot, and wet, and dry,
And stagnant ponds of ample space
The putrid steams of death supply.
Since here I paced on weary steed
Ah, blame me not, should I repine
That sprightly girl, nor social bed,
Nor jovial glass this night is mine.
The landlord, gouged in either eye,
Here drains his bottle to the dregs,
Or borrows Susan's pipe, while she
Prepares the bacon and the eggs.
Jamaica, that inspires the soul,
In these abodes no time has seen
To dart its generous influence round,
To kindle wit and kill the spleen.
The squire of this disheartening inn
Affords to none the generous bowl,
Displays no Bacchus on the sign
To warm the heart and cheer the soul.
To cyder, drawn from tilted cask,
While each a fond attention paid
All grieved to see the empty flask,
Its substance gone, its strength decayed.
A rambling hag, in dismal notes
Screeched out a song, to cheer my grief;
Two lads their dull adventures told,
A shepherd each--and each a thief.
Dame justice here in rigour reigns--
Each has on each the griping paw:
Whoe'er with them a bargain makes,
Scheme as he will, it ends in law.
With scraps of songs and smutty words
Each lodger here adorns the walls:
The wanton muse no pencil gives,
A coal her mean idea scrawls.
No merry thought, no flash of wit
Was scrawled by this unseemly crew,
With pain I read the words they writ
Immodest and immoral too.
The god of verse, the poet's friend,
Whom Nature all indulgent finds--
That god of verse will never lend
His powers to such degraded minds.
In murmuring streams no chrystal wave
To cheer the wretched hamlet flows;
But frowning to the distant bog
Rosanna with the pitcher goes.
At dusk of eve the tardy treat
Was placed on board of knotty pine;
Each gaping gazed, to see me eat
While round me lay the slumbering swine.
Unblessed be she, whose aukward hand
Before me laid the mouldy pone;[A]
May she still miss the joyous kiss,
Condemned to fret and sleep alone.
[A] A composition of Indian meal and water, baked hastily
before the fire on a board or hoe.--_Freneau's note._
The horse that bore me on my way
Around me cast a wishful eye,
He looked, and saw no manger near,
And hung his head, and seemed to sigh.
At stump of pine, for want of stall,
All night, beneath a dripping tree,
Not fed with oats, but filled with wind,
And buckwheat straw, alone stood he.
Discouraged at so vile a treat,
Yet pleased to see the approaching dawn,
In haste, we left this dreary place,
Nor staid to drink their dear Yoppon.[B]
[B] A shrub leaf very commonly used in the Carolinas, as a
substitute for tea.--_Freneau's note._
May travellers dread to wander here,
Unless on penance they be bound--
O may they never venture near,
Such fleas and filthiness abound.
But should ye come--be short your stay,
For Lent is here forever kept--
Depart, ye wretches, haste away,
Nor stop to sleep--where I have slept.
[22] _Daily Advertiser_, February 19, 1790, entitled "Lines Descriptive
of a Tavern at Log-Town, a small Place in the Pine Barrens of
North-Carolina." The poem appeared originally in the _North Carolina
Gazette_.
[23] The signature "By Hezekiah Salem" or "By H. Salem" is peculiar to
the 1809 edition. Freneau added it to many poems which in previous
editions had been unsigned.
THE WANDERER[24]
As Southward bound to Indian isles
O'er lonely seas he held his way,
A songster of the feather'd kind
Approach'd, with golden plumage gay:
By sympathetic feelings led
And grieving for her sad mischance,
Thus Thyrsis to the wanderer said,
As circling in her airy dance.
"Sad pilgrim on a watery waste,
What cruel tempest has compell'd
To leave so far your native grove,
To perish on this liquid field!
Not such a dismal swelling scene
(Dread Neptune's wild unsocial sea)
But crystal brooks and groves of green,
Dear rambling bird, were made for thee.
Ah, why amid some flowery mead
Did you not stay, where late you play'd:
Not thus forsake the cypress grove
That lent its kind protecting shade.
In vain you spread your weary wings
To shun the hideous gulph below;
Our barque can be your only hope--
But man you justly deem your foe.
Now hovering near, you stoop to lodge
Where yonder lofty canvas swells--
Again take wing--refuse our aid,
And rather trust the ruffian gales.
But Nature tires! your toils are vain--
Could you on stronger pinions rise
Than eagles have--for days to come
All you could see are seas and skies.
Again she comes, again she lights,
And casts a pensive look below--
Weak wanderer, trust the traitor, Man,
And take the help that we bestow."
Down to his side, with circling flight,
She flew, and perch'd, and linger'd there;
But, worn with wandering, droop'd her wing,
And life resign'd in empty air.
[24] Printed in the _Daily Advertiser_, February 22, 1790, under the
title "The Bird at Sea," and republished only in the edition of 1795,
from which the text is taken.
ON THE DEMOLITION OF FORT-GEORGE
In New-York--1790[25]
As giants once, in hopes to rise,
Heaped up their mountains to the skies;
With Pelion piled on Ossa, strove
To reach the eternal throne of Jove;
So here the hands of ancient days
Their fortress from the earth did raise,
On whose proud heights, proud men to please,
They mounted guns and planted trees.
Those trees to lofty stature grown--
All is not right!--they must come down,
Nor longer waste their wonted shade
Where Colden slept, or Tryon strayed.
Let him be sad that placed them there,--
We shall a youthful race prepare;
Another grove shall bloom, we trust,
When this lies prostrate in the dust.
Where Dutchmen once, in ages past,
Huge walls and ramparts round them cast,
New fabrics raised, on new design,
Gay streets and palaces shall shine.
To foreign kings no more a slave
(Disgrace to Freedom's passing wave)
No flags we rear, we feign no mirth,
Nor prize the day that gave them birth.
While time degrades Palmyra low,
Augusta lifts her lofty brow--
While Europe falls to wars a prey,
Her monarchs here, should have no sway.
Another George shall here reside,
While Hudson's bold, unfettered tide
Well pleased to see this chief so nigh,
With livelier aspect passes by.
Along his margin, fresh and clean,
Ere long shall belles and beaux be seen,
Through moon-light shades, delighted, stray,
To view the islands and the bay.
Of evening dews no more afraid,
Reclining in some favourite shade,
Each nymph, in rapture with her trees,
Shall sigh to quit the western breeze.
To barren hills far southward shoved,
These noisy guns shall be removed,
No longer here a vain expense,
Where time has proved them no defence.--
Advance, bright days! make haste to crown
With such fair scenes this honoured town.--
Freedom shall find her charter clear,
And plant her seat of commerce here.
[25] In the _Daily Advertiser_ of June 12, 1790, there appeared from the
pen of Freneau a long article entitled "Description of New-York one
Hundred years hence, By a Citizen of those Times:" The following is an
extract:
"At the South western part of this city formerly stood a strong fort,
with stone walls, near thirty feet in height, upon which were mounted a
considerable number of large pieces of cannon. This fortress was
originally constructed by the Dutch possessors of the place to defend
the town, then in its infancy, from the insults of pirates on the one
side, and the aborigines of the country on the other. After this
territory fell into the hands of the English nation, the fort was at
different times enlarged, strengthened and repaired, and was the usual
place of residence for the British Governors, who, in the true spirit of
European royalty and despotism chose to live separate from their
fellow-citizens, and in several instances treated them with a degree of
contempt and disrespect proportionate to the confidence they had in the
number of their cannon, and in the strength of the walls and ramparts
that surrounded them.
"History mentions that in the year 1790, fourteen years after this
republic had shaken off its yoke of foreign bondage, this fort was
totally demolished by an edict of the Senate, and the space it occupied
employed to better purpose in making room for those elegant streets and
buildings which now adorn this quarter of the city."
The poem appeared in the issue of March 9, 1790, and was entitled "On
the proposed demolition of Fort George, in this City." The text of the
1809 edition has been followed.
CONGRESS HALL, N. Y.[26]
With eager step and wrinkled brow,
The busy sons of care
(Disgusted with less splendid scenes)
To Congress Hall repair.
In order placed, they patient wait
To seize each word that flies,
From what they hear, they sigh or smile,
Look cheerful, grave, or wise.
Within these walls the doctrines taught
Are of such vast concern,
That all the world, with one consent,
Here strives to live--and learn.
The timorous heart, that cautious shuns
All churches, but its own,
No more observes its wonted rules;
But ventures here, alone.
Four hours a day each rank alike,
(They that can walk or crawl)
Leave children, business, shop, and wife,
And steer for Congress Hall.
From morning tasks of mending soals
The cobler hastes away;
At three returns, and tells to Kate
The business of the day.
The debtor, vext with early duns,
Avoids his hated home;
And here and there dejected roves
'Till hours of Congress come.
The barber, at the well-known time,
Forsakes his bearded man,
And leaves him with his lathered jaws,
To trim them as he can.
The tailor, plagued with suits on suits,
Neglects Sir Fopling's call,
Throws by his goose--slips from his board,
And trots to Congress Hall.
[26] _Daily Advertiser_, March 12, 1790. The title of the poem as given
in the index of the 1809 edition, the text of which I have followed, is
"On the Immense Concourse at Federal Hall, in 1790, while the Funding
System was in agitation." The title in the 1795 edition was "Federal
Hall." The seat of the national government was at this time in New York
City.
EPISTLE TO PETER PINDAR, ESQ.[27]
Peter, methinks you are the happiest wight
That ever dealt in ink, or sharpen'd quill.
'Tis yours on every rank of fools to write--
Some prompt with pity, some with laughter kill;
On scullions or on dukes you run your rigs,
And value George no more than _Whitbread's_ pigs.
From morn to night, thro' London's busy streets,
New subjects for your pen in crowds are seen,
At church, in taverns, balls, or birth-day treats,
Sir Joseph Banks, or England's breeding queen;
How happy you, whom fortune has decreed
Each character to hit--where all will read.
We, too, have had your monarch by the nose,
And pull'd the richest jewel from his crown--
Half Europe's kings are fools, the story goes,
Mere simpletons, and ideots of renown,
Proud, in their frantic fits, man's blood to spill--
'Tis time they all were travelling down the hill.
But, Peter, quit your dukes and little lords,
Young princes full of blood and scant of brains--
Our _rebel_ coast some similes affords,
And many a subject for your pen contains
Preserv'd as fuel for your comic rhymes,
(Like Egypt's gods) to give to future times.
[27] Text from the _Daily Advertiser_, March 15, 1790. "Peter Pindar"
was the pen name of the voluminous and well-known English satirist and
humorist, Dr. John Walcott. The first collection of his poems was
published in 1789. From this point his influence upon the poetry of
Freneau was considerable. An American edition of Peter Pindar was
published in Philadelphia in 1792.
THE NEW ENGLAND SABBATH-DAY CHACE[28]
[Written Under the Character of Hezekiah Salem]
On a fine Sunday morning I mounted my steed
And southward from Hartford had meant to proceed;
My baggage was stow'd in a cart very snug,
Which Ranger, the gelding, was destined to lug;
With his harness and buckles, he loom'd very grand,
And was drove by young Darby, a lad of the land--
On land, or on water, most handy was he,
A jockey on shore, and a sailor at sea,
He knew all the roads, he was so very keen
And the Bible by heart, at the age of fifteen.
As thus I jogg'd on, to my saddle confined,
With Ranger and Darby a distance behind;
At last in full view of a steeple we came
With a cock on the spire (I suppose he was game;
A dove in the pulpit may suit your grave people,
But always remember--a cock on the steeple)
Cries Darby--"Dear master, I beg you to stay;
Believe me, there's danger in driving this way;
Our deacons on Sundays have power to arrest
And lead us to church--if your honour thinks best--
Though still I must do them the justice to tell,
They would choose you should pay them the fine--full as well."
The fine (said I) Darby, how much may it be--
A shilling or sixpence?--why, now let me see,
Three shillings are all the small pence that remain,
And to change a half joe would be rather profane.
Is it more than three shillings, the fine that you speak on;
What say you good Darby--will that serve the deacon.
"Three shillings (cried Darby) why, master, you're jesting!--
Let us luff while we can and make sure of our westing--
Forty shillings, excuse me, is too much to pay
It would take my month's wages--that's all I've to say.
By taking this road that inclines to the right
The squire and the sexton may bid us good night,
If once to old Ranger I give up the rein
The parson himself may pursue us in vain."
"Not I, my good Darby (I answer'd the lad)
Leave the church on the left! they would think we were mad;
I would sooner rely on the heels of my steed,
And pass by them all like a Jehu indeed:--
As long as I'm able to lead in the race
Old Ranger, the gelding, will go a good pace,
As the deacon pursues, he will fly like a swallow,
And you in the cart must, undoubtedly, follow."
Then approaching the church, as we pass'd by the door
The sexton peep'd out, with a saint or two more,
A deacon came forward and waved us his hat,
A signal to drop him some money--mind that!--
"Now, Darby (I halloo'd) be ready to skip,
Ease off the curb bridle--give Ranger the whip:
While you have the rear, and myself lead the way,
No doctor or deacon shall catch us this day."
By this time the deacon had mounted his poney
And chaced for the sake of our souls and--our money:
The saint, as he followed, cried--"Stop them, halloo!"
As swift as he followed, as swiftly we flew--
"Ah master! (said Darby) I very much fear
We must drop him some money to check his career,
He is gaining upon us and waves with his hat
There's nothing, dear master, will stop him but that.
Remember the Beaver (you well know the fable)
Who flying the hunters as long as he's able,
When he finds that his efforts can nothing avail
But death and the puppies are close at his tail,
Instead of desponding at such a dead lift
He bites off their object, and makes a free gift--
Since fortune all hope of escaping denies
Better give them a little, than lose the whole prize."
But scarce had he spoke, when we came to a place
Whose muddy condition concluded the chace,
Down settled the cart--and old Ranger stuck fast
Aha! (said the Saint) have I catch'd ye at last?
* * * * *
Cætera desunt.
[28] First published, as far as I can find, in the _Daily Advertiser_,
March 16, 1790. It was there introduced as follows (italics): "In
several parts of New England it is customary not to suffer travellers to
proceed on a journey on the Sabbath day. If a person is obstinate on
these occasions, he is either forcibly (and commonly to the ridicule of
the whole Congregation) conducted to the Church door, led through the
principal ile (_sic_), and placed in a conspicuous seat by the wardens,
or must be detained till next day under guard, and submit to pay a fine,
or be committed. The following lines commemorate an event of this sort,
which some years ago really befel Mr. P. the noted performer in feats of
horsemanship. The author, however, seems to have left his poem
incomplete." Text from the 1809 edition.
ON THE SLEEP OF PLANTS[29]
When suns are set, and stars in view,
Not only man to slumber yields;
But Nature grants this blessing too,
To yonder plants, in yonder fields.
The Summer heats and lengthening days
(To them the same as toil and care)
Thrice welcome make the evening breeze,
That kindly does their strength repair.
At early dawn each plant survey,
And see, revived by Nature's hand,
With youthful vigour, fresh and gay,
Their blossoms blow, their leaves expand.
Yon' garden plant, with weeds o'er-run,
Not void of thought, perceives its hour,
And, watchful of the parting sun,
Throughout the night conceals her flower.
Like us, the slave of cold and heat,
She too enjoys her little span--
With Reason, only less complete
Than that which makes the boast of man.
Thus, moulded from one common clay,
A varied life adorns the plain;
By Nature subject to decay,
By Nature meant to bloom again!
[29] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, March 20, 1790. Text from the
edition of 1809.
ON THE DEMOLITION OF AN OLD COLLEGE[30]
On New-Year's eve, the year was eighty-nine,
All clad in black, a back-woods' college crew
With crow-bar, sledge, and broad axe did combine
To level with the dust their antique hall,
In hopes the President would build a new:
Yes, yes, (said they), this ancient pile shall fall,
And laugh no longer at yon' cobbler's stall.
The clock struck seven--in social compact joined,
They pledged their sacred honors to proceed:
The number seventy-five this feat designed:
And first some oaths they swore by candle light
On Euclid' Elements--no bible did they need:
One must be true, they said, the other might--
Besides, no bible could be found that night.
Now darkness o'er the plain her pinions spread,
Then rung the bell an unaccustomed peal:
Out rushed the brave, the cowards went to bed,
And left the attempt to those who felt full bold
To pull down halls, where years had seen them kneel:
Where Wheelock oft at rakes was wont to scold,
Or sung them many a psalm, in days of old.
Advancing then towards the tottering hall,
(That now at least one hundred years had stood)
They gave due notice that it soon should fall--
Lest there some godly wight might gaping stand;
(For well they knew the world wants all its good
To fright the sturdy sinners of the land,
And shame old Satan, with his sooty band.)
The reverend man that college gentry awes,
Hearing the bell at this unusual hour,
Vext at the infringement of the college laws,
With Indian stride out-sallied from his den,
And made a speech (as being a man in power)--
Alas! it was not heard by one in ten--
No time to heed his speeches, or his pen.
"Ah, rogues, said he, ah, whither do ye run,
"Bent on the ruin of this antique pile--
"That, all the war, has braved both sword and gun?
"Reflect, dear boys, some reverend rats are there,
"That now will have to scamper many a mile,
"For whom past time old Latin books did spare,
"And Attic Greek, and manuscripts most rare.
"Relent, relent! to accomplish such designs
"Folks bred on college fare are much too weak;
"For such attempts men drink your high-proof wines,
"Not spiritless switchel[A] and vile hogo drams,
"Scarcely sufficient to digest your Greek--
"Come, let the college stand, my dear black lambs--
"Besides--I see you have no battering rams."
[A] A mixture of molasses and water.--_Freneau's note._
Thus he--but sighs, and tears, and prayers were lost--
So, to it they went with broad-axe, spade, and hammer--
One smote a wall, and one dislodged a post,
Tugged at a beam, or pulled down pigeon-holes
Where Indian lads were wont to study grammar--
Indeed, they took vast pains and dug like moles,
And worked as if they worked to save their souls.
Now to its deep foundation shook the dome:
Farewell to all its learning, fame and honor!
So fell the capitol of heathen Rome,
By Goths and Vandals levelled with the dust--
And so shall die the works of Neal O'Connor,
(Which he himself will even outlive, we trust:)
But now our story's coming to the worst--
Down fell the Pile!--aghast these rebels stood,
And wondered at the mischiefs they had done
To such a pile, composed of white-oak wood;
To such a pile, so antique and renowned,
Which many a prayer had heard and many a pun--
So, three huzzas they gave, and fired a round,
Then homeward trudged--half drunk--but safe and sound.
[30] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, March 22, 1790, under the
title "On the Demolition of Dartmouth College." This earliest version
was introduced thus (italics): "On December the 31st last, the old
College at Dartmouth in New-Hampshire, was entirely demolished by the
Students, notwithstanding every endeavour of the Rev. President to
persuade them to desist from their unwarrantable undertaking. It stood
the shock of their united efforts about 20 minutes, and then fell to the
ground." The facts as given by Freneau are in the main true. During the
absence of the second Wheelock in Europe to secure funds for the college
"Professor Woodward," according to Chase's _History of Dartmouth
College_, "acted as chief executive and Professor Ripley resided with
the family in the presidential mansion. The students, it seems, took
advantage of the opportunity to rid themselves and the faculty of the
little log hut, 'the first sprout of the college,' that stood near the
mansion house. Being remitted to the occupancy of servants, it was by
this time in a deplorable state of neglect and decay, and obnoxious to
everybody. On a December evening in 1782 or 1783 Professor Ripley in the
President's house happened to be entertaining a friend from Connecticut,
and dilating with much satisfaction upon the orderly behaviour of the
students and the freedom from noise and disturbance. In the midst of it
they became aware of an unusual commotion without, and on going to see
about it, discovered a body of students assailing the log house in such
a manner that in a very short time little was left of it. The professor
made an effort to stay the work but the noise overpowered his voice." In
the edition of 1795 the title was "On the Demolition of a Log-College,"
and in the index of the edition of 1809, the text of which I have used,
the title was given "On the Demolition of an ancient New-England
College."
ON THE DEATH OF DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN[31]
Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood
The glory of its native wood,
By storms destroyed, or length of years,
Demands the tribute of our tears.
The pile, that took long time to raise,
To dust returns by slow decays:
But, when its destined years are o'er,
We must regret the loss the more.
So long accustomed to your aid,
The world laments your exit made;
So long befriended by your art,
Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!--
When monarchs tumble to the ground,
Successors easily are found:
But, matchless Franklin! what a few
Can hope to rival such as you,
Who seized from kings their sceptred pride,
And turned the lightning's darts aside![A]
[A] Eripuit coelo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis!--_Freneau's note._
[31] First published in the _Daily Advertiser_, April 28, 1790. Text
from the 1809 edition. Franklin died April 17.
EPISTLE[32]
From Dr. Franklin [deceased] to his Poetical Panegyrists, on some of
their Absurd Compliments
"Good Poets, why so full of pain,
Are you sincere--or do you feign?
Love for your tribe I never had,
Nor penned three stanzas, good or bad.
At funerals, sometimes, grief appears,
Where legacies have purchased tears:
'Tis folly to be sad for nought,
From me you never gained a groat.
To better trades I turned my views,
And never meddled with the muse;
Great things I did for rising States,
And kept the lightning from some pates.
This grand discovery, you adore it,
But ne'er will be the better for it:
You still are subject to those fires,
For poets' houses have no spires.
Philosophers are famed for pride;
But, pray, be modest--when I died,
No "sighs disturbed old ocean's bed,"
No "Nature wept" for Franklin dead!
That day, on which I left the coast,
A beggar-man was also lost:
If "Nature wept," you must agree
She wept for him--as well as me.
There's reason even in telling lies--
In such profusion of her "sighs,"
She was too sparing of a tear--
In Carolina, all was clear:
And, if there fell some snow and sleet,
Why must it be my winding sheet?
Snows oft have cloathed the April plain,
Have melted, and will melt again.
Poets, I pray you, say no more,
Or say what Nature said before;
That reason should your pens direct,
Or else you pay me no respect.
Let reason be your constant rule,
And Nature, trust me, is no fool--
When to the dust great men she brings,
Make her do--some uncommon things."
[32] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, May 24, 1790, with the title
"Verses from the Other World, by Dr. Fr--k--n." Text from the 1809
edition.
CONSTANTIA[33]
[On a Project of Retiring to Bethlehem]
Sick of the world, in prime of days
Constantia took a serious fit--
Resolved to shun all balls and plays
And only read what saints had writ--
To Convent Hall she would repair
And be a pensive sister there.
"What are they all--this glare of things,
These insects that around me shine;
These beaux and belles on silken wings--
Indeed their pleasures make not mine--
My happiness is all delayed--
I'll go, and find it in the shade."
A sailor, loitering from his crew,
As chance would have it, passed along--
She told him what she had in view,
And he replied--"Fair maid you're wrong,
"Let faded nymphs to cloisters go,
"Where kisses freeze and love is snow.
"The druids' oak and hermits' pine
"Afford a gloomy, sad delight;
"But why that blush of health resign,
"The mingled tint of red and white?
"In moistening cells the flowers expire
"That, on the plain, all eyes admire.
"With such a pensive, pious train
"Who, but a hermit, could agree--
"Ah, rather stay to grace the plain,
"Or wander on the wave with me:
"For you the painted barque shall wait
"And I would die for such a freight."
"No wandering stranger (she replied)
"Can tempt me to forego my plan;
"No barque that wafts him o'er the tide,
"Nor many a better looking man:
"Go, wanderer, plough your gloomy sea,
"Constantia must a sister be.
"To gain so fair a flower as you,
"(The Tar returned) who would not plead?
"Nor shall you, nymph, to convents go
"While love can write what you must read:
"Come, to yon' meadow let us stray,
"I have some handsome things to say."
"Love has its wish when reason fails--
"In vain he sighed, in vain he strove:
"Forsake (said she) those swelling sails
"If you would have me--think of love:
"Great merit has your sailing art,
"But absence would distract my heart."
What else was said, we secret keep;--
The Tar, grown fonder of the shore,
Neglects his prospects on the deep,
And she of convents talks no more:--
He slyly quits the coasting trade
She pities her--who seeks the shade.
[33] Printed in the _Daily Advertiser_, May 1, 1790. It was republished
both in the _Freeman's Journal_ and in the _National Gazette_. Text from
the 1809 edition.
STANZAS
Occasioned by Lord Bellamont's, Lady Hay's, and Other Skeletons,
being dug up in Fort George (N. Y.), 1790.[34]
To sleep in peace when life is fled,
Where shall our mouldering bones be laid--
What care can shun--(I ask with tears)
The shovels of succeeding years!
Some have maintained, when life is gone,
This frame no longer is our own:
Hence doctors to our tombs repair,
And seize death's slumbering victims there.
Alas! what griefs must Man endure!
Not even in forts he rests secure:--
Time dims the splendours of a crown,
And brings the loftiest rampart down.
The breath, once gone, no art recalls!
Away we haste to vaulted walls:
Some future whim inverts the plain,
And stars behold our bones again.
Those teeth, dear girls--so much your care--
(With which no ivory can compare)
Like these (that once were lady Hay's)
May serve the belles of future days.
Then take advice from yonder scull;
And, when the flames of life grow dull,
Leave not a tooth in either jaw,
Since dentists steal--and fear no law.
He, that would court a sound repose,
To barren hills and deserts goes:
Where busy hands admit no sun,
Where he may doze, 'till all is done.
Yet there, even there tho' slyly laid,
'Tis folly to defy the spade:
Posterity invades the hill,
And plants our relics where she will.
But O! forbear the rising sigh!
All care is past with them that die:
Jove gave, when they to fate resigned,
An opiate of the strongest kind:
Death is a sleep, that has no dreams:
In which all time a moment seems--
And skeletons perceive no pain
Till Nature bids them wake again.
[34] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, June 17, 1790. The bodies were
removed at the time the demolition of Fort George was in progress. Text
from the 1809 edition.
THE ORATOR OF THE WOODS[35]
Each traveller asks, with fond surprize,
Why Thyrsis wastes the fleeting year
Where gloomy forests round him rise,
And only rustics come to hear--
His taste is odd (they seem to say)
Such talents in so poor a way!
To those that courts and titles please
How dismal is his lot;
Beyond the hills, beneath some trees,
To live--and be forgot--
In dull retreats, where Nature binds
Her mass of clay to vulgar minds.
While you lament his barren trade,
Tell me--in yonder vale
Why grows that flower beneath the shade,
So feeble and so pale!--
Why was she not in sun-shine placed
To blush and please your men of taste?
In lonely wilds, those flowers so fair
No curious step allure;
And chance, not choice, has placed them there,
(Still charming, tho' obscure)
Where, heedless of such sweets so nigh,
The lazy hind goes loitering by.
[35] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, June 29, 1790, with the
explanation: "Occasioned by hearing a very elegant Discourse preached in
a mean Building, by the Parson of an obscure Parrish." Text from the
1809 edition.
NANNY[A]
The Philadelphia Housekeeper, to Nabby, her Friend in New-York[36]
[A] Occasioned by the intended removal of the Supreme
Legislature of the United States from New-York to
Philadelphia--a measure much agitated at the time
the above was written--1790.--_Freneau's note._
Six weeks my dear mistress has been in a fret
And nothing but Congress will do for her yet:
She says they must come, or her senses she'll lose,
From morning till night she is reading the news,
And loves the dear fellows that vote for our town
(Since no one can relish New-York but a clown,
Where your beef is as lean, as if fattened on chaff,
And folks are too haughty to worship--a calf)
She tells us as how she has read in her books
That God gives them meat, but the devil sends cooks;
And Grumbleton told us (who often shoots flying)
That fish you have plenty--but spoil them in frying;
That your streets are as crooked, as crooked can be,
Right forward three perches he never could see
But his view was cut short with a house or a shop,
That stood in his way--and obliged him to stop.
Those speakers that wish for New-York to decide,--
'Tis a pity that talents are so misapplied!
My mistress declares she is vext to the heart
That genius should take such a pitiful part;
For the question, indeed, she is daily distrest,
And Gerry, I think, she will ever detest,
Who did all he could, with his tongue and his pen
To keep the dear Congress shut up in your Den.
She insists, the expense of removing is small,
And that two or three thousands will answer it all,
If that is too much, and we're so very poor--
The passage by water is cheaper, be sure;
If people object the expence of a team,
Here's Fitch with his wherry, will bring them by steam;
And, Nabby!--if once he should take them on board,
The Honour will be a sufficient reward.
But, as to myself, I vow and declare
I wish it would suit them to stay where they are;
I plainly foresee, that if once they remove
Throughout the long day, we shall drive, and be drove,
My madam's red rag will ring like a bell,
And the hall and the parlour will never look well;
Such scouring will be as has never been seen,
We shall always be cleaning, and never be clean,
And threats in abundance will work on my fears,
Of blows on the back, and of cuffs on the ears--
Two trifles, at present, discourage her paw,
The fear of the Lord, and the fear of the law--
But if Congress arrive, she will have such a sway,
That gospel and law will be both done away;--
For the sake of a place I must bear all her din,
And if ever so angry, do nothing but grin;
So Congress, I hope in your town will remain,
And Nanny will thank them again and again.
[36] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, July 1, 1790. Text from the
1809 edition.
NABBY
The New-York Housekeeper, to Nanny, her Friend in Philadelphia[37]
Well, Nanny, I am sorry to find, since you writ us,
The Congress at last has determined to quit us;
You now may begin with your dish-clouts and brooms,
To be scouring your knockers and scrubbing your rooms;
As for us, my dear Nanny, we're much in a pet,
And hundreds of houses will be to be let;
Our streets, that were just in a way to look clever,
Will now be neglected and nasty as ever;
Again we must fret at the Dutchified gutters
And pebble-stone pavements, that wear out our trotters.--
My master looks dull, and his spirits are sinking,
From morning till night he is smoking and thinking,
Laments the expence of destroying the fort,
And says, your great people are all of a sort--
He hopes and he prays they may die in a stall,
If they leave us in debt--for Federal Hall--
And Strap has declared, he has such regards,
He will go, if they go, for the sake of their beards.
Miss Letty, poor lady, is so in the pouts,
She values no longer our dances and routs,
And sits in a corner, dejected and pale,
As dull as a cat, and as lean as a rail!--
Poor thing, I'm certain she's in a decay,
And all--because Congress Resolve--not to stay!--
This Congress unsettled is, sure, a sad thing,
Seven years, my dear Nanny, they've been on the wing;
My master would rather saw timber, or dig,
Than see them removing to Conegocheague,
Where the houses and kitchens are yet to be framed,
The trees to be felled, and the streets to be named;
Of the two, we had rather your town should receive 'em--
So here, my dear Nanny, in haste I must leave 'em,
I'm a dunce at inditing--and as I'm a sinner,
The beef is half raw--and the bell rings for dinner!
[37] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, July 15, 1790. Text from the
edition of 1809.
THE BERGEN PLANTER[38]
Attach'd to lands that ne'er deceiv'd his hopes,
This rustic sees the seasons come and go,
His autumn's toils return'd in summer's crops,
While limpid streams, to cool his herbage, flow;
And, if some cares intrude upon his mind,
They are such cares as heaven for man design'd.
He to no pompous dome comes, cap in hand,
Where new-made 'squires affect the courtly smile:
Nor where Pomposo, 'midst his foreign band
Extols the sway of kings, in swelling style,
With tongue that babbled when it should have hush'd,
A head that never thought--a face that never blush'd.
He on no party hangs his hopes or fears,
Nor seeks the vote that baseness must procure;
No stall-fed Mammon, for his gold, reveres,
No splendid offers from his chests allure.
While showers descend, and suns their beams display,
The same, to him, if Congress go or stay.
He at no levees watches for a glance,
(Slave to disgusting, distant forms and modes)
Heeds not the herd at Bufo's midnight dance,
Dullman's mean rhymes, or Shylock's birth-day odes:
Follies, like these, he deems beneath his care,
And Titles leaves for simpletons to wear.
Where wandering brooks from mountain sources roll,
He seeks at noon the waters of the shade,
Drinks deep, and fears no poison in the bowl
That Nature for her happiest children made:
And from whose clear and gently-passing wave
All drink alike--the master and the slave.
The scheming statesman shuns his homely door,
Who, on the miseries of his country fed,
Ne'er glanc'd his eye from that base pilfer'd store
To view the sword, suspended by a thread--
Nor that "hand-writing," grav'd upon the wall,
That tells him--but in vain--"the sword must fall."
He ne'er was made a holiday machine,
Wheel'd here and there by 'squires in livery clad,
Nor dreads the sons of legislation keen,
Hard-hearted laws, and penalties most sad--
In humble hope his little fields were sown,
A trifle, in your eye--but all his own.
[38] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, July 12, 1790. Reprinted in
the _National Gazette_ under the title "The Pennsylvania Planter." Text
from the 1795 edition.
TOBACCO
[Supposed to be written by a Young Beginner[39]]
This Indian weed, that once did grow
On fair Virginia's fertile plain,
From whence it came--again may go,
To please some happier swain:
Of all the plants that Nature yields
This, least beloved, shall shun my fields.
In evil hour I first essayed
To chew this vile forbidden leaf,
When, half ashamed, and half afraid,
I touched, and tasted--to my grief:
Ah me! the more I was forbid,
The more I wished to take a quid.
But when I smoaked, in thought profound,
And raised the spiral circle high,
My heart grew sick, my head turned round--
And what can all this mean, (said I)--
Tobacco surely was designed
To poison, and destroy mankind.
Unhappy they, whom choice, or fate
Inclines to prize this bitter weed;
Perpetual source of female hate;
On which no beast--but man will feed;
That sinks my heart, and turns my head,
And sends me, reeling, home to bed!
[39] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, July 31, 1790. Text from the
edition of 1809.
THE BANISHED MAN[40]
Since man may every region claim,
And Nature is, in most, the same,
And we a part of her wide plan,
Tell me, what makes The Banish'd Man.
The favourite spot, that gave us birth,
We fondly call our mother earth;
And hence our vain distinctions grow,
And man to man becomes a foe.
That friendship to all nations due,
And taught by reason to pursue,
That love, which should the world combine,
To country, why do we confine?
The Grecian sage[A] (old stories say)
When question'd where his country lay,
Inspired by heaven, made no reply,
But rais'd his finger to the sky.
[A] Anaxagoras.--_Freneau's note._
No region has, on earth, been known
But some, of choice, have made their own:--
Your tears are not from Reason's source
If choice assumes the path of force.
"Alas! (you cry) that is not all:
"My former friendships I recall,
"My house, my farm, my days, my nights,
"Scenes vanish'd now, and past delights."--
Distance for absence you mistake--
Here, days and nights their circuits make:
Here, Nature walks her beauteous round,
And friendship may--perhaps--be found.
If times grow dark, or wealth retires,
Let Reason check your proud desires:
Virtue the humblest garb can wear,
And loss of wealth is loss of care.
Thus half unwilling, half resign'd,
Desponding, why, the generous mind?--
Think right,--nor be the hour delayed
That flies the sun, to seek the shade.
Though injured, exiled, or alone,
Nobly presume the world your own,
Convinced that, since the world began,
Time, only, makes The Banish'd Man.
[40] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, September 1, 1790, with the
introduction: "A little before Lord Bolingbroke was banished into
France, he wrote an essay upon Exile.--Some of his thoughts on that
occasion are expressed in the following Stanzas." Text from the 1809
edition.
THE DEPARTURE[41]
Occasioned by the Removal of Congress from New-York to
Philadelphia.--[1790.]
From Hudson's banks, in proud array,
(Too mean to claim a longer stay)
Their new ideas to improve,
Behold the generous Congress move!
Such thankless conduct much we feared,
When Timon's coach stood ready geered,
And He--the foremost on the floor,
Stood pointing to the Delaware shore.
So long confined to little things,
They sigh to be where Bavius sings,
Where Sporus builds his splendid pile,
And Bufo's tawdry Seasons smile.
New chaplains, now, shall ope their jaws,
New salaries grease unworthy paws:
Some reverend man, that turtle carves,
Will fatten, while the solder starves.
The Yorker asks--but asks in vain--
"What demon bids them 'move again?
"Whoever 'moves must suffer loss,
"And rolling stones collect no moss.
"Have we not paid for chaplains' prayers,
"That heaven might smile on state affairs?--
"Put some things up, pulled others down,
"And raised our streets through half the town?
"Have we not, to our utmost, strove
"That Congress might not hence remove--
"At dull debates no silence broke,
"And walked on tip-toe while they spoke?
"Have we not toiled through cold and heat,
"To make the Federal Pile complete--
"Thrown down our Fort, to give them air,
"And sent our guns, the devil knows where?
"Times change! but Memory still recalls
"The Day, when ruffians scaled their walls--
"Sovereigns besieged by angry men,
"Mere prisoners in the town of Penn?
"Can they forget when, half afraid,
"The timorous Council[A] lent no aid;
"But left them to the rogues that rob,
"The tender mercies of the mob?
[A] See the history of those times.--_Freneau's note._
"Oh! if they can, their lot is cast;
"One hundred miles will soon be passed--
"This Day the Federal Dome is cleared,
"To Paulus'-Hook the barge is steered,
"Where Timon's coach stands ready geered!"
[1790.]
[41] In the edition of 1795 this bore the title "On the Departure of the
Grand Sanhedrim." Text from the 1809 edition.
THE AMERICAN SOLDIER[42]
[A Picture from the Life]
"_To serve with love,
And shed your blood,
Approved may be above,
And here below
(Examples shew)
'Tis dangerous to be good._"
--LORD OXFORD.
Deep in a vale, a stranger now to arms,
Too poor to shine in courts, too proud to beg,
He, who once warred on Saratoga's plains,
Sits musing o'er his scars, and wooden leg.
Remembering still the toil of former days,
To other hands he sees his earnings paid;--
They share the due reward--he feeds on praise,
Lost in the abyss of want, misfortune's shade.
Far, far from domes where splendid tapers glare,
'Tis his from dear bought peace no wealth to win,
Removed alike from courtly cringing 'squires,
The great-man's Levee, and the proud man's grin.
Sold are those arms which once on Britons blazed,
When, flushed with conquest, to the charge they came;
That power repelled, and Freedom's fabrick raised,
She leaves her soldier--famine and a name! [1790]
[42] The first trace I can find of this poem is in the edition of 1795.
Text from the 1809 edition.
OCCASIONED[43]
By a Legislation Bill proposing a Taxation upon Newspapers
"'Tis time to tax the News, (Sangrado cries)
"Subjects were never good that were too wise:
"In every hamlet, every trifling town,
"Some sly, designing fellow sits him down,
"On spacious folio prints his weekly mess,
"And spreads around the poison of his Press.
"Hence, to the World the streams of scandal flow,
"Disclosing secrets, that it should not know,
"Hence courtiers strut with libels on their backs;--
"And shall not news be humbled by a tax!
"Once ('tis most true) such papers did some good,
"When British chiefs arrived in angry mood:
"By them enkindled, every heart grew warm,
"By them excited, all were taught to arm,
"When some, retiring to Britannia's clime,
"Sat brooding o'er the vast events of time;
"Doubtful which side to take, or what to say,
"Or who would win, or who would lose the day.
"Those times are past; (and past experience shews)
"The well-born sort alone, should read the news,
"No common herds should get behind the scene
"To view the movements of the state machine:
"One paper only, filled with courtly stuff,
"One paper, for one country is enough,
"Where incense offered at Pomposo's shrine
"Shall prove his house-dog and himself divine."
[43] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_ early in 1791. Text from the
1809 edition.
LINES[44]
Occasioned by a Law passed by the Corporation of New-York, early in
1790, for cutting down the trees in the streets of that City, previous
to June 10, following
THE CITIZEN'S SOLILOQUY
A man that owned some trees in town,
(And much averse to cut them down)
Finding the Law was full and plain,
No trees should in the streets remain,
One evening seated at his door,
Thus gravely talked the matter o'er:
"The fatal Day, dear trees, draws nigh,
When you must, like your betters, die,
Must die!--and every leaf will fade
That many a season lent its shade,
To drive from hence the summer's heat,
And make my porch a favourite seat.
"Thrice happy age, when all was new,
And trees untouched, unenvied grew,
When yet regardless of the axe,
They feared no law, and paid no tax!
The shepherd then at ease was laid,
Or walked beneath their cooling shade;
From slender twigs a garland wove,
Or traced his god within the grove;
Alas! those times are now forgot,
An iron age is all our lot:
Men are not now what once they were,
To hoard up gold is all their care:
The busy tribe old Plutus calls
To pebbled streets and painted walls;
Trees now to grow, is held a crime,
And These must perish in their prime!
"The trees that once our fathers reared,
And even the plundering Briton spared,
When shivering here full oft he stood,
Or kept his bed for want of wood--
These trees, whose gently bending boughs
Have witnessed many a lover's vows,
When half afraid, and half in jest,
With Nature busy in his breast,
With many a sigh, he did not feign,
Beneath these boughs he told his pain,
Or coaxing here his nymph by night,
Forsook the parlour and the light,
In talking love, his greatest bliss
To squeeze her hand or steal a kiss--
These trees that thus have lent their shade,
And many a happy couple made,
These old companions, thus endeared,
Who never tattled what they heard,
Must these, indeed, be killed so soon--
Be murdered by the tenth of June!
"But if my harmless trees must fall,
A fortune that awaits us all,
(All, all must yield to Nature's stroke,
And now a man, and now an oak)
Are those that round the churches grow
In this decree included too?
Must these, like common trees, be bled?
Is it a crime to shade the dead?
Review the law, I pray, at least,
And have some mercy on the priest
Who every Sunday sweats in black
To make us steer the skyward track:
The church has lost enough, God knows,
Plundered alike by friends and foes--
I hate such mean attempts as these--
Come--let the parson keep his trees!
"Yet things, perhaps, are not so bad--
Perhaps, a respite may be had:
The vilest rogues that cut our throats,
Or knaves that counterfeit our notes,
When, by the judge their sentence passed,
The gallows proves their doom at last,
Swindlers and pests of every kind,
For weeks and months a respite find;
And shall such nuisances as they,
Who make all honest men their prey--
Shall they for months avoid their doom,
And you, my trees, in all your bloom,
Who never injured small or great,
Be murdered at so short a date!
"Ye men of law, the occasion seize,
And name a counsel for the trees--
Arrest of judgment, sirs, I pray;
Excuse them till some future day:
These trees that such a nuisance are,
Next New-Year we can better spare,
To warm our shins, or boil the pot--
The Law, by then, will be forgot."
[44] This was published in the _National Gazette_ of March 8, 1792, with
this introduction: "Legislatures and city corporations have ever been
inimical to trees in cities.--About nine years ago the attempt was made
in Philadelphia to cut down all the trees--The public, however, demurred
to the decree, which, together with Mr. Hopkinson's Columnal Orator,
saved the lives of these useful and amusing companions.
"In a neighboring city, a similar attempt was made about a year ago by
its corporation. A universal extirpation was ordered, without respect to
age or quality, by the 10th of June, 1791.--The public interfered in
this, as in the other case, and the trees were saved,* except a few,
which having been injudiciously placed, above a century ago, had nearly
grown into the inhabitants' houses; and consequently suffered the
sentence of the law.... * _A copy of verses, on this occasion, were as
follow_: THE LANDLORD'S SOLILOQUY, etc."
TO THE PUBLIC[45]
This age is so fertile of mighty events,
That people complain, with some reason, no doubt,
Besides the time lost, and besides the expence,
With reading the papers they're fairly worn out;
The past is no longer an object of care,
The present consumes all the time they can spare.
Thus grumbles the reader, but still he reads on
With his pence and his paper unwilling to part:
He sees the world passing, men going and gone,
Some riding in coaches, and some in a cart:
For a peep at the farce a subscription he'll give,--
Revolutions must happen, and printers must live:
For a share of your favour we aim with the rest:
To enliven the scene we'll exert all our skill,
What we have to impart shall be some of the best,
And _Multum in Parvo_ our text, if you will;
Since we never admitted a clause in our creed,
That the greatest employment of life is--to read.
The king of the French and the queen of the North
At the head of the play, for the season, we find:
From the spark that we kindled, a flame has gone forth
To astonish the world and enlighten mankind:
With a code of new doctrines the universe rings,
And Paine is addressing strange sermons to kings.
Thus launch'd, as we are, on the ocean of news,
In hopes that your pleasure our pains will repay,
All honest endeavours the author will use
To furnish a feast for the grave and the gay:
At least he'll essay such a track to pursue
That the world shall approve--and his news shall be true.
[45] First published in number one of the _National Gazette_, October
31, 1791, under the title "Poetical Address to the Public of the United
States." It was Freneau's salutatory at the beginning of his new career
in Philadelphia. Text from the edition of 1795. The poem was omitted
from the edition of 1809.
LINES[46]
By H. Salem, on his Return from Calcutta
Your men of the land, from the king to Jack Ketch,
All join in supposing the sailor a wretch,
That his life is a round of vexation and woe,
With always too much or too little to do:
In the dead of the night, when other men sleep,
He, starboard and larboard, his watches must keep;
Imprisoned by Neptune, he lives like a dog,
And to know where he is, must depend on a Log,
Must fret in a calm, and be sad in a storm;
In winter much trouble to keep himself warm:
Through the heat of the summer pursuing his trade,
No trees, but his topmasts, to yield him a shade:
Then, add to the list of the mariner's evils,
The water corrupted, the bread full of weevils,
Salt junk to be eat, be it better or worse,
And, often bull beef of an Irishman's horse:
Whosoever is free, he must still be a slave,
(Despotic is always the rule on the wave;)
Not relished on water, your lords of the main
Abhor the republican doctrines of Paine,
And each, like the despot of Prussia, may say
That his crew has no right, but the right to obey.
Such things say the lubbers, and sigh when they've said 'em,
But things are not so bad as their fancies persuade 'em:
There ne'er was a task but afforded some ease,
Nor a calling in life, but had something to please.
If the sea has its storms, it has also its calms,
A time to sing songs and a time to sing psalms.--
Yes--give me a vessel well timbered and sound,
Her bottom good plank, and in rigging well found,
If her spars are but staunch, and her oakham swelled tight,
From tempests and storms I'll extract some delight--
At sea I would rather have Neptune my jailor,
Than a lubber on shore, that despises a sailor.
Do they ask me what pleasure I find on the sea?--
Why, absence from land is a pleasure to me:
A hamper of porter, and plenty of grog,
A friend, when too sleepy, to give me a jog,
A coop that will always some poultry afford,
Some bottles of gin, and no parson on board,
A crew that is brisk when it happens to blow,
One compass on deck and another below,
A girl, with more sense than the girl at the head,
To read me a novel, or make up my bed--
The man that has these, has a treasure in store
That millions possess not, who live upon shore:
But if it should happen that commerce grew dull,
Or Neptune, ill-humoured, should batter our hull,
Should damage my cargo, or heave me aground,
Or pay me with farthings instead of a pound:
Should I always be left in the rear of the race,
And this be forever--forever the case;
Why then, if the honest plain truth I may tell,
I would clew up my topsails, and bid him farewell.
[46] Published in the _National Gazette_, November 14, 1791, under the
title "A Mistake Rectified." Included in the 1795 edition with the
title, "Epistle to a Desponding Sea-man." Text from the edition of 1809.
It is very doubtful if Freneau ever sailed to Calcutta.
MODERN DEVOTION[47]
[By H. Salem]
To church I went, with good intent,
To hear Sangrado preach and pray;
But objects there, black, brown and fair,
Turned eyes and heart a different way.
Miss Patty's fan, Miss Molly's man,
With powdered hair and dimple cheek;
Miss Bridget's eyes, that once made prize
Of Fopling with his hair so sleek:
Embroidered gowns, and play-house tunes
Estranged all hearts from heaven too wide:
I felt most odd, this house of God
Should all be flutter, pomp, and pride.
Now, pray be wise, no prayers will rise
To heaven--where hearts are not sincere.
No church was made for Cupid's trade;
Then why these arts of ogling here?
Since time draws nigh, when you and I,
At church, must claim the sexton's care!--
Leave pride at home, when'er you come
To pay to heaven your offerings, there!
[47] Published in the _National Gazette_, December 5, 1791. Text from
the edition of 1809.
THE COUNTRY PRINTER[48]
I.
DESCRIPTION OF HIS VILLAGE
Beside a stream, that never yet ran dry,
There stands a Town, not high advanced in fame;
Tho' few its buildings raised to please the eye,
Still this proud title it may fairly claim;
A Tavern (its first requisite) is there,
A mill, a black-smith's shop, a place of prayer.
Nay, more--a little market-house is seen
And iron hooks, where beef was never hung,
Nor pork, nor bacon, poultry fat or lean,
Pig's head, or sausage link, or bullock's tongue:
Look when you will, you see the vacant bench
No butcher seated there, no country wench.
Great aims were his, who first contriv'd this town;
A market he would have--but, humbled now,
Sighing, we see its fabric mouldering down,
That only serves, at night, to pen the cow:
And hence, by way of jest, it may be said
That beef is there, tho' never beef that's dead.
Abreast the inn--a tree before the door,
A Printing-Office lifts its humble head
Where busy Type old journals doth explore
For news that is thro' all the village read;
Who, year from year, (so cruel is his lot)
Is author, pressman, devil--and what not?
Fame says he is an odd and curious wight,
Fond to distraction of this native place;
In sense, not very dull nor very bright,
Yet shews some marks of humour in his face,
One who can pen an anecdote, complete,
Or plague the parson with the mackled sheet.
Three times a week, by nimble geldings drawn
A stage arrives; but scarcely deigns to stop,
Unless the driver, far in liquor gone,
Has made some business for the black-smith-shop;
Then comes this printer's harvest-time of news,
Welcome alike from Christians, Turks, or Jews.
Each passenger he eyes with curious glance,
And, if his phiz be mark'd of courteous kind,
To conversation, straight, he makes advance,
Hoping, from thence, some paragraph to find,
Some odd adventure, something new and rare,
To set the town a-gape, and make it stare.
II.
All is not Truth ('tis said) that travellers tell--
So much the better for this man of news;
For hence the country round, that know him well,
Will, if he prints some lies, his lies excuse.
Earthquakes, and battles, shipwrecks, myriads slain--
If false or true--alike to him are gain.
But if this motley tribe say nothing new,
Then many a lazy, longing look is cast
To watch the weary post-boy travelling through,
On horse's rump his budget buckled fast;
With letters, safe in leathern prison pent,
And, wet from press, full many a packet sent.
Not Argus with his fifty pair of eyes
Look'd sharper for his prey than honest Type
Explores each package, of alluring size,
Prepar'd to seize them with a nimble gripe,
Did not the post-boy watch his goods, and swear
That village Type shall only have his share.
Ask you what matter fills his various page?
A mere farrago 'tis, of mingled things;
Whate'er is done on Madam Terra's stage
He to the knowledge of his townsmen brings:
One while, he tells of monarchs run away;
And now, of witches drown'd in Buzzard's bay.
Some miracles he makes, and some he steals;
Half Nature's works are giants in his eyes:
Much, very much, in wonderment he deals,--
New-Hampshire apples grown to pumpkin size,
Pumpkins almost as large as country inns,
And ladies bearing, each,--three lovely twins.
He, births and deaths with cold indifference views;
A paragraph from him is all they claim:
And here the rural squire, amongst the news
Sees the fair record of some lordling's fame;
All that was good, minutely brought to light,
All that was ill,--conceal'd from vulgar sight!
III.
THE OFFICE
Source of the wisdom of the country round!
Again I turn to that poor lonely shed
Where many an author all his fame has found,
And wretched proofs by candle-light are read,
Inverted letters, left the page to grace,
Colons derang'd, and commas out of place.
Beneath this roof the Muses chose their home;--
Sad was their choice, less bookish ladies say.
Since from the blessed hour they deign'd to come
One single cob-web was not brush'd away:--
Fate early had pronounc'd this building's doom,
Ne'er to be vex'd with boonder, brush, or broom.
Here, full in view, the ink-bespangled press
Gives to the world its children, with a groan,
Some born to live a month--a day--some less;
Some, why they live at all, not clearly known,
All that are born must die--Type well knows that--
The Almanack's his longest-living brat.
Here lie the types, in curious order rang'd
Ready alike to imprint your prose or verse;
Ready to speak (their order only chang'd)
Creek-Indian lingo, Dutch, or Highland Erse;
These types have printed Erskine's _Gospel Treat_,
Tom Durfey's songs, and Bunyan's works, complete.
But faded are their charms--their beauty fled!
No more their work your nicer eyes admire;
Hence, from this press no courtly stuff is read;
But almanacks, and ballads for the Squire,
Dull paragraphs, in homely language dress'd,
The pedlar's bill, and sermons by request.
Here, doom'd the fortune of the press to try,
From year to year poor Type his trade pursues--
With anxious care and circumspective eye
He dresses out his little sheet of news;
Now laughing at the world, now looking grave,
At once the Muse's midwife--and her slave.
In by-past years, perplext with vast designs,
In cities fair he strove to gain a seat;
But, wandering to a wood of many pines,
In solitude he found his best retreat,
When sick of towns, and sorrowful at heart,
He to those deserts brought his favorite art.
IV.
Thou, who art plac'd in some more favour'd spot,
Where spires ascend, and ships from every clime
Discharge their freights--despise not thou the lot
Of humble Type, who here has pass'd his prime;
At case and press has labour'd many a day,
But now, in years, is verging to decay.
He, in his time, the patriot of his town,
With press and pen attack'd the royal side,
Did what he could to pull their Lion down,
Clipp'd at his beard, and twitch'd his sacred hide,
Mimick'd his roarings, trod upon his toes,
Pelted young whelps, and tweak'd the old one's nose.
Rous'd by his page, at church or court-house read,
From depths of woods the willing rustics ran,
Now by a priest, and now some deacon led
With clubs and spits to guard the rights of man;
Lads from the spade, the pick-ax, or the plough,
Marching afar, to fight Burgoyne or Howe.
Where are they now?--the Village asks with grief,
What were their toils, their conquests, or their gains?--
Perhaps, they near some State-House beg relief,
Perhaps, they sleep on Saratoga's plains;
Doom'd not to live, their country to reproach
For seven-years' pay transferr'd to Mammon's coach.
Ye Guardians of your country and her laws!
Since to the pen and press so much we owe
Still bid them favour freedom's sacred cause,
From this pure source, let streams unsullied flow;
Hence, a new order grows on reason's plan,
And turns the fierce barbarian into--man.
Child of the earth, of rude materials fram'd,
Man, always found a tyrant or a slave,
Fond to be honour'd, valued, rich, or fam'd
Roves o'er the earth, and subjugates the wave:
Despots and kings this restless race may share,--
But knowledge only makes them worth your care!
[48] Published in four installments in the _National Gazette_, beginning
December 19, 1791. Issued in pamphlet form, together with "The Village
Merchant," in 1794. Republished only in the edition of 1795, the text of
which I have followed.
SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND NINETY-ONE[49]
Great things have pass'd the last revolving year;
France on a curious jaunt has seen her king go,--
Hush'd are the growlings of the Russian bear,
Rebellion has broke loose in St. Domingo--
Sorry we are that Pompeys, Cæsars, Catos
Are mostly found with Negroes and Mulattoes.
Discord, we think, must always be the lot
Of this poor world--nor is that discord vain,
Since, if these feuds and fisty-cuffs were not,
Full many an honest Type would starve--that's plain;
Wars are their gain, whatever cause is found--
Empires--or Cats-skins brought from Nootka-sound.
The Turks, poor fellows! have been sadly baisted--
And many a Christian despot stands, contriving
Who next shall bleed--what country next be wasted--
This is the trade by which they get their living:
From Prussian Frederick, this the general plan
To Empress Kate--that burns the Rights of Man,
The Pope (at Rome) is in a sweat, they tell us;
Of freedom's pipe he cannot bear the music,
And worst of all when Frenchmen blow the bellows,
Enough almost (he thinks) to make a Jew sick:
His Priesthood too, black, yellow, white, and grey,
All think it best to keep--the good old way.
Britain, (fame whispers) has unrigg'd her fleet--
Now tell us what the world will do for thunder?--
Battles, fire, murder, maiming, and defeat
Are at an end when Englishmen knock under:
Sulphur will now in harmless squibs be spent,
Lightning will fall--full twenty five per cent.
[49] I have found this only in the edition of 1795.
LINES[50]
Written on a Puncheon of Jamaica Spirits
Within these wooden walls, confined,
The ruin lurks of human kind;
More mischiefs here, united, dwell,
And more diseases haunt this cell
Than ever plagued the Egyptian flocks,
Or ever cursed Pandora's box.
Within these prison-walls repose
The seeds of many a bloody nose;
The chattering tongue, the horrid oath;
The fist for fighting, nothing loth;
The passion quick, no words can tame,
That bursts like sulphur into flame;
The nose with diamonds glowing red,
The bloated eye, the broken head!
Forever fastened be this door--
Confined within, a thousand more
Destructive fiends of hateful shape,
Even now are plotting an escape,
Here, only by a cork restrained,
In slender walls of wood contained,
In all their dirt of death reside
Revenge, that ne'er was satisfied;
The tree that bears the deadly fruit
Of murder, maiming, and dispute;
Assault, that innocence assails,
The Images of gloomy jails
The Giddy Thought, on mischief bent,
The midnight hour, in folly spent,
All These within this cask appear,
And Jack, the hangman, in the rear!
Thrice happy he, who early taught
By Nature, ne'er this poison sought;
Who, friendly to his own repose,
Treads under foot this worst of foes,--
He, with the purling stream content,
The beverage quaffs that Nature meant;
In Reason's scale his actions weighed,
His spirits want no foreign aid--
Not swell'd too high, or sunk too low,
Placid, his easy minutes flow;
Long life is his, in vigour pass'd,
Existence, welcome to the last,
A spring, that never yet grew stale--
Such virtue lies in--Adam's Ale!
[50] Published in the _National Gazette_ for January 23, 1792,
introduced by a short essay upon country taverns. The following is an
extract:
"Happy would it be for every community if ardent spirits could be
banished from amongst them.... I shall conclude these observations with
some lines written last winter at a country tavern, where from the
introduction of a single _jug of rum_, conviviality and good humour were
changed into madness and brutality, and numbers of the guests, who came,
perhaps, only to pass a social hour, went away maimed, muttering, and
lastingly embittered against each other." The poem appeared in the
edition of 1795 with the title "The Jug of Rum." Text from the edition
of 1809.
THE PARTING GLASS[51]
[Written at an Inn. By Hezekiah Salem.]
The man that joins in life's career
And hopes to find some comfort here;
To rise above this earthly mass,
The only way's to drink his Glass.
But, still, on this uncertain stage,
Where hopes and fears the soul engage;
And while, amid the joyous band,
Unheeded flows the measured sand,
Forget not as the moments pass,
That Time shall bring the parting glass!
In spite of all the mirth I've heard,
This is the glass I always feared;
The glass that would the rest destroy,
The farewell cup, the close of joy!
With You, whom Reason taught to think,
I could, for ages, sit and drink:
But with the fool, the sot, the ass,
I haste to take the parting glass.
The luckless wight, that still delays
His draught of joys to future days,
Delays too long--for then, alas!
Old age steps up, and--breaks the glass!
The nymph, who boasts no borrowed charms,
Whose sprightly wit my fancy warms;
What tho' she tends this country inn,
And mixes wine, and deals out gin?
With such a kind, obliging lass
I sigh, to take the parting glass.
With him, who always talks of gain,
(Dull Momus, of the plodding train)--
The wretch, who thrives by others' woes,
And carries grief where'er he goes:--
With people of this knavish class
The first is still my parting glass.
With those that drink before they dine--
With him that apes the grunting swine,
Who fills his page with low abuse,
And strives to act the gabbling goose
Turned out by fate to feed on grass--
Boy, give me quick, the parting glass.
The man, whose friendship is sincere,
Who knows no guilt, and feels no fear:--
It would require a heart of brass
With him to take the parting glass!
With him, who quaffs his pot of ale;
Who holds to all an even scale;
Who hates a knave, in each disguise,
And fears him not--whate'er his size--
With him, well pleased my days to pass,
May heaven forbid the Parting Glass!
[51] Published in the _National Gazette_, May 10, 1790. Text from the
1809 edition.
A WARNING TO AMERICA[52]
Removed from Europe's feuds, a hateful scene
(Thank heaven, such wastes of ocean roll between)
Where tyrant kings in bloody schemes combine,
And each forbodes in tears, Man is no longer mine!
Glad we recall the Day that bade us first
Spurn at their power, and shun their wars accurst;
Pitted and gaffed no more for England's glory
Nor made the tag-rag-bobtail of their story.
Something still wrong in every system lurks,
Something imperfect haunts all human works--
Wars must be hatched, unthinking men to fleece,
Or we, this day, had been in perfect peace,
With double bolts our Janus' temple shut,
Nor terror reigned through each back-woods-man's hut,
No rattling drums assailed the peasant's ear
Nor Indian yells disturbed our sad frontier,
Nor gallant chiefs, 'gainst Indian hosts combined
Scaped from the trap--to leave their tails behind.
Peace to all feuds!--and come the happier day
When Reason's sun shall light us on our way;
When erring man shall all his Rights retrieve,
No despots rule him, and no priests deceive,
Till then, Columbia!--watch each stretch of power,
Nor sleep too soundly at the midnight hour,
By flattery won, and lulled by soothing strains,
Silenus took his nap--and waked in chains--
In a soft dream of smooth delusion led
Unthinking Gallia bowed her drooping head
To tyrants' yokes--and met such bruises there,
As now must take three ages to repair.
Then keep the paths of dear bought freedom clear,
Nor slavish systems grant admittance here.
[1792]
[52] Written for July 4th, 1792, and published in the _National Gazette_
under the title "Independence." Text from the edition of 1809.
THE DISH OF TEA[53]
Let some in beer place their delight,
O'er bottled porter waste the night,
Or sip the rosy wine:
A dish of Tea more pleases me,
Yields softer joys, provokes less noise,
And breeds no base design.
From China's groves, this present brought,
Enlivens every power of thought,
Riggs many a ship for sea:
Old maids it warms, young widows charms;
And ladies' men, not one in ten
But courts them for their Tea.
When throbbing pains assail my head,
And dullness o'er my brain is spread,
(The muse no longer kind)
A single sip dispels the hyp:
To chace the gloom, fresh spirits come,
The flood-tide of the mind.
When worn with toil, or vext with care,
Let Susan but this draught prepare,
And I forget my pain.
This magic bowl revives the soul;
With gentlest sway, bids care be gay;
Nor mounts, to cloud the brain.
If learned men the truth would speak
They prize it far beyond their Greek,
More fond attention pay;
No Hebrew root so well can suit;
More quickly taught, less dearly bought,
Yet studied twice a day.
This leaf, from distant regions sprung,
Puts life into the female tongue,
And aids the cause of love.
Such power has Tea o'er bond and free;
Which priests admire, delights the 'squire,
And Galen's sons approve.
[53] Published in the _National Gazette_, July 7, 1792. Text from the
1809 edition.
ON THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY[54]
A Day ever Memorable to Regenerated France
Bright Day,[55] that did to France restore
What priests and kings had seiz'd away,
That bade her generous sons disdain
The fetters that their fathers wore,
The titled slave, a tyrant's sway,
That ne'er shall curse her soil again!
Bright day! a partner in thy joy,
Columbia hails the rising sun,
She feels her toils, her blood repaid,
When fiercely frantic to destroy,
(Proud of the laurels he had won)
The Briton, here, unsheath'd his blade.
By traitors driven to ruin's brink
Fair Freedom dreads united knaves,
The world must fall if she must bleed;--
And yet, by heaven! I'm proud to think
The world was ne'er subdued by slaves--
Nor shall the hireling herd succeed.
Boy! fill the generous goblet high;
Success to France, shall be the toast:
The fall of kings the fates foredoom,
The crown decays, its' splendours die;
And they, who were a nation's boast,
Sink, and expire in endless gloom.
Thou, stranger, from a distant shore,[A]
Where fetter'd men their rights avow,
Why on this joyous day so sad?
Louis insults with chains no more,--
Then why thus wear a clouded brow,
When every manly heart is glad?
[A] Addressed to the Aristocrats from Hispaniola.--_Freneau's
note._
Some passing days and rolling years
May see the wrath of kings display'd,
Their wars to prop the tarnish'd crown;
But orphans' groans, and widows' tears,
And justice lifts her shining blade
To bring the tottering bauble down.
[1792]
[54] This was published in the _National Gazette_, July 14, 1792,
introduced as follows:
"ODES ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
"_HE who does not read in the book of the Odes, is like a man
standing with his face flat against a wall: he can neither
move forward, nor stir an inch backward._--Hau Kiou Choaan."
This was Ode I of the series. It was republished only in the edition of
1795, the text of which I have followed.
[55] On July 14, 1789, the French people made their first armed stand
against monarchial institutions, attacking and destroying the Bastile.
TO CRISPIN O'CONNER
A BACK-WOODSMAN[56]
[Supposed to be written by Hezekiah Salem]
Wise was your plan when twenty years ago
From Patrick's isle you first resolved to stray,
Where lords and knights, as thick as rushes grow,
And vulgar folks are in each other's way;
Where mother-country acts the step-dame's part,
Cuts off, by aid of hemp, each petty sinner,
And twice or thrice in every score of years
Hatches sad wars to make her brood the thinner.
How few aspire to quit the ungrateful soil
That starves the plant it had the strength to bear:
How many stay, to grieve, and fret, and toil,
And view the plenty that they must not share.
This you beheld, and westward set your nose,
Like some bold prow, that ploughs the Atlantic foam,
And left less venturous weights, like famished crows,--
To feed on hog-peas, hips, and haws, at home.
Safe landed here, not long the coast detained
Your wary steps:--but wandering on, you found
Far in the west, a paltry spot of land,
That no man envied, and that no man owned.
A woody hill, beside a dismal bog--
This was your choice; nor were you much to blame:
And here, responsive to the croaking frog,
You grubbed, and stubbed, and feared no landlord's claim.
An axe, an adze, a hammer, and a saw;
These were the tools, that built your humble shed:
A cock, a hen, a mastiff, and a cow:
These were your subjects, to this desert led.
Now times are changed--and labour's nervous hand
Bids harvests rise where briars and bushes grew;
The dismal bog, by lengthy sluices drained,
Supports no more hoarse captain Bull Frog's crew.--
Prosper your toil!--but, friend, had you remained
In lands, where starred and gartered nobles shine,
When you had, thus, to sixty years attained,
What different fate, 'Squire Crispin, had been thine!
Nine pence a day, coarse fare, a bed of boards,
The midnight loom, high rents, and excised beer;
Slave to dull squires, kings' brats, and huffish lords,
(Thanks be to Heaven) not yet in fashion here!
[56] Published in the _National Gazette_, July 18, 1792, as Ode II in
"Odes on Various Subjects." Text from the 1809 edition.
CRISPIN'S ANSWER
Much pleased am I, that you approve
Freedom's blest cause that brought me here:
Ireland I loved--but there they strove
To make me bend to King and Peer.
I could not bow to noble knaves,
Who Equal Rights to men deny:
Scornful, I left a land of slaves,
And hither came, my axe to ply:
The axe has well repaid my toil--
No king, no priest, I yet espy
To tythe my hogs, to tax my soil,
And suck my whiskey bottle dry.
In foreign lands what snares are laid!
There royal rights all right defeat;
They taxed my sun, they taxed my shade,
They taxed the offal that I eat.
They taxed my hat, they taxed my shoes,
Fresh taxes still on taxes grew;
They would have taxed my very nose,
Had I not fled, dear friends, to you.
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[57]
Since the day I attempted to print a gazette,
This Shylock Ap-Shenkin does nothing but fret:
Now preaching and screeching, then nibbling and scribbling,
Remarking and barking, and whining and pining, and still in a pet,
From morning 'till night, with my humble gazette.
Instead of whole columns our page to abuse,
Your readers would rather be treated with News:
While wars are a-brewing, and kingdoms undoing,
While monarchs are falling, and princesses squalling,
While France is reforming, and Irishmen storming--
In a glare of such splendour, what folly to fret
At so humble a thing as a poet's Gazette!
No favours I ask'd from your friends in the East:
On your wretched soup-meagre I left them to feast;
So many base lies you have sent them in print,
That scarcely a man at our paper will squint:--
And now you begin (with a grunt and a grin,
With the bray of an ass, and a visage of brass,
With a quill in your hand and a Lie in your mouth)
To play the same trick on the men of the South!
One Printer for Congress (some think) is enough,
To flatter, and lie, to palaver, and puff,
To preach up in favour of monarchs and titles,
And garters, and ribbands, to prey on our vitals:
Who knows but Pomposo will give it in fee,
Or make mister Shenkin the Grand Patentee!!!
Then take to your scrapers, ye Republican Papers,
No rogue shall go snacks--and the News-Paper Tax
Shall be puff'd to the skies, as a measure most wise--
So, a spaniel, when master is angry, and kicks it,
Sneaks up to his shoe, and submissively licks it.
[57] Text from the edition of 1795. First published in the _National
Gazette_, July 28, 1792, as number three of the Odes. In this, its
earliest version, the opening line was "Since the day we attempted the
Nation's Gazette." Before the title was the following: "Note well--the
following is to be sung or said as occasion may require." Not reprinted
in 1809.
TO MY BOOK[58]
Seven years are now elaps'd, dear rambling volume,
Since, to all knavish wights a foe,
I sent you forth to vex and gall 'em,
Or drive them to the shades below:
With spirit, still, of Democratic proof,
And still despising Shylock's canker'd hoof:
What doom the fates intend, is hard to say,
Whether to live to some far-distant day,
Or sickening in your prime,
In this bard-baiting clime,
Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away.
"Virtue, order, and religion,
"Haste, and seek some other region;
"Your plan is laid, to hunt them down,
"Destroy the mitre, rend the gown,
"And that vile hag, Philosophy, restore"--
Did ever volume plan so much before?
For seven years past, a host of busy foes
Have buzz'd about your nose,
White, black, and grey, by night and day;
Garbling, lying, singing, sighing:
These eastern gales a cloud of insects bring
That fluttering, snivelling, whimpering--on the wing--
And, wafted still as discord's demon guides,
Flock round the flame, that yet shall singe their hides.
Well!--let the fates decree whate'er they please:
Whether you're doom'd to drink oblivion's cup,
Or Praise-God Barebones eats you up,
This I can say, you've spread your wings afar,
Hostile to garter, ribbon, crown, and star;
Still on the people's, still on Freedom's side,
With full determin'd aim, to baffle every claim
Of well-born wights, that aim to mount and ride.
[58] First published in the _National Gazette_, August 4, 1792, as Ode
IV in the series, "Odes on Various Subjects." It bore the title "To the
National Gazette." The opening stanza was as follows:
"Nine months are now elaps'd, dear rambling paper,
Since first on this world's stage you cut your caper
With spirit still of democratic proof,
And still despising _Whaacum's_ canker'd hoof--
What doom the fates decree, is hard to say,
Whether to live to some far distant day,
Or sickening in your prime
In this news-taxing clime,
Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away.
AIR.
_Virtue_, _Order_, and _Religion_,*
Haste and seek some other region," etc.
The poem was revised for the edition of 1795, so as to refer to the
edition of 1788, issued seven years before the edition of 1795. It was
not published in 1809.
"*'The National Gazette is--the vehicle of party spleen and
opposition to the great principles of order, virtue, and
religion.' Gaz. U. States."
STANZAS[59]
To the memory of two young persons (twin brothers), ROBERT SEVIER and
WILLIAM SEVIER, who were killed by the Savages on Cumberland River, in
North-Carolina, in attempting to assist a new settler, who was then
passing the river with a numerous family
In the same hour two lovely youths were born,
Nature, with care, had moulded either clay:
In the same hour, from this world's limits torn,
The murderous Indian seiz'd their lives away.
Distress to aid, impell'd each generous breast;
With nervous arm they brav'd the adverse tide,
In friendship's cause encounter'd death's embrace,
Blameless they liv'd, in honour's path they died.
But ah! what art shall dry a father's tears!
Who shall relieve, or what beguile his pain!
Clouds shade his sun, and griefs advance with years--
Nature gave joys, to take those joys again.
Thou, that shall come to these sequester'd streams,
When times to come their story shall relate;
Let the fond heart, that native worth esteems,
Revere their virtues, and bemoan their fate.
[59] Published in the _National Gazette_, July 28, 1792, with a note
explaining that the brothers were killed "on the 15th day of January
last."
TO A PERSECUTED PHILOSOPHER[60]
As Aristippus once, with weary feet,
Pursued his way through polish'd Athens' street,
Minding no business but his own;
Out rush'd a set of whelps
With sun-burnt scalps,
(Black, red, and brown,)
That nipt his heels, and nibbled at his gown.
While, with his staff, he kept them all at bay
Some yelp'd aloud, some howl'd in dismal strain,
Some wish'd the sage to bark again:--
Even little Shylock seem'd to say,
"Answer us, sir, in your best way:--
"We are, 'tis true, a snarling crew,
"But with our jaws have gain'd applause,
"And--sir--can worry such as you."
The sage beheld their spite with steady eye,
And only stopp'd to make this short reply:
"Hark ye, my dogs, I have not learn'd to yelp,
"Nor waste my breath on every lousy whelp;
"Much less, to write, or stain my wholesome page
"In answering puppies--bursting with their rage:
"Hence to your straw!--such contest I disdain:
"Learn this, ('tis not amiss)
"For Men I keep a pen,
"For dogs, a cane!"
[60] First printed in the _National Gazette_, August 29, 1792, under the
title, "An Old Heathen Story. Adapted to Modern Times." Republished only
in the 1795 edition.
TO AN ANGRY ZEALOT[61]
[In Answer to Sundry Virulent Charges]
If of Religion I have made a sport,
Then why not cite me to the Bishop's Court?
Fair to the world let every page be set,
And prove your charge from all I've said and writ:--
What if this heart no narrow notions bind,
Its pure good-will extends to all mankind:
Suppose I ask no portion from your feast,
Nor heaven-ward ride behind your parish priest,
Because I wear not Shylock's Sunday face
Must I, for that, be loaded with disgrace?
The time has been,--the time, I fear, is now,
When holy phrenzy would erect her brow,
Round some poor wight with painted devils meet,
And worse than Smithfield blaze through every street;
But wholesome laws prevent such horrid scenes,
No more afraid of deacons and of deans,
In this new world our joyful Psalm we sing
That Even a Bishop is a Harmless Thing!
[61] Text from the edition of 1795. First published in the _National
Gazette_, Sept. 26, 1792, with the following introduction: "It is
asserted in Mr. Russel's (Boston) _Columbian Centinel_ of Sept. 12 (and
copied into Mr. Fenno's _Gazette of the United States_ of last Saturday)
that 'the Clergy of this country are constantly vilified, and _religion_
ridiculed through the medium of the _National Gazette_.' The author of
the assertion is requested to produce one or more passages from the
National Gazette to support his charge, otherwise, we shall conclude it
only _a dirty attempt to prevent the circulation of the National Gazette
in the Eastern States_:--But further," here follows the poem. Not
printed in edition of 1809.
THE PYRAMID OF THE FIFTEEN AMERICAN STATES[62]
*
* *
* * *
* * * *
* * * * *
Barbara Pyramidum sileat miracula Memphis;[a]
Heu, male servili marmora structa manu!
Libera jam, ruptis, Atlantias ora, catenis,
Jactat opus Phario marmore nobilius:
Namque Columbiadæ, facti monumenta parantes,
Vulgarem spernunt sumere materiam;
Magnanimi coelum scandunt, perituraque saxa
Quod vincat, celsa de Jovis arce petunt
Audax inde cohors stellis _E Pluribus Unum_
Ardua Pyramidos tollit ad astra caput.
Ergo, Tempus edax, quamvis durissima sævo
Saxa domas morsu, nil ibi juris habes:
Dumque polo solitis cognata nitoribus ardent
Sidera fulgebit Pyramis illa suis!
[a] The Latin verses were written by Mr. John Carey, formerly of
Philadelphia.--_Freneau's note._
[IN IMITATION OF THE PRECEDING LINES]
No more let barbarous Memphis boast
Huge structures reared by servile hands--
A nation on the Atlantic coast
Fettered no more in foreign bands,
A nobler Pyramid displays
Than Egypt's tyranny could raise.
Columbia's sons, to extend the fame
Of their exploits to future years,
No marble from the quarry claim,
But, soaring to the starry spheres,
Materials seek in Jove's blue sky
To endure when brass and marble die!
Arrived among the shining host,
Fearless, the proud invaders spoil
From countless gems, in æther lost,
These Stars, to crown their mighty toil:
To heaven a Pyramid they rear
And point the summit with a star.
Old wasteful Time! though still you gain
Dominion o'er the brazen tower,
On This your teeth will gnaw in vain,
Finding its strength beyond their power:
While kindred stars in æther glow,
This Pyramid will shine below!
[1792]
[62] Published in the _National Gazette_, Dec. 15, 1792. The Latin
verses had been contributed several weeks before with the request that
some reader of the paper furnish a translation. Text from the 1809
edition.
ON THE DEMOLITION OF THE FRENCH MONARCHY[63]
From Bourbon's brow the crown remov'd,
Low in the dust is laid;
And, parted now from all she lov'd,
Maria's[A] beauties fade:
[A] Maria Antoinette, late queen of France.--_Freneau's note._
What shall relieve her sad distress,
What power recall that former state
When drinking deep her seas of bliss,
She smil'd and look'd so sweet!--
With aching heart and haggard eye
She views the palace,[B] towering high,
Where, once, were pass'd her brightest days,
And nations stood, in wild amaze,
Louis! to see you eat.
[B] Thuilleries--within view of which the royal family of
France were at this time imprisoned.--1792.--_Ib._
This gaudy vision to restore
Shall fate its laws repeal,
And cruel despots rise once more
To plan a new Bastille!
Shall, from their sheathes, ten thousand blades[C]
In glittering vengeance start
To mow down slaves, and slice off heads,
Taking a monarch's part?--
Ah no!--the heavens this hope refuse;
Despots! they send you no such news--
Nor Conde, fierce, nor Frederick, stout,
Nor Catharine brings this work about,
Nor Brunswick's warlike art:
[C] Alluding to Mr. Edmund Burke's rant upon this subject.--_Ib._
The poet here refers to the well-known passage in Burke's
_Reflections on the Revolution in France_, published October,
1790, in which after describing the queen of France as he had
seen her in 1774 and the "prostrate homage" which her nation
had paid to her at that time, he dwells upon the contrast of
1789: "Oh, what a revolution! and what a heart must I have,
to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall!
Little did I dream when she added titles of veneration to
those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she
should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against
disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I
should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a
nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour and of
cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped
from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened
her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of
sophisters, oeconomists, and calculators has succeeded; and
the glory of Europe is extinguished forever."
Nor He,[D] that once, with fire and sword,
This western world alarm'd:
Throughout our clime whose thunders roar'd,
Whose legions round us swarm'd--
Once more his tyrant arm invades
A race[E] that dare be free:
His Myrmidons, with murdering blades,
In one base cause agree!--
Ill fate attend on every scheme
That tends to darken Reason's beam:
And, rising with gigantic might
In Virtue's cause, I see unite
Worlds, under Freedom's Tree!
[D] George III.--_Freneau's note._
[E] The French Republicans.--_Ib._
Valour, at length, by Fortune led,
The Rights of Man restores;
And Gallia, now from bondage freed,
Her rising sun adores:
On Equal Rights, her fabric plann'd,
Storms idly round it rave,
No longer breathes in Gallic land
A monarch, or a slave!
At distance far, and self-remov'd
From all he own'd and all he lov'd,
See!--turn'd his back on Freedom's blaze,
In foreign lands the Emigrant strays,
Or finds an early grave!
Enroll'd with these--and close immur'd,
The gallant chief[F] is found,
That, once, admiring crowds ador'd,
Through either world renown'd,
Here, bold in arms, and firm in heart,
He help'd to gain our cause,
Yet could not from a tyrant part,
But, turn'd to embrace his laws!--
Ah! hadst thou stay'd in fair Auvergne,[G]
And Truth from Paine vouchsaf'd to learn;
There, happy, honour'd, and retir'd,
Both hemispheres had still admir'd,
Still crown'd you with applause.
[F] La Fayette; at this time in the Prussian prison of
Spandau.--_Freneau's note._
[G] The province of France, where the Marquis's family estate
lay.--_Ib._
See!--doom'd to fare on famish'd steeds,
The rude Hungarians fly;
Brunswick, with drooping courage leads
Death's meagre family:
In dismal groups, o'er hosts of dead,
Their madness they bemoan,
No friendly hand to give them bread,
No Thionville their own!
The Gaul, enrag'd as they retire,
Hurls at their heads his blaze of fire--
What hosts of Frederick's reeking crew
Dying, have bid the world adieu,
To dogs their flesh been thrown!
Escap'd from death, a mangled train
In scatter'd bands retreat:
Where, bounding on Silesia's plain,
The Despot[H] holds his seat;
With feeble step, I see them go
The heavy news to tell
Where Oder's lazy waters flow,
Or glides the swift Moselle;
Where Rhine his various journey moves
Through marshy lands and ruin'd groves,
Or, where the vast Danubian flood
(So often stain'd by Austrian blood)
Foams with the autumnal swell.
[H] The Monarch of Prussia.--_Freneau's note._
But shall they not some tidings bear
Of Freedom's sacred flame,
And shall not groaning millions hear
The long abandon'd name?--
Through ages past, their spirits broke,
I see them spurn old laws,
Indignant, burst the Austrian yoke,
And clip the Eagle's[I] claws:
From shore to shore, from sea to sea
They join, to set the wretched free,
And, driving from the servile court
Each titled slave--they help support
The Democratic Cause!
[I] The imperial standard of Germany.--_Ib._
O France! the world to thee must owe
A debt they ne'er can pay:
The Rights of Man you bid them know,
And kindle Reason's Day!
Columbia, in your friendship blest,
Your gallant deeds shall hail--
On the same ground our fortunes rest,
Must flourish, or must fail:
But--should all Europe's slaves combine
Against a cause so fair as thine,
And Asia aid a league so base--
Defeat would all their aims disgrace,
And Liberty Prevail!
PHILADELPHIA, December 19, 1792.
[63] First published in the _National Gazette_, December 19, 1792, under
the title "Present View of France and Her combined Enemies," and
reproduced in the editions of 1795 and 1809. Text from the former
edition.
ON THE FRENCH REPUBLICANS[64]
These gallant men that some so much despise
Did not, like mushrooms, spring up in a night:
By them instructed, France again shall rise,
And every Frenchman learn his native right.
American! when in your country's cause
You march'd, and dar'd the English lion's jaws,
Crush'd Hessian slaves, and made their hosts retreat,
Say, were you not Republican--complete?
Forever banish'd, now, be prince and king,
To Nations and to Laws our reverence due:
And let not language to my memory bring,
A word that might recall the infernal crew,
Monarch!--henceforth I blot it from my page,
Monarchs and slaves too long disgrace this age;
But thou, Republican, that some disclaim,
Shalt save a world, and damn a tyrant's fame.
Friends to Republics, cross the Atlantic brine,
Low in the dust see regal splendour laid:
Hopeless forever, sleeps the Bourbon line
Long practis'd adepts in the murdering trade!
With patriot care the nation's will expressing
Republicans shall prove all Europe's blessing,
Pull from his height each blustering Noble down
And chace all modern Tarquins from the throne.
[64] I have found this only in the 1795 version.
ON THE PORTRAITS
Of Louis and Antoinette, in the Senate Chamber[65]
Discharg'd by France, no more the royal pair
Claim from a nation's love a nation's care:
Their splendid race no more a palace holds,--
While Louis frets, Antonietta scolds;
Folly's sad victims, fortune's bitter sport,
They take their stand among the "common sort,"
Doom'd through the world, in sad reverse, to roam,
Perhaps--without a shelter or a home!
To shew our pity for their short-liv'd reign
What shall we do, or how express our pain?
Since for their persons no relief is found
But cruel mobs degrade them to the ground,
To shew how deeply we regret their fall
We hang their portraits in our Senate Hall!
[65] Published Dec. 22, 1792, in the _National Gazette_ and republished
only in the 1795 edition. "These large and elegantly framed _pictures_
[of the King and Queen of France] arrived at Philadelphia in the ship
Queen of France, being presents from the king. They were set up in the
large committee-room of the senate, at the south-east corner of Sixth
and Chestnut streets--thence went to Washington city, and were burned,
I believe, by the British under General Ross."--_Watson's Annals of
Philadelphia._
TO A REPUBLICAN
With Mr. Paine's Rights of Man[66]
Thus briefly sketch'd the sacred Rights of Man,
How inconsistent with the Royal Plan!
Which for itself exclusive honour craves,
Where some are masters born, and millions slaves.
With what contempt must every eye look down
On that base, childish bauble call'd a crown,
The gilded bait, that lures the crowd, to come,
Bow down their necks, and meet a slavish doom;
The source of half the miseries men endure,
The quack that kills them, while it seems to cure.
Rous'd by the Reason of his manly page,
Once more shall Paine a listening world engage:
From Reason's source, a bold reform he brings,
In raising up mankind, he pulls down kings,
Who, source of discord, patrons of all wrong,
On blood and murder have been fed too long:
Hid from the world, and tutor'd to be base,
The curse, the scourge, the ruin of our race,
Theirs was the task, a dull designing few,
To shackle beings that they scarcely knew,
Who made this globe the residence of slaves,
And built their thrones on systems form'd by knaves--
Advance, bright years, to work their final fall,
And haste the period that shall crush them all.
Who, that has read and scann'd the historic page
But glows, at every line, with kindling rage,
To see by them the rights of men aspers'd,
Freedom restrain'd, and Nature's law revers'd,
Men, rank'd with beasts, by monarchs will'd away,
And bound young fools, or madmen to obey:
Now driven to wars, and now oppress'd at home,
Compell'd in crowds o'er distant seas to roam,
From India's climes the plundered prize to bring
To glad the strumpet, or to glut the king.
Columbia, hail! immortal be thy reign:
Without a king, we till the smiling plain;
Without a king, we trace the unbounded sea,
And traffic round the globe, through each degree;
Each foreign clime our honour'd flag reveres,
Which asks no monarch, to support the Stars:
Without a king, the Laws maintain their sway,
While honour bids each generous heart obey.
Be ours the task the ambitious to restrain,
And this great lesson teach--that kings are vain;
That warring realms to certain ruin haste,
That kings subsist by war, and wars are waste:
So shall our nation, form'd on Virtue's plan,
Remain the guardian of the Rights of Man,
A vast Republic, fam'd through every clime,
Without a king, to see the end of time.
[66] Text from the 1795 edition.
ODE TO LIBERTY[67]
Thou Liberty! celestial light
So long conceal'd from Gallic lands,
Goddess, in ancient days ador'd
By Gallia's conquering bands:
Thou Liberty! whom savage kings
Have plac'd among forbidden things,
Tho' still averse that man be free,
Secret, they bow to Liberty--
O, to my accents lend an ear,
Blest object of each tyrant's fear,
While I to modern days recall
The Lyric muse of ancient Gaul.
Ere yet my willing voice obeys
The transports of the heart,
The goddess to my view displays
A temple rear'd in ancient days,
Fit subject for the muse's art.
Now, round the world I cast my eye,
With pain, its ruins I descry:
This temple once to Freedom rais'd
Thermopylae! in thy fam'd strait--
I see it to the dust debas'd,
And servile chains, its fate!
In those fair climes, where freedom reign'd,
Two thousand years degrade the Grecian name,
I see them still enslav'd, enchain'd;
But France from Rome and Athens caught the flame--
A temple now to heaven they raise
Where nations bound in ties of peace
With olive-boughs shall throng to praise
The gallant Gaul, that bade all discord cease.
Before this Pantheon, fair and tall,
The piles of darker ages fall,
And freemen here no longer trace
The monuments of man's disgrace:
Before its porch, at Freedom's tree
Exalt the Cap of Liberty,
The cap[A] that once Helvetia knew
(The terror of the tyrant crew)
And on our country's altar trace
The features of each honour'd face--
The men that strove for equal laws,
Or perish'd, martyrs in their cause.
[A] Which owes its origin to William Tell, the famous deliverer
of Switzerland.--_Freneau's note._
Ye gallant chiefs, above all praise,
Ye Brutuses of ancient days!
Tho' fortune long has strove to blast,
Your virtues are repaid at last.
Your heavenly feasts awhile forbear
And deign to make my song your care;
My lyre a bolder note attains,
And rivals old Tyrtoeus' strains;
The ambient air returns the sound,
And kindles rapture all around.
With thee begins the lofty theme,
Eternal Nature--power supreme,
Who planted Freedom in the mind,
The first great right of all mankind:
Too long presumptuous folly dar'd
To veil our race from thy regard;
Tyrants on ignorance form'd their plan,
And made their crimes, the crimes of man,
Let victory but befriend our cause
And reason deign to dictate laws;
And once mankind their rights reclaim
And honour pay to thy great name.--
But O! what cries our joys molest,
What discord drowns sweet music's feast!
What demon, from perdition, leads
Night, fire and thunder o'er our heads!
In northern realms, prepar'd for fight,
A thousand savage clans unite.--
To avenge a faithless Helen's doom
All Europe's slaves, determin'd, come
Freedom's fair fabric to destroy
And wrap in flames our modern Troy!
These these are they--the murdering bands,
Whose blood, of old, distain'd our lands,
By our forefathers chac'd and slain,
The monuments of death remain:
Hungarians, wet with human blood,
Ye Saxons fierce, so oft subdued
By ancient Gauls on Gallic plains,
Dread, dread the race that still remains:
Return, and seek your dark abodes,
Your dens and caves in northern woods,
Nor stay to tell each kindred ghost
What thousands from your tribes are lost.
A friend[B] from hell, of murderous brood,
Stain'd with a hapless husband's blood,
Unites with Danube[C] and the Spree,[C]
Who arm to make the French their prey:
To check their hosts and chill with fear,
Frenchmen, advance to your frontier.
There dig the Eternal Tomb of kings,
Or Poland's fate each monster brings,
Mows millions down, your cause defeats,
And Ismael's horrid scene[D] repeats.
[B] Catharine the 2d, present Empress of Russia, who deposed
her husband, Peter the 3d, and deprived him of life in
July, 1762, while in prison.--_Freneau's note._
[C] Two great rivers of Germany; here metaphorically designating
the Austrian and Prussian powers.--_Ib._
[D] The Turkish fortress of Ismael, in 1786, stormed by the
Russian army. After carrying it by assault, upwards of
30,000 persons, men, women, and children were slaughtered
by the Russian barbarians, in less than three hours.--_Ib._
Ye nations brave, so long rever'd,
Whom Rome, in all her glory, fear'd;
Whose stubborn souls no tyrant broke
To bow the neck to Cæsar's yoke--
Scythians! whom Romans never chain'd;
Germans! that unsubdued remain'd,
Ah! see your sons, a sordid race,
With despots leagu'd, to their disgrace
Aid the base cause that you abhor,
And hurl on France the storm of war.
Our bold attempts shake modern Rome,
She bids her kindred despots come;
From Italy her forces draws
To waste their blood in Tarquin's cause:
A hundred hords of foes advance,
Embodying on the verge of France;
'Mongst these, to guide the flame of war,
I see Porsenna's[E] just a score,
While from the soil, by thousands, spring
Scevola's[F] to destroy each king.
[E] An ancient king of Etruria who took Tarquin's part against
the Romans.--_Freneau's note._
[F] Scevola, who attempted the life of Porsenna in his own camp,
but failed.--_Ib._
O Rome! what glory you consign
To those who court your ancient fame!
Frenchmen, like Romans, now shall shine,
And copying them, their ancient honours claim.
O France, my native clime, my country dear,
While youth remains, may I behold you free,
Each tyrant crush'd, no threatening despot near
To endanger Liberty!
By you unfetter'd be all human kind,
No slaves on earth be known
And man be blest, in friendship join'd,
From Tyber to the Amazon!
[67] The Philadelphia _General Advertiser_ of May 21, 1793, reports in
full the "Republican dinner" given Genet, May 18, at which about one
hundred citizens were present, chiefly "French, French-Americans,
officers of the Frigate l'Embuscade, etc." The following is from this
report:
"After the third toast [The United States], an elegant ode, suited to
the occasion, and composed by Citizen PICHON, a young Frenchman of
promising abilities, was read by Citizen DUPONCEAU, and universally
applauded. The society, on motion, ordered that Citizen FRENEAU should
be requested to translate it into English verse, and that the original
and translation should be published. The society also unanimously voted
that Citizen PICHON should be recommended to the notice of the
Minister."
The French version of the Ode appeared in the _Advertiser_ on May 27;
the translation was printed May 31. Both ode and translation were
published in the edition of 1795, the text of which I have followed. It
was not republished in 1809. Following is the French text as it appeared
in the _Advertiser_:
ODE A LA LIBERTE.
By Citizen PICHON, read at the late dinner given to Citizen GENET, by
the French of this City.
O toi, dont l'auguste lumiere
Si long tems avait fui nos yeux!
Toi, jadis l'idole premiere
De mes invincibles ayeux,
LIBERTE, qu'un tyran sauvage,
A l'instant meme qu'il t'outrage
Honore par des voeux secrets;
A mes accens prete l'oreille,
Aujourdhui ma muse reveille
L'antique lutte des vieux Français.
Avant que ma voix obeisse
Au transport que saisit mes sens,
Montre moi deesse propice
Un temple digne de mes chants!
Mon oeil a parcouru la terre
J'y trouve a peine la pouissiere
D'un dome a ton nom consacré,
Un tyran siege aux Thermopyles
Et sous les chaines les plus viles
Le capitole est encombré.
Vingt siecles de honte et de chaines
Ont pese sur ces lieux divins;
C'est nous qui de Rome et de l'Athenes
Resusciterons les destins.
Francais, soyons seuls notre exemple
Qu'a ma voix on eleve un temple
Ou tous les peuples a jamais
Depouillant des haines sauvages
Viennent de palmes et d'homages
Couronner les heros Français.
Devant ce Pantheon sublime
Brisez ces palais infamans
De nos opprobres et du crime
Honteux et cruels monumens.
Au pied de ses nobles portiques
Plantez ces bonnets Helvetiques
Devenus la terreur des rois;
Et sur l'autel de la patrie
Gravez l'honorable effigie
Des martirs sacrés de nos droits.
Vous m'entendez, manes augustes
De Thrasibule et de Brutus!
Les Destins trop long tems injustes
Couronnent enfin vos vertus--
Paraissez, ombres adorées
Venez de vos fetes sacrées
Remplir les sublimes concerts
Deja ma lyre transportée
Rivale des chants de Tyrtée
De ses sons etonne les airs.
C'est par toi que l'hymne commence
Maitre supreme, etre eternal!
Toi qui sis de l'independance
Le premier besoin du mortel.
Long tems l'ignorance et l'audace
Couvrirent ton auguste face,
Du masque impur de leurs forfaits
Un seul combat, une victoire
Venge nos droits et rend ta gloire
Plus eclatante que jamais.
Mais quels cris viennent de nos fetes
Troubler les chants majestueux?
Quel demon porte sur nos tetes
La nuit, le tonnerre, et les feux?
Verrons nous des hordes sauvages
Inonder encore nos rivages,
Des terrens du Septentrion;
Et pour venger une autre Helene
Tout la force Europeene
Investit une autre Ilion.
C'etoient ces bandes homicides
Dont le sang versé tant de fois
De mes ancetres intrepides
Atteste encore les exploits--
Fiers _Saxons_, Hongres Sanguinaires
Esclaves jadis de mes peres
Craignez leurs braves descendans
Rentrez en vos cavernes sombres
Ou craignez d'avertir leurs ombres
Des revoltes de vos enfans:
Une Tisiphone egarée
Teinte encore du sang d'un epoux
Avec le Danube et la Sprée
S'unit et s'arme contre nous
A ces despotes sanguinaires:
Francais, volez sur vos frontieres
Creuser un eternel tombeau;
Ou craignez pour votre patrie,
Et l'opprobe de Warsovie
Et les horreurs d'Ismailow!
Et vous qu'au sort de ses conquetes
Rome craignit pour ses remparts
Peuples dont les augustes tetes
S'indignant du joug des Cesars,
Scythes aux fers inaccessibles,
Fiers Germains, Teutons invincibles,
Voyez vos laches descendans
D'une main vile et sanguinaire
Sur les bienfaiteurs de la terre
Lancer la foudre des tyrans.
Ainsi, par des faits heroiques
Rome allarmant tous ses voisins
Vit tous les peuples Italiques
Vendre leurs bras a ses Tarquins.
Sur ses frontieres investies
Avec cent hordes ennemies
La France voit vingt Porsennas
Contre tant de liberticides
Nos phalanges tyrannicides
Vomiront mille Scevolas.
O Rome! tu leguas ta gloire
Aux peuples faits pour l'imiter!
C'est nous Français que la victoire
Au meme faite veut porter.
O France, O ma chere patrie!
Puisse-je au printems de ma vie
Te voir les despotes soumis
Et que par toi l'univers libre
De l'Amazone jusqu'au Tibre
N'offre que des peuples amis!
ODE[68]
God save the Rights of Man!
Give us a heart to scan
Blessings so dear:
Let them be spread around
Wherever man is found,
And with the welcome sound
Ravish his ear.
Let us with France agree,
And bid the world be free,
While tyrants fall!
Let the rude savage host
Of their vast numbers boast--
Freedom's almighty trust
Laughs at them all!
Though hosts of slaves conspire
To quench fair Gallia's fire,
Still shall they fail:
Though traitors round her rise,
Leagu'd with her enemies,
To war each patriot flies,
And will prevail.
No more is valour's flame
Devoted to a name,
Taught to adore--
Soldiers of Liberty
Disdain to bow the knee,
But teach Equality
To every shore.
The world at last will join
To aid thy grand design,
Dear Liberty!
To Russia's frozen lands
The generous flame expands:
On Afric's burning sands
Shall man be free!
In this our western world
Be Freedom's flag unfurl'd
Through all its shores!
May no destructive blast
Our heaven of joy o'ercast,
May Freedom's fabric last
While time endures.
If e'er her cause require!--
Should tyrants e'er aspire
To aim their stroke,
May no proud despot daunt--
Should he his standard plant,
Freedom will never want
Her hearts of oak!
[68] This ode was sung at the Civic Feast given to Genet in Philadelphia
by the French and Citizens, June 1, 1793. The affair is described in
detail in Bache's _Aurora_ of June 4th. After three of the toasts the
artillery fired salutes with two twelve pounders, fifteen rounds each.
Freneau's ode was sung after the seventh toast, "with great effect." As
to the date of composition of the ode I can find no reliable evidence.
Conway, in his life of Paine, mentions that it was sung in 1791 at the
November Festival of the London Revolution Society. It was published in
the edition of 1795, but was not reproduced in 1809.
ON THE DEATH[69]
Of a Republican Printer
[By his Partner and Successor]
Like Sybil's leaves, abroad he spread
His sheets, to awe the aspiring crew:
Stock-jobbers fainted while they read;
Each hidden scheme display'd to view--
Who could such doctrines spread abroad
So long, and not be clapper-claw'd!
Content with slow uncertain gains,
With heart and hand prepar'd he stood
To send his works to distant plains,
And hills beyond the Ohio-flood--
And, since he had no time to lose,
Preach'd whiggish lectures with his news.
Now death, with cold unsparing hand,
(At whose decree even Capets fall)
From life's poor glass has shook his sand,
And sent him, fainting, to the wall--
Because he gave you some sad wipes,
O Mammon! seize not thou his types.
What shall be done, in such a case?--
Shall I, because my partner fails,
Call in his bull-dogs from the chace
To loll their tongues and drop their tails--
No, faith--the title-hunting crew
No longer fly than we pursue.
[69] Published in the _National Gazette_, July 6, 1793, under the title
"Reflections on the Death of a Country Printer." Republished in the
edition of 1795, which the text follows, and not inserted in the 1809
edition.
ON THE ANNIVERSARY[70]
Of the Storming of the Bastille, at Paris, July 14th, 1789
The chiefs that bow to Capet's reign,
In mourning, now, their weeds display;
But we, that scorn a monarch's chain,
Combine to celebrate the Day
To Freedom's birth that put the seal,
And laid in dust the proud Bastille.
To Gallia's rich and splendid crown,
This mighty Day gave such a blow
As Time's recording hand shall own
No former age had power to do:
No single gem some Brutus stole,
But instant ruin seiz'd the whole.
Now tyrants rise, once more to bind
In royal chains a nation freed--
Vain hope! for they, to death consign'd,
Shall soon, like perjur'd Louis, bleed:
O'er every king, o'er every queen
Fate hangs the sword, and guillotine.
"Plung'd in a gulf of deep distress
France turns her back--(so traitors say)
Kings, priests, and nobles, round her press,
Resolv'd to seize their destin'd prey:
Thus Europe swears (in arms combin'd)
To Poland's doom is France consign'd."
Yet those, who now are thought so low
From conquests that were basely gain'd,
Shall rise tremendous from the blow
And free Two Worlds, that still are chain'd,
Restrict the Briton to his isle,
And Freedom plant in every soil.
Ye sons of this degenerate clime,
Haste, arm the barque, expand the sail;
Assist to speed that golden time
When Freedom rules, and monarchs fail;
All left to France--new powers may join,
And help to crush the cause divine.
Ah! while I write, dear France Allied,
My ardent wish I scarce restrain,
To throw these Sybil leaves aside,
And fly to join you on the main:
Unfurl the topsail for the chace
And help to crush the tyrant race!
[70] Printed in the _National Gazette_, July 17, 1793, and republished
in the edition of 1795. Omitted from the edition of 1809.
THOUGHTS ON THE EUROPEAN WAR SYSTEM[71]
By H. Salem
The People in Europe are much to be praised,
That in fighting they choose to be passing their days;
If their wars were abolished, there's room to suppose
Our Printers would growl, for the want of New-News.
May our tidings of warfare be ever from thence,
Nor that page be supplied at Columbia's expence!
No kings shall rise here, at the nod of a court,
Ambition, or Pride, with men's lives for to sport.
In such a display of the taste of the times--
The murder of millions--their quarrels and crimes,
A horrible system of ruin we scan,
A history, truly descriptive of man:
A Being, that Nature designed to be blest--
With abundance around him--yet rarely at rest,
A Being, that lives but a moment in years,
Yet wasting his life in contention and wars;
A Being, sent hither all good to bestow,
Yet filling the world with oppression and woe!
But, consider, ye sages, (and pray be resigned)
What ills would attend a reform of mankind--
Were wars at an end, and no nation made thinner,
My neighbour, the gun-smith, would go without dinner;
The Printers, themselves, for employment would fail,
And soldiers, by thousands, be starving in jail.
[71] Published in the 1795 and 1809 editions, the latter of which I have
followed.
A MATRIMONIAL DIALOGUE[72]
Humbly Inscribed to My Lord Snake
One Sabbath-day morning said Sampson to Sue
"I have thought and have thought that a Title will do;
Believe me, my dear, it is sweeter that syrup
To taste of a title, as cooked up in Europe;
"Your ladyship" here and "your ladyship" there,
"Sir knight," and "your grace," and "his worship the mayor!"
But here, we are nothing but vulgar all over,
And the wife of a cobbler scarce thinks you above her:
What a country is this, where Madam and Miss
Is the highest address from each vulgar-born cur,
And I--even I--am but Mister and Sir!
Your Equal-Right gentry I ne'er could abide
That all are born equal, by Me is denied:
And Barlow and Paine shall preach it in vain;
Look even at brutes, and you'll see it confest
That some are intended to manage the rest;
Yon' dog of the manger, how stately he struts!
You may swear him well-born, from the size of his guts;
Not a better-born whelp ever snapped at his foes,
All he wants is a Glass to be stuck on his Nose:
And then, my dear Sue, between me and you,
He would look like the gemman whose name I forget,
Who lives in a castle and never pays debt."
"My dear (answered Susan) 'tis said, in reproach,
That you climb like a bear when you get in a coach:
Now, your nobles that spring from the nobles of old,
Your earls, and your knights, and your barons, so bold,
From Nature inherit so handsome an air
They are noblemen born, at first glance we may swear:
But you, that have cobbled, and I, that have spun,
'Tis wrong for our noddles on Titles to run:
Moreover, you know, that to make a fine show,
Your people of note, of arms get a coat;
A boot or a shoe would but sneakingly do,
And would certainly prove our nobility New."
"No matter (said Sampson) a coach shall be bought:
Though the low-born may chatter, I care not a groat;
Around it a group of devices shall shine,
And mottoes, and emblems--to prove it is mine;
Fair liberty's Cap, and a Star, and a Strap;
A Dagger, that somewhat resembles an Awl,
A pumpkin-faced Goddess supporting a Stall:
All these shall be there--how people will stare!
And Envy herself, that our Title would blast
May smile at the motto,--the First shall be Last."[A]
[A] Qui primus fuit nunc ultimus.--Motto on a certain
coach.--_Freneau's note._
[72] First published in the _National Gazette_, August 11, 1792, under
the title "A Curious Dialogue." In this earliest version it is noted
that the piece was "occasioned by emblematic devices on a certain
travelling coach." Text from the 1809 edition.
ON THE MEMORABLE[73]
Naval Engagement between the Republican Frigate _L'Ambuscade_
Captain Bompard, and the British Royal Frigate _Boston_, Captain
Courtney, off the coast of New-Jersey.--1792
Resolved for a chace,
All Frenchmen to face,
Bold Boston from Halifax sailed,
With a full flowing sheet,
The pride of the fleet,
Not a vessel she saw, but she hailed;
With Courtney, commander, who never did fear,
Nor returned from a fight with a "flea in his ear."
As they stered for the Hook,
Each swore by his book,
"No prayers should their vengeance retard;
"They would plunder and burn,
"They would never return
"Unattended by Captain Bompard!
"No Gaul can resist us, when once we arouse,
"We'll drown the monsieurs in the wash of our bows."
A sail now appeared,
When toward her they steered,
Each crown'd with his Liberty-Cap;
Under colours of France did they boldly advance,
And a small privateer did entrap--
The time may have been when their nation was brave,
But now, their best play is to cheat and deceive.
Arrived at the spot
Where they meant to dispute,
Thus Courtney sent word, in a heat:
"Since fighting's our trade,
"Their bold Ambuscade
"Must be sunk, or compelled to retreat:
"Tell Captain Bompard, if his stomach's for war,
"To advance from his port, and engage a bold tar."
Brave Captain Bompard
When this challenge he heard,
Though his sails were unbent from the yards,
His topmasts struck down,
And his men half in town;
Yet sent back his humble regards--
The challenge accepted; all hands warned on board,
Bent, their sails, swore revenge, and the frigate unmoored.
The Boston, at sea,
Being under their lee,
For windward manoeuvred in vain;
'Till night coming on,
Both laid by 'till dawn,
Then met on the watery plain,
The wind at north-east, and a beautiful day,
And the hearts of the Frenchmen in trim for the fray.
So, to it they went,
With determined intent
The fate of the day to decide
By the virtues of powder;
(No argument louder
Was e'er to a subject applied)
A Gaul with a Briton in battle contends,
Let them stand to their guns, and we'll see how it ends.
As the Frenchman sailed past,
Boston gave him a blast,
Glass bottles, case knives, and old nails,
A score of round shot,
And the devil knows what,
To cripple his masts and his sails.
The Boston supposed it the best of her play
To prevent him from chacing--if she ran away.
The Frenchman most cool,
(No hot-headed fool,)
Returned the broadside in a trice;
So hot was the blast,
He disabled one mast,
And gave them some rigging to splice,
Some holes for to plug, where the bullets had gone,
Some yards to replace, and some heads to put on.
Three glasses, and more,
Their cannons did roar,
Shot flying in horrible squads;
'Midst torrents of smoke,
The Republican spoke,
And frightened the Anglican gods!
Their frigate so mauled, they no longer defend her,
And, Courtney shot down--they bawled out to surrender!
"O la! what a blunder
"To provoke this French thunder!
"We think with the devil he deals--
"But since we dislike
"To surrender and strike,
"Let us try the success of our heels:
"We may save the king's frigate by running away,
"The Frenchman will have us--all hands--if we stay!"
So squaring their yards,
On all Captain Bompard's,
A volley of curses they shed--
Having got their Discharge,
They bore away large,
While the Frenchman pursued, as they fled.
But vain was his haste--while his sails he repaired,
He ended the fray in a chace--
The Gaul got the best of the fight, 'tis declared;
The Briton--the best of the race!
[73] Published in the _National Gazette_, Aug. 17, 1793. The frigate
_L'Ambuscade_, which had borne Citizen Genet from France to Charleston,
where he arrived April 8, 1792, and which was soon after stationed at
Philadelphia, caused much trouble to the federal government by making
American ports her basis for operations upon English shipping. She
captured several British ships, among them the _Grange_ and the _Little
Sarah_. Text from the 1809 edition.
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[74]
[In Reply to Big Looks and Menaces]
Because some pumpkin-shells and lobster claws,
Thrown o'er his garden walls by Crab-tree's duke,
Have chanc'd to light within your meagre jaws,
(A dose, at which all honest men would puke:)
Because some treasury-luncheons you have gnaw'd,
Like rats, that prey upon the public store:
Must you, for that, your crude stuff belch abroad,
And vomit lies on all that pass your door!
To knavery's tribe my verse still fatal found,
Alike to kings and coblers gives their due:
Spruce tho' you be, your heels may drum the ground,
And make rare pass-time for the sportive crew.
Why all these hints of menace, dark and sad,
What is my crime, that thus Ap-Shenkin raves?
No secret-service-money have I had
For waging two years' war with fools and knaves.
Abus'd at court, unwelcome to the Great--
This page of mine no well-born aspect wears:
On honest yeomen I repose its fate,
Clodhopper's dollar is as good as theirs.
Why wouldst thou then with ruffian hand destroy
A wight, that wastes his ink in Freedom's cause:
Who, to the last, his arrows will employ
To publish Freedom's rights, and guard her laws!
O thou! that hast a heart so flinty hard
Thus oft, too oft, a poet to rebuke,
From those that rhyme you ne'er shall meet regard;
Of Crab-tree's dutchy--you shall be no Duke.
[74] Called forth by Hamilton's letters in Fenno's _Gazette_, charging
Freneau with being a mere hired tool of Jefferson. Published in the 1795
edition, but omitted from the 1809 collection.
PESTILENCE[75]
Hot, dry winds forever blowing,
Dead men to the grave-yards going:
Constant hearses,
Funeral verses;
Oh! what plagues--there is no knowing!
Priests retreating from their pulpits!--
Some in hot, and some in cold fits
In bad temper,
Off they scamper,
Leaving us--unhappy culprits!
Doctors raving and disputing,
Death's pale army still recruiting--
What a pother
One with t'other!
Some a-writing, some a-shooting.
Nature's poisons here collected,
Water, earth, and air infected--
O, what pity,
Such a City,
Was in such a place erected!
[75] Published in the 1795 edition. In the index of the 1809 edition,
the text of which I have used, it bears the title "Pestilence: written
during the Prevalence of a yellow fever." It refers to the well-known
epidemic in Philadelphia during the late summer and early autumn of
1793.
ON DR. SANGRADO'S FLIGHT[76]
From Philadelphia, in the Time of the Yellow Fever--1793
On prancing steed, with spunge at nose,
From town behold Sangrado fly;
Camphor and Tar where'er he goes
Th' infected shafts of death defy--
Safe in an atmosphere of scents,
He leaves us to our own defence.
'Twas right to fly! for well, I ween,
In Stygian worlds, all scribes agree,
No blushing blossom e'er was seen,
Or running brook, or budding tree:
No splendid meats, no flowing bowls,
Smile on the meagre feast of souls:
No sprightly songs, to banish grief,
No balls, the Elysian beaus prepare,
And he that throve on rounds of beef,
On onion shells shall famish there--
Monarchs are there of little note,
And Cæsar wears a shabby coat.
Chloes on earth, of air and shape,
Whose eyes destroy'd poor love-lorn wights,
There lower their topsails to the cap,
Rig in their booms and furl their kites:--
Where Cupid's bow was never bent,
What lover asks a maid's consent?
All this, and more, Sangrado knew,
(In Lucian is the story told)
Took horse--clapped spurs--and off he flew,
Leaving his Sick to fret and scold;
Some soldiers, thus, to honour lost,
In day of battle quit their post.
[76] First published in the _National Gazette_, September 4, 1793, under
the title "Orlando's Flight." Text from the 1809 edition.
ELEGY[77]
On the Death of a Blacksmith
With the nerves of a Sampson, this son of the sledge,
By the anvil his livelihood got;
With the skill of old Vulcan could temper an edge;
And struck--while his iron was hot.
By forging he lived, yet never was tried,
Or condemned by the laws of the land;
But still it is certain, and can't be denied,
He often was burnt in the hand.
With the sons of St. Crispin no kindred he claimed,
With the last he had nothing to do;
He handled no awl, and yet in his time
Made many an excellent shoe.
He blew up no coals of sedition, but still
His bellows was always in blast;
And we will acknowledge (deny it who will)
That one Vice, and but one, he possessed.
No actor was he, or concerned with the stage,
No audience, to awe him, appeared;
Yet oft in his shop (like a crowd in a rage)
The voice of a hissing was heard.
Tho' steelling[78] was certainly part of his cares,
In thieving he never was found;
And, tho' he was constantly beating on bars,
No vessel he e'er ran aground.
Alas and alack! and what more can I say
Of Vulcan's unfortunate son?--
The priest and the sexton have borne him away,
And the sound of his hammer is done.
[77] Published in the _National Gazette_, September 18, 1793. Text from
the 1809 edition.
TO SYLVIUS[79]
On his Preparing to Leave the Town
Can love of fame the gentle muse inspire
Where he that hoards the most has all the praise;
Where avarice, and her tribe, each bosom fire,
All heap the enormous store for rainy days;
Proving by such perpetual round of toil
That man was born to grovel on the soil?
Expect not, in these times of rude renown
That verse, like your's, will have the chance to please:
No taste for plaintive elegy is known,
Nor lyric ode--none care for things like these--
Gold, only gold, this niggard age delights,
That honours none but money-catching wights.
Sink not beneath the mean abusive strain
Of puny wits, dull sycophants in song,
Who, post, or place, or one poor smile to gain,
Besiege Mambrino's door, and round him throng
Like insects creeping to the morning sun
To enjoy his heat--themselves possessing none.
All must applaud your choice, to quit a stage
Where knaves and fools in every scene abound;
Where modest worth no patron can engage--
But boisterous folly walks her noisy round;
Some narrow-hearted demi-god adores,
And Fortune's path with servile step explores.
[78] "Tho' steelling of axes was part of his cares."--_1795 Ed._
[79] Text from the 1809 edition. This was Freneau's valedictory on
leaving Philadelphia after the failure of the _National Gazette_.
THE BLESSINGS OF THE POPPY[80]
--_Opifer per Orbem dicor._
"In this the God, benevolent to man,
Lulls every woe, and deadens every pain."
When the first men to this world's climates came
Smit by the winter's rude inclement blast,
Unskilled to raise the wall, or wake the fire,
Badly, in narrow huts, their lives they passed.
Conscious of pains they knew not how to cure,
In vain they sighed, and sighing begged relief,
No druggist came, by art or reason taught
With strength of potent herbs, to calm their grief.
Fierce tortures to allay, some reverend sage
Preach'd Patience to the pangs, that could not hear;
For restless anguish doomed her victim still
To groan thro' life, and sigh from year to year,
At length from Jove, and heaven's etherial dome
Sky-walking Hermes came to view these plains:
He looked--and saw what fate or gods had done,
And gave the Poppy, to relieve all pains.
Then to the sons of grief his speech addressed,
"Through this dull flower is shed such potent dew,
"When pain distracts--drink this--and drown in sleep
"All ills, that Nature sent to torture you.
"From other worlds, by other beings trod,
"To these bleak climes this plundered plant I bore;
"Receive a gift, all worthy of a god,
"Since pain, when hushed to sleep,--is pain no more."
[80] Text from the 1809 edition.
QUINTILIAN TO LYCIDAS[81]
"While other lads their books forsake,
Or sigh to meet the hours of play:
You, Lycidas, no leisure take,
But still through learned volumes stray:--
With years so few, ah why so grave;
Why every hour to books a slave?
Hence, Lycidas, I pray, retire:
Go with your mates, and take your play--
Not him I prize, or much admire,
Who, curious, hangs on all I say:
The lad that's wise before his time,
Will be a coxcomb in his prime.
Stay not too close in learning's shop;--
'Till time a riper mind prepares,
The ball, the marble, and the top
Are books, that should divide your cares--
The lads that life's gay morn enjoy,
I'm pleased to see them act the boy.
I hate the pert, I hate the bold,
Who, proud of years but half a score,
With none but men would converse hold,
And things beyond their reach explore:
Like the famed Cretan, soaring high,
To melt their waxen wings and die."
[81] First published, as far as I can find, in the 1795 edition. Text
from the 1809 edition.
THE BAY ISLET[82]
In shallow streams, a league from town,
(Its baby Light-House tumbled down)
Extends a country, full in view,
Beheld by all, but known to few.
Surrounded by the briny waste
No haven here has Nature placed;
But those who wish to pace it o'er
Must land upon the open shore.
There as I sailed, to view the ground;
No blooming goddesses I found--
But yellow hags, ordained to prove
The death, and antidote of love.
Ten stately trees adorn the isle,
The house, a crazy, tottering pile,
Where once the doctor plied his trade
On feverish tars and rakes decayed.
Six hogs about the pastures feed
(Sweet mud-larks of the Georgia breed)
Who, while the hostess deals out drams,
Can oysters catch, and open clams.
Upon its surface, smooth and clean,
A world, in miniature, is seen;
Though scarce a journey for a snail
We meet with mountain, hill, and vale.
To those that guard this stormy place,
Two cities stare them in the face:
There, York its spiry summits rears,
And here Cummunipaw appears.
The tenant, now but ill at ease,
Derives no fuel from his trees:
And Jersey boats, though begged to land,
All leave him on the larboard hand.
Some monied man, grown sick of care,
To this neglected spot repair:
What Nature sketched, let art complete,
And own the loveliest Country Seat.
[82] First published, as far as I have been able to find, in the 1795
edition. Text from the 1809 edition.
JEFFERY, OR, THE SOLDIER'S PROGRESS[83]
Lured by some corporal's smooth address,
His scarlet coat and roguish face,
One Half A Joe on drum head laid,
A tavern treat--and reckoning paid;
See yonder simple lad consigned
To slavery of the meanest kind.
With only skill to drive a plough
A musquet he must handle now;
Must twirl it here and twirl it there,
Now on the ground, now in the air:
Its every motion by some rule
Of practice, taught in Frederick's school,[A]
Must be directed--nicely true--
Or he be beaten black--and blue.
[A] The Prussian manual exercise.--_Freneau's note._
A sergeant, raised from cleaning shoes,
May now this country lad abuse:--
On meagre fare grown poor and lean,
He treats him like a mere machine,
Directs his look, directs his step,
And kicks him into decent shape,
From aukward habits frees the clown,
Erects his head--or knocks him down.
Last Friday week to Battery-green
The sergeant came with this Machine--
One motion of the firelock missed--
The Tutor thumped him with his fist:
I saw him lift his hickory cane,
I heard poor Jeffery's head complain!--
Yet this--and more--he's forced to bear;
And thus goes on from year to year,
'Till desperate grown at such a lot,
He drinks--deserts--and so is shot!
[83] First published in the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition.
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[84]
In shallow caves, with shrill voic'd conchs hung round,
And pumpkin-shells, responding all they hear,
A bard, call'd Shylock, catches every sound,
Governs their tone, pricks up his lengthy ear:
In putrid ink then dips his pen of lead
And scribbles down what learn'd Pomposo said.
Bard of the lengthy ode! whose knavish paw
Ne'er touch'd the helm, besprent with odious pitch!
'Twas better far, you knew, to practice Law,
Whine at the church, or in the court-house screech:
No soul had you to face the wintry blast,
Combat the storm, or climb the tottering mast.
Then why so wroth, thou bard of narrow soul,
If wavering Fortune bade me seek the brine:
I drank no nectar from your leaden bowl,
Nor from your poems filch'd a single line:
When I do that--then publish from your caves,
Who robs a beggar--is the worst of knaves!
[84] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition.
TO A WRITER OF PANEGYRIC[85]
Occasioned by certain fulsome Congratulatory Verses on the election of
a High Constable
Be advised by a friend, who advises but rarely,
Be cautious of praising 'till praise is earned fairly:
There was a sage Ancient this truth did bequeath,
"That merit is only determined by death."
Panegyric I'm sorry to see you engage in--
Old Nero, at first, was a Titus, or Trajan:
The Indians of Siam bow down to a Log,
And Egypt is said to have worshipped a Dog.[A]
[A] ANUBIS.--One of the tutelar deities of ancient
Egypt.--_Freneau's note._
If you will be throwing your jewels to swine,
No wonder they rend you--whenever they dine--
Pray, leave it to puppies to cry up their worth,
And to dunces, to honour the day of their birth.
Whoever the road to preferment would find,
With the eyes of a Dutchman must look at mankind;
From the basest of motives, cry cowards are brave,
And laugh in his sleeve--when he flatters a knave.
[85] I can find no earlier trace of this poem than the 1795 edition.
Text from the 1809 edition.
THE FOREST BEAU[86]
[A Picture from Reality]
When first to feel Love's fire Jack Straw begins,
He combs his hair, and cocks his hat with pins,
Views in some stream, his face, with fond regard,
Plucks from his upper lip the bristly beard,
With soap and sand his homely visage scours
(Rough from the joint attacks of sun and showers)
The sheepskin breeches decorate his thighs--
Next on his back the homespun coat he tries;
Round his broad breast he wraps the jerkin blue,
And sews a spacious soal on either shoe.
Thus, all prepared, the fond adoring swain
Cuts from his groves of pine a ponderous cane;
In thought a beau, a savage to the eye,
Forth, from his mighty bosom, heaves the sigh;
Tobacco is the present for his fair,
This he admires, and this best pleases her--
The bargain struck,--few cares his bosom move
How to maintain, or how to lodge his love;
Close at his hand the piny forest grows,
Thence for his hut a slender frame he hews,
With art, (not copied from Palladio's rules,)
A hammer and an axe, his only tools,
By Nature taught, a hasty hut he forms
Safe in the woods, to shelter from the storms;--
There sees the summer pass and winter come,
Nor envies Britain's king his loftier home.
[86] From the edition of 1809. First published, as far as I can
discover, in 1795.
EPISTLE[87]
To a Student of Dead Languages
I pity him, who, at no small expense,
Has studied sound instead of sense:
He, proud some antique gibberish to attain;
Of Hebrew, Greek, or Latin, vain,
Devours the husk, and leaves the grain.
In his own language Homer writ and read,
Nor spent his life in poring on the dead:
Why then your native language not pursue
In which all ancient sense (that's worth review)
Glows in translation, fresh and new?
He better plans, who things, not words, attends,
And turns his studious hours to active ends;
Who Art through every secret maze explores,
Invents, contrives--and Nature's hidden stores
From mirrours, to their object true,
Presents to man's obstructed view,
That dimly meets the light, and faintly soars:--
His strong capacious mind
By fetters unconfin'd
Of Latin lore and heathen Greek,
Takes Science in its way,
Pursues the kindling ray
'Till Reason's morn shall on him break!
[87] Unique, as far as I can find, in the 1795 edition.
TO A NOISY POLITICIAN[88]
Since Shylock's Book has walk'd the circles here,
What numerous blessings to our country flow!
Whales on our shores have run aground,
Sturgeons are in our rivers found;
Nay, ships have on the Delaware sail'd,
A sight most new!
Wheat has been sown, harvests have grown,
And Shylock held strange dialogues with Sue.
On coaches, now, gay coats of arms are wore
By some, who hardly had a coat before:
Silk gowns instead of homespun, now, are seen,
And, sir, 'tis true ('twixt me and you)
That some have grown prodigious fat,
That were prodigious lean!
[88] Unique, as far as I can discover, in the edition of 1795.
THE SEXTON'S SERMON[89]
At the Burial of a Deist
A few short years, at most, will bound our span;
("Wretched and few," the Hebrew patriarch said)
Live while you may, be jovial while you can;
Too soon our debt to Nature, must be paid.
When Nature fails, the man exists no more,
And death is nothing but an empty name,
Spleen's odious offspring, in some gloomy hour;--
The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream.
You ask me, where those numerous hosts have fled
That once existed on this changeful ball?
If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,[A]
Where ere their birth they were, they now are all.
[A] Queris quo loco jaceant omnes mortui?
------------ Ubi non nata jacent.
_Seneca Trag.--Freneau's note._
Seek not for Paradise!--'tis not for you
Where, high in heaven, its sweetest blossoms blow;
Nor even, where gliding to the Persian main,
Your waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow,
What is this Death, ye thoughtless mourners, say?
Death is no more than never-ceasing change:
New forms arise, while other forms decay,
Yet, all is life throughout creation's range.
The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine,
The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow,
The Apalachian, and the Ararat,
Sooner or later, must to ruin go.
Hills sink to plains, and man returns to dust;
That dust supports a reptile or a flower;
Each changeful atom, by some other nursed,
Takes some new form, to perish in an hour.
When Nature bids thee from the world retire,
With joy thy lodging leave, a sated guest,
In sleep's blest state (our Dullman's fond desire)
Existing always--always to be blest.
Like insects busy in a summer's day,
We toil and squabble, to increase our pain:
Night comes at last, and weary of the fray,
To dust and silence all are sent again!
Beneath my hand what numerous crowds retire--
By the cold turf for ages, now, oppressed!
Millions have fallen--and millions must expire,
Doomed by the impartial Power to endless rest.
In vain with stars He decked yon' spangled skies,
And bade the mind to heaven's bright regions soar,
And brought so far to your admiring eyes
A glimpse of glories, that shall blaze no more!
What is there here, that man should wish to bear
A weight of years?--such rage to madness vext;
Wan, wasting, grief, and ever musing care,
Distressful pain, and poverty perplext?--
What is there here, but tombs and monuments--
Tyrants--who misery spread through every shore;
Wide wasting wars, the scourge of innocence;
Fevers and plagues, with all their noxious store?
Before we called this wrangling world our home,
In undisturbed abodes we sweetly slept:
But when dame Nature made that world our doom,
'Twas then our troubles came--and then we wept!
Though humbled now, disheartened, or distressed,
Yet, when returning to the peaceful ground,
With heroes, kings, and conquerors we shall rest;
Shall sleep as sweetly, and no doubt, as sound.
Ne'er shall we hope to see the day-light spring
Or from the up-lifted window lean to hear
(Fore-runner of the scarlet-mantled morn)
The early note of wakeful Chanticleer!
Oblivion there, expands her raven wing:--
We soon must go where all the dead are gone,
Trace the dull path, explore the gloomy road
To that dark country, where I see no dawn.
Then why these sobs, these useless floods of woe,
That vainly flow for the departed dead?
If doomed to wander on the coasts below,
What are to them these floods of grief you shed?
Since heaven in rapture doth their hours employ--
If empty sighs, or groans, could reach them there,
These funeral howls would damp their heaven of joy,
Would make them wretched, and renew their care.
The joys of wine, immortal as my theme,
To days of mirth the aspiring soul invite:
Life, void of this, a punishment I deem,
A Greenland winter, robbed of heat and light.
Ah! envy not, ye sages too precise,
The drop from life's gay tree, that kills our woe--
Noah himself, the wary and the wise,
A vineyard planted--and the vines did grow.
(Of social soul was he)--the grape he pressed,
And drank the juice, oblivious to his care:
Sorrow he banished from his place of rest,
And sighs, and sextons, had no business there.
Such bliss be our's through every changing scene:
The jovial face bespeaks the glowing heart;
If heaven be joy, wine is to heaven a-kin,
Since wine, on earth, can heavenly joys impart.
Mere glow-worms are we all--a moment shine!--
I, like the rest, in giddy circles run,
And grief shall say, when I this breath resign,
His glass is empty, and his sermon done!
[89] Freneau seems deliberately to have manufactured this poem for his
edition of 1795 from fragments of his discarded poems, the _House of
Night_ and the _Jamaica Funeral_. It is made up as follows: _Jamaica
Funeral_, stanzas 44-46; _House of Night_ 73, 132-134, 139; _Jamaica
Funeral_ 47; _House of Night_ 76, 77; an original stanza; _House of
Night_ 48, 34, 116, 30, 43; _Jamaica Funeral_ 34, 35, 40, 48-51. Many of
these stanzas are much changed. Text from the 1809 edition.
ON A LEGISLATIVE ACT[90]
Prohibiting the use of Spirituous Liquors to Prisoners in certain Jails
of the United States
Give to the wretched, drink that's strong,
(Said David's Son) but we, more wise,
With Cyder, from the hogshead, rough,
Molasses-Beer, and such dull stuff,
The miseries of the imprison'd host prolong.
"Shut up in jail from day to day
(Methinks I hear a Debtor say)
"Victims to public rage and private spite,
"All that we had to keep our spirits up
"Was glowing wine that fill'd the cheering cup,
"This banish'd care, and check'd the rising sigh
"Chac'd grief from every heart, gave joy to every eye.
"And will ye not this only comfort leave,
"Ye men that frame the public laws?--
"Parted from children, friends, and wives,
"How heavily the moments roll:
"What comfort have we of our lives
"If you deny this cordial of the soul?
"'Tis this that kills the tedious hour,
"Puts misery out of fortune's power.
"'Tis this that to the dial's hand lends wings,
"Gives to the beggar all the pride of kings,
"Sheds joy throughout our gloomy cage
"And bids us scorn the little tyrant's rage,
"They that are unconfin'd drink what they will--
"Who gave the right to limit men in jail?
"Because misfortune sent us here
"Must we for that be drench'd with 'table beer,'
"Or, in its stead, with Adam's ale?--
"Relent--relent! contrive some other plan;
"Wine is the dearest, choicest friend of man--
"They that are out of jail, of all degrees,
"Can spend their leisure as they please,
"We, that are in, must pass it as we can."
[90] Unique in the 1795 edition.
ADDRESSED[91]
To a Political Shrimp, or, Fly upon the Wheel
The man that doth an Elephant pursue
Whose capture gains a mighty price,
Amidst the chace, heeds not the barking crew,
Or lesser game of rats and mice.
On ocean's waste who chace the royal flag
Stop not to take the privateer;
Who mean to seize the steed, neglect the nag;
No squirrel-hunter kills a deer.
Reptile! your venom ever spits in vain--
To honour's coat no drop adheres:--
To court!--return to Britain's tyrant reign,
White-wash her king, and scowr her peers.
Some scheming knaves, that strut in courtly guise,
May vile abuse, through you, impart--
But they that on no Treasury lean, despise
Your venal pen--your canker'd heart.
[91] The only trace I can find of this poem is in the 1795 edition. From
the last stanza it is evident that it was aimed at Hamilton.
HERMIT'S VALLEY[92]
With eastern[93] winds and flowing sail
To these sequestered haunts we came,
Where verdant trees and chrystal streams
Adorn the sloping, winding vale;
Where, from the breezy grove we claim,
Our heaven on earth--poetic dreams.
These simple scenes have pleasures more
Than all the busy town can show--
More pleasure here Philanthus took,
And more he prized this lonely shore,
His pen, his pencil, and his book,
Than all the groves Madeira bore:
Here still is seen a hermit's cell,
Who, fond the haunts of men to fly,
Enjoyed his heaven beneath this shade:
In mouldering caves so blest to dwell,
He sought not from the flowers that die,
A verdure, that would never fade.
To crowded courts and would-be kings,
Where fawning knaves are most caressed,
Who would, though oft' invited, go--
When here so many charming things
By Nature to perfection dressed,
To please the man of fancy, grow?
The native of this happy spot
No cares of vain ambition haunt:
Pleased with the partner of his nest,
Life flows--and when the dream is out,
The earth, which once supplied each want,
Receives him--fainting--to her breast.
[92] The earliest trace I can find of this is in the 1795 edition. Text
from the 1809 edition. In the table of contents of the latter edition
the title is given, "Hermit's Valley, a rural scene on the Schuylkill."
[93] "Western."--_Ed. 1795._
TO MY BOOK[94]
Unhappy Volume!--doom'd by fate
To meet with unrelenting hate
From those who can their venom spit,
Yet condescend to steal your wit:
While Shylock with malicious spirit,
Allows you not a grain of merit,
While he an idle pomp assumes,
Let him return his borrowed plumes,
And you will find the insect creeping,
With not a feather worth the keeping.
[94] This appeared originally as a part of the "New Year's Verses" for
1783. See Volume II, page 199, supra. Text from the 1795 edition, which
is the "unhappy volume" alluded to.
THE REPUBLICAN GENIUS OF EUROPE[95]
Emperors and kings! in vain you strive
Your torments to conceal--
The age is come that shakes your thrones,
Tramples in dust despotic crowns,
And bids the sceptre fail.
In western worlds the flame began:
From thence to France it flew--
Through Europe, now, it takes its way,
Beams an insufferable day,
And lays all tyrants low.
Genius of France! pursue the chace
Till Reason's laws restore
Man to be Man, in every clime;--
That Being, active, great, sublime
Debas'd in dust no more.
In dreadful pomp he takes his way
O'er ruin'd crowns, demolish'd thrones--
Pale tyrants shrink before his blaze--
Round him terrific lightnings play--
With eyes of fire, he looks them through,
Crushes the vile despotic crew,
And Pride in ruin lays.
[95] Published in the _Jersey Chronicle_, May 23, 1795, from which the
text is taken. It forms the basis of the poem "On the Royal Coalition
Against Republican Liberty," in the 1815 edition, but the later form is
so greatly inferior that I have not hesitated to reproduce the earlier
version.
THE RIVAL SUITORS FOR AMERICA[96]
Like some fair girl in beauty's bloom,
To court her, see what suitors come!
An heiress, she, to large estate,
What rivals for her favours wait!
All haste to clasp her in their arms,
Each sees in her a thousand charms--
The Gems that on her bosom glow
Attract where love was cold--'till now.
Freed from a cruel parent's care,
This maid so wealthy and so fair
Of each that for possession sues
Can hardly tell which beau to choose.
Proud of his vast extended reign,
(His fancied empire o'er the main)
The Briton came, with haughty stride,
Preferr'd his suit--but was denied.
She thought his style, by much, too rude,
By ruffians she would not be woo'd;
From Man she wish'd to choose a mate,
But not in such a savage state.
A Dane, a Dutchman, and a Swede
All hop'd to enjoy the charming maid:
The Russian, bred in frost and snow,
Made love to her that said--no, no.
The Spaniard grave, with cloak and sword,
Some favour from the nymph implor'd--
Vain were his tears and coaxing art--
She could not bear a jealous heart.
The Turk himself, to engage her love,
From Asia's coasts began to move;
While faded lay his Tartar crown
He sigh'd to make this girl his own.
In vain they paid the fond address--
No Pope, no Sultan would she bless--
No monarch, tho' allur'd with art,
Could gain her wealth, or touch her heart.
The Frenchman comes--salutes the fair--
She likes his gallant, marshal air!--
With eager eye, around her waist
He clasp'd his arms, and her embrac'd:
Smit with his lofty, generous mien,
She admires the Gaul, as soon as seen,
Grants him her Commerce--yields her charms,
And takes a hero to her arms!
[96] Published in the _Jersey Chronicle_, May 30, 1795, with the above
text. The poem was greatly expanded and changed for the 1815 edition,
where it bore the title, "The Political Rival Suitors."
MR. JAY'S TREATY[97]
Disclosed by Stephens Thomson Mason
When the Senate assembled had shut up their door,
And had left us no clew their designs to explore,
The people were anxious, and whispered their care,
But their voice was too weak for the dignified ear.
Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down.
At length the Sanhedrim were ready to rise,
And the crowd were distending their ears and their eyes;
But the rabble had nothing to hear or to view,
Says the twenty, the secret's too sacred for you,
Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down.
But Stephens T. Mason, a man we revere,
With his name bid the infamous treaty appear,
'Twas the act of a freeman, who join'd with the Ten,
To save us from tyranny, rank us with men,
Altho' down, down, and like to be down.
He gave his assistance, enlighten'd our eyes,
And a cloud from all quarters begins to arise,
_Vox Dei, Vox Populi_, truly but one,
Shall tell dark designers--our will shall be done
Till you're down, down, twenty times down.
[97] Published in the _Jersey Chronicle_, September 12, 1795, from which
the tex
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/39909