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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]

Language: English

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
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU, POET OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. VOLUME 3 (OF 3) ***

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
192

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
282

On a Honey Bee
284

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 cœlo 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,[a] 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] 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
P Y R A M I D
OF THE
FIFTEEN AMERICAN STATES[62]

*
*           *
*           *           *
*           *           *           *
*           *           *           *           *

Barbara Pyramidum sileat miracula Memphis;*
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 cœlum 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!

* 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, œconomists, 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 Tyrtœus' 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 vœux 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 manœuvred 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!

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!

[88] Unique, as far as I can discover, in the edition of 1795.

[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 text is taken. As far as I can find the poet never republished it.

Jay's treaty with England was laid before the Senate in June, 1795, and after two weeks of fierce discussion was ratified by a very small majority. The Senate, fearing popular criticism, forbade the publication of the treaty, a course which caused such widespread indignation that Mason on his own responsibility gave a perfect copy of the text to the Philadelphia Aurora for publication. The act was as much praised by one party as it was condemned by the other.

PARODY[98]

On the attempt to force the British Treaty on the People
of the United States

Americans! behold the fruits,
The end of all your vain pursuits,
Whole years in blood and warfare spent
To save this injur'd continent.—
How must it mortify your pride
To take once more the British side;
How will your eyes contain their tears
When all the sad effect appears!

This Treaty in one page confines
The sad result of base designs;
The wretched purchase here behold
Of traitors—who their country sold.
Here, in their proper shape and mien
Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen.
And few, a chosen few, must know
The Mysteries that lurk below.

Go home, ye merchants, poor and lean,
And kiss the—hand—of Britain's queen.
I see you of your cargoes stript
Your vessels stolen, your seamen whipt,
I see them from their decks compell'd
To wander o'er the wat'ry field;—
In British ships, by force detain'd
I see the gallant sailor band
Engage the power that lent us aid
When Britain here her entry made—
I see them mix'd with George's sons,
I see them torn by gallic guns,
Disfigur'd, in the ocean cast
To find a resting place at last.

Philosophy! thou friend of man,
Teach me these strange events to scan;
Aid me to learn the secret cause
That alien seems from Nature's laws,
Why on this stage of human things
Man bows his neck to tyrant kings?
Say did the God, when life he gave,
Design his Image for a slave?—
Necessity, the tyrant's law,
All human race doth this way draw,
All prompted by the same desire
The vigorous youth, and aged sire—
Observe, the coward and the bold
Agree to have their freedom sold;
Physician, lawyer, and divine
All make oblation at this shrine.

Yet from this dismal state of things
In time a new creation springs;
From vile materials, fresh, shall rise
And fill the earth, and air, and skies;
In various forms appear again,
Popes, Presidents, and gentlemen:
So Jove pronounc'd among the Gods,
Olympus trembling as he nods!

[98] The poet never reprinted this poem from the Jersey Chronicle, where it first appeared, April 23, 1796. Great dissatisfaction with Jay's treaty with England is evident in almost every number of the Chronicle. Freneau himself was the author of the series of papers entitled "Features of Mr. Jay's Treaty."

ON THE INVASION OF ROME[99]

In 1796

Lo! to the gates of long forgotten Rome
Active as flame, the gallic legions come,
While pale with fear to their despotic wastes
On shorten'd wing the Austrian army hastes.

Where, consecrated to the pagan god
The silent vestal graced his dark abode,
Where Cæsars, once, in awful grandeur reign'd,
Or, Vandals ruin'd what of Rome remain'd,
Or where, excresence of a later age,
The mitred pontiff trod religion's stage,
There march the heroic bands that bring defeat,
Or bring reform on superstition's seat.

And may their march to honor's purpose tend,
May each new conquest all the past transcend,
Still may those hosts their first great plan pursue,
And honor, freedom, virtue keep in view.
Thus taught; and still propitious heaven their trust,
All past mis-rule shall crumble to the dust,
Nor will saint Peter, more, their cause regard,
Lost are his keys and every gate unbarr'd,

No sacred reliques from some saintly grave,
No saint Sebastian shall from ruin save:
All, all must yield; submissive to the dart
Of Gaul's firm legions led by Bonaparte,
Who, sent by heaven, to Rome's disastrous walls
Loud and more loud for his last victim calls;
While superstition's dark inveterate train
Turns pale, and sickens at their blasted reign,
And hosts reviving, round the standard throng,
Exult, and wonder how they slept so long.

[99] From the edition of 1815.

ON THE DEATH OF CATHARINE II[100]

Empress of all the Russias

Confusion to that iron sway
Which bids the brute, not man, obey,
And dooms him to Siberian soil,
Chains, whips, and vassalage, and toil.

This female wolf, whom wolves did nurse,
So long of polar worlds the curse,
This Catharine, skill'd in royal arts,
To the dark world at last departs.

In style, the second of her name,
She to the crown by treason came;
To Peter, drowsy, royal drone,
She gave a prison for a throne.

She would have sent her Tartar bands
To waste and ravage gallic lands,
She would have sent her legions o'er,
Columbia! to invade your shore!—

But, even in conquest, she foresaw
Destruction to despotic law;
She fear'd, in hordes returning home,
That liberty would with them come.

She fear'd the savage from the den
Would see and learn the rights of men;
And hence, in time, destruction bring
To hell's vicegerents—queen and king.

No thanks to her! she fear'd her beasts,
Enslaved by kings, enslaved by priests,
Even if all freedom they o'er ran,
Would learn the dignity of man;

And kept them home, and held them there,
Oppression's iron reign to bear;
And never meet a beam of light,
Involved in worse than Zembla's night.

Now she is dead, and Paul will rise
As fierce as she, but not as wise;
He may his barbarous millions send,
He may the fall of France intend;

But they who see with keener eye
Will see them faint, will see them fly;
With hostile step will see them come
To turn their backs, or meet their doom.

[100] From the edition of 1815. Catharine II died November 6, 1796.

PREFATORY LINES[101]

To a Periodical Publication

Wherever this volume[102] may chance to be read
For the feast of good humor a table I spread;
Here are dishes by dozens; whoever will eat
Will have no just cause to complain of the treat.

If the best of the market is not to be had
I'll help you to nothing that's seriously bad;[103]
To sense and to candor no place I refuse,
Pick here and pick there, and wherever you choose.[104]

If I give you a frolic I hope for no fray;
My style I adapt to the taste of the day,
The feast of amusement we draw from all climes,
The best we can give in a run of hard times.[105]

The guest, whom the pepper of satire may bite
Is wrong, very wrong, if he shows us his spite;[106]
Should a fit of resentment be-ruffle his mind,
Sit still, I would tell him, be calm and resign'd.[107]

In the service of freedom forever prepared,
We have done[108] our endeavor the goddess to guard;
This idol, whom reason should only adore,
And banish'd from Europe,[109] to dwell on our shore.

In a country like this, exalted by fame,
The trade of an author[110] importance may claim
Which monarchs would never permit them to find,
Whose views are to chain and be-darken the mind.

Ye sons of Columbia! our efforts befriend;
To you all the tyrants of Europe shall bend
Till reason at length shall illumine the ball[111]
And man from his state of debasement recall.

Republics of old, that are sunk in the dust,
Could once like our own, of their liberty boast;
Both virtue and wisdom in Athens appear'd,
Each eye saw their charms, and all bosoms revered.

But as virtue and morals fell into disgrace
Pride, splendor, and folly stept into their place;
Where virtues domestic no longer were known,
Simplicity lost, and frugality flown.

Where the virtues, that always a republic adorn,
Were held in contempt, or were laugh'd into scorn,
There, tyrants and slaves were the speedy effect
Of virtue dishonor'd or fall'n to neglect:[112]

Then tyrants and slaves, the worst plagues of this earth,
From the lapse of good manners[113] were hatch'd into birth;
And soon the base maxim all popular grew,
And allowed, that the many were made for the few.

From the fate of republics, or Athens, or Rome,
Tis time we should learn a sad lesson at home—
From their faults and their errors a warning receive,
And steer from the shoals where they both found a grave.

Columbians! forever may freedom remain,
And virtue forever that freedom maintain;
To these, all attracting, all views should submit
All labors of learning, all essays of wit.

Tis time a new system of things was embraced
To prevail on a planet so often debased;[114]
As here, with our freedom, that system began,
Here, at least keep it pure—for the honor of man.

[101] From the edition of 1815. This was Freneau's salutatory in the first number of the Time-Piece, March 13, 1797. Here it bore the title "Poetical Address" and differed in many respects from the final version. I have indicated in the following notes only the most significant revisions.

[102] "Our pages."—Time-Piece.

[103] "We'll mend what is middling, and better the bad."—Ib.

[104] "And give the due substance and sum of the News."—Ib.

[105]

"Embark'd on this ocean, and wishing no fray,
We'll strive for a chance with the prints of the day;
The news of all nations import from all climes,
And carefully copy the cast of The Times."—Time-Piece.

[106] "In political squib or poetical wit."—Ib.

[107] "He's equally free to return it in kind."—Ib.

[108] "We'll join."—Ib.

[109] "Britain."—Ib.

[110] "Of the Press."—Ib.

[111] "'Tis this that will throw a new light on the ball."—Ib.

[112] This stanza not in the Time-Piece version.

[113] "The change of old manners."—Ib.

[114] "To encircle a world that has long been debas'd."—Ib.

ON THE WAR[115]

Projected with the Republic of France

The cause that rests on reason's ground,
Shall potent through the world be found,
Mankind must yield to that decree
Which humbles pride and tyranny.

O'er this wide globe what darkness broods,
What misery, murder, wars and feuds!—
Does man deserve the solar light
While he performs the deeds of night?

When to the gates of modern Rome
We see the gallic legions come,
Their triumphs should, in honor, be
To make them men, and make them free.

In these new wars new views we trace,
Not fetters for the human race,
And, France, where'er you dart your rays
Old superstition's reign decays.

But look again!—what myriads join
The vast reform to undermine!
What labor, bribes, and deep-laid schemes
To quench the sun, and reason's beams!

Shall these succeed? and will that sun
Continue, still, his race to run
O'er scenes that he must blush to see
Disorder, chains, and tyranny?

Must systems, still, of monstrous birth,
Enslave mankind, deform this earth?
No!—to the question answers fate,
These efforts come an age too late.

In such a system to combine,
Columbia, can the wish be thine!
Could such a thought assail your heart,
To take that base, ungrateful part.

From Britain's yoke so lately freed
Would she her hosts, her legions lead
To crush that power, which jointly gain'd
And once her sinking cause sustain'd?

From all true hearts be banish'd far
The thought of so profane a war—
A curse would on her arms attend
And all her well-earn'd honors end.

Fortune no more your toils would crown,
Your flag would fall before her frown;
No gallant men the foe would dare,
No Greenes no Washingtons appear;

No chiefs, that check'd the pride of kings
On Monmouth's plains—at Eutaw springs;
But blundering hordes, not brave or warm,
With broken heart, and nerveless arm,

Would sail, to attack your gallic foe,
Would strive in vain a cause t'o'erthrow
Which, sink or not, will live in fame,
While Europe can one patriot claim.

[115] From the edition of 1815. It appeared first in the Time-Piece, March 29, 1797, under the title "To the Americans."

TO MYRTALIS[116]

On her Lightning Wires, or Conductors[A]

[A] See Brydone's Letters from Sicily to Becksford, alderman of London. In one of these he seems, rather seriously, to argue, that any one, by being armed with a conductor, in a thunder squall, may probably be secure from danger of lightning.—It is said the plan has been carried into practice in Scotland.—Freneau's Note.

How bold this project, to defy
The artillery of a summer sky:
Round you, unmoved, the lightning plays,
While others perish in the blaze.

The fluid fire, in deafening peals,
Along the warm conductor steals;
And thence directed to the ground,
It glances off without a wound!

Thus guarded, while the heavens are bowed,
You, fearless, see the passing cloud;
And Jove's red bolts unheeded fall,
Near You, who slight, or scorn them all.

The beaver on your sacred scull,
(Secure as Salamander's wool)
Assists to keep from your rigg'd head
The flash that strikes us, wretches, dead.

But while the sulphur of the skies,
Disarmed, from this fair lady flies;
Or while the warm electric fire
In flashes darts along her spire,

She, not so merciful or kind,
(Or we, not guarded to her mind)
By Cupid's darts, procures our fall,
By Cupid's arrows kills us all.

[116] Published in the Time-Piece, April 7, 1797. Text from the 1809 edition.

TO MR. BLANCHARD[117]

The celebrated Æronaut, on his ascent in a Balloon, from the
jail-yard in Philadelphia, 1793

By Science taught, on silken wings
Beyond our grovelling race you rise,
And, soaring from terrestial things,
Explore a passage to the skies—
O, could I thus exalted sail,
And rise, with you, beyond the Jail!

Ah! when you rose, impell'd by fear
Each bosom heav'd a thousand sighs;
To you each female lent a tear,
And held the 'kerchief to her eyes:
All hearts still follow'd, as you flew,
All eyes admir'd a sight so new.

Whoe'er shall thus presume to fly,
While downward with disdain they look
Shall own this journey, through the sky,
The dearest jaunt they ever took;
And choose, next time, without reproach,
A humbler seat in Inskeep's coach.

The birds, that cleave the expanse of air,
Admiring, view your globe full-blown,
And, chattering round the painted car,
Complain your flight out-does their own:
Beyond their track you proudly swim,
Nor fear the loss of life or limb.

How vast the height, how grand the scene
That your enraptured eye surveys,
When, towering in your gay machine,
You leave the astonish'd world to gaze,
And, wandering in the ætherial blue,
Our eyes, in vain, your course pursue.

The Orb of Day, how dazzling bright!
In paler radiance gleams the Moon,
And Terra, whence you took your flight,
Appears to you—a meer balloon:
Its noisy crew no longer heard,
Towns, cities, forests, disappear'd.

Yet, travelling through the azure road,
Soar not too high for human ken;
Reflect, our humble safe abode
Is all that Nature meant for men:
Take in your sails before you freeze,
And sink again among the trees.

[117] Published in the Time-Piece and Literary Companion, May 15, 1797, under the title "Stanzas Written Some Years Since on Mr. Blanchard's Forty-fifth Ascension from the Jail-Yard in Philadelphia, January 9, 1793." Text from the 1795 edition.

ON HEARING[118]

A Political Oration, Superficially Composed on an Important Subject

Sound without sense, and words devoid of force,
Through which no art could find a clue,
And mean and shackling was the whole discourse
That kept me, Tully, long from you.

Heads of harangues, to heads less general, split,
Seem'd like small laths, cleft from some heavy log;
I heard the inference, that no object hit—
All congelation, vapor, smoke, or fog.

And what avail'd the argument unsound
That nothing proved, or on the expecting mind
Forced no conviction—just as well might sound
To the deaf ear with sentiments abound.

Long did we wait for application time
To find what sense or reason might apply:—
It came—attended with the false sublime,
And thread-bare truths, no mortal could deny.

Repeated thoughts, and periods of a mile,
Remarks devoid of dignity or power,
Exploded notions, dress'd in brilliant style,
Exhausted patience, and consumed the hour.

Thus when of old some town some folks besieged,
Before the walls the invader sat him down,
While those who mann'd them, at their foes enraged,
Threw many a load of ancient lumber down;

And wore them out, with tumbling on their heads
Bricks, tiles, and paving-stones, huge logs of timber,
Pump-water, cold or boiling, shovels, spades,—
And more, by far, than you or I remember.

Ah, speaker! with artillery like your own
Hard will it be one Federal to awake,
Trust me, although you scold, and chafe, and frown,
You may besiege, but are not like to take
Their three wall'd town.

[118] From the 1815 edition. In the edition of 1809 it bore the title: "The American Demosthenes. Occasioned by a very weak and insipid discourse on a Fourth of July, indirectly reprobating the Democratic Representative System." This version consisted of the first, second, and last stanzas above, with the following after the second stanza:

"Grunts, and long groans, and periods of a mile,
Were on the sleepy audience tumbled down;—
'Twas thus from forts, contrived in antique style,
From Troy's high walls
(Where flew no balls)
The men who fought
With reason thought,
They had a right
From that safe height,
(By way of lessening their besiegers' number)
To tumble on their heads
Rocks, beams, or roofs of sheds,
Cows' horns, bricks, rubbish, chamber pots, or lumber."

MEGARA AND ALTAVOLA[119]

To a Female Satirist (an English Actress) on receiving from her No. 1.
of a very Satirical and Biting Attack[A]

"In the rag, in the rag—whewgh!—
"O well-flown dart."—
Shakespeare's King Lear.

[A] Six copies only, of this little Poem were printed and sent to the satirist—here the correspondence ended, 1797.—Freneau's note.

A Satire is arrived this day,
And it must be repelled this night:
Ye Powers! assist us what to say,
For, from ourselves, we nothing write.

We could have laughed at all you said,
But when you writ—it struck us dead!—
Megara!—do forbear to write,
Or rage with less malignant spite.

Leave it to men to snap and snarl—
Be you the sweet engaging girl—
Great in your smiles—weak in your arm—
All vengeance, with no power to harm.

I'll borrow from a scribbling set
A Raven's feather, black as jet,
And with the vengeance of the pen
Create confusion in your Den.

This, from an impulse all unknown,
Shall temper down your heart of stone,
Turn storms of hail to showers of rain,
And bring your happy smiles again.

But still, unwilling to resent
What folly for a Satire meant,
Peruse a fable that may blast,
And your number one—make number last.

In ancient times, no matter when,
A lady, in some ancient reign
(Perhaps in Greece, perhaps in Rome,
Perhaps in countries nearer home.)

This lady, rather fond of Fun,
Had put a suit of armour on:
With bow and arrows, and her fan
She conquered many an honest man.

One day she met, in a desart waste
A wight unseemely to her taste;
His brow, she thought, had too much frown;
Thought she, "I'll fetch the fellow down."

And strait she bends her twanging bow,
And to his breast the arrows go!
They tore a passage through his vest,
But bounded from his solid chest.

Another dart she aimed, and missed,
Then boarded him, and bit his fist—
Her grinders left a trifling mark—
They were not grinders of a shark.

She scampered then, and, as she flew,
Another feeble arrow threw,
Which though intended for one spot,
It glanced aside, and touched him not.

Enraged, he threw his mantle off,
And said, She shall be plagued enough!
Then, swift as fate, her pace defied,
Out went her trot, and joined her side.—

Megara was in such a glow!—
When thus the ruffian hailed her, "Hoa!—
What, Madam, are your spirits low?—
Heave to!—you are my prisoner now!"—

Megara saw that all was gone!—
She saw, her teeth would now be drawn:
She saw her weapons were his prize,
She saw it, and with flowing eyes,
And with a feeble squeak or two,
She faintly bawled out, Who are you?

Altavola

"From whence I came, or what I am,
"Perhaps I may inform you, Ma'am:
"I come from lands of Pure Delight,
"Where female warriors do not Bite.

"You view me with an eye of scorn!—
"When I was old you were unborn:
"When I aspired on eagle's wings
"You were among unthought of things.

"And did you hope to escape my rage,
"You toy-shop on a strolling stage!
"You insect of a puny race,
"You baggage formed of gauze and lace!
"The proudest strength you can assume,
"Shakes not one feather from my plume.

"My lot is in the æther cast,
"I sail upon the northern blast;
"Am mostly seen when whirlwinds rise,
"And love the storm that rends the skies.

"When thunders roar and lightnings flash,
"Then is my time to cut a dash:
"The clouds of hell alarm me less
"Than you, some sad old fashioned dress.

"And, if to answer some great end,
"I to this wrangling world descend,
"With force unknown, and pinions strong,
"I travel quick and stay not long.

"My spear is like a weaver's beam,
"And pointed well at each extreme;
"It flies with a tremendous force,
"And rivals lightning in its course.

"Of all things that are seen or known,
"I hate a Calm—and say, Begone
"Stagnation from this rolling ball,
"Or slumbers in this Dreadful All!

"I rise upon the drift of snow—
"In polar frosts my spirits glow—
"In the torrid zone, I temperate keep,
"And wake!—when you, Megara, sleep.

"I come from ghosts, that dreary brood,
"Whose aspect would congeal your blood!
"A people on the infernal coast,
"Who know me well, and love me most.

"I courted there, and found her kind,
"A ghostess, suited to my mind;
"Her wedding gown was flounced with soot,
"And near her nose hung snuff and smut:

"She pointed to her father's gate,
"(A graveyard was his whole estate)
"The bars were weak, the boards were thin,
"She sung a psalm—and took me in.

"Of shadowy stuff my parents were,
"Composed of fogs, or framed of air:
"He sold his brimstone to the skies,
"While nitre kindled in Her eyes.

"They feasted on the vapours blue,
"Their glass of wine was evening dew;
"On Etna's top they made their bed,
"And there was I, their devil, bred.

"My prowess is almost adored,
"I blunt the edge of Orion's sword;
"I seize Aquarius by the throat,
"Nor care for Libra, or the Goat.

"My word is, when I meet my foes,
"Here's to the Lucky Wind that blows!
"And, instant, all is sighs and groans,
"And battered heads, and broken bones.

"I now reward you for your spite—
"I draw my weapon—see, how bright!
"My last exploit in war I crown,
"And thus—and thus—I throw you down!

"Ah, miscreant! why that scream of death?
"I only meant to—draw your teeth!—
"Oh no!—I scorn to take your life—
"Go, Madam,—be a prudent wife.
"But, lady, I would have you know
"You lose your arrows and your bow:

"They are indeed of slender make,
"And, in your hands might kill a rake:
"So, to prevent such fatal harms,
"I leave you destitute of arms—
"I now must go!"—he, laughing, said,
And vanished to the Stygian shade.

This contest with Megara done,
Thou dear, defeated Amazon!—
As happy, now, as man can be,
I hang my pen on yonder tree:

It only asks one day of rest,
It yields to every changing blast—
Yes—let it stay suspended there,
And strike My Colours—if you dare!

[119] I have found no trace of this outside of the 1809 edition.

THE REPUBLICAN FESTIVAL[120]

In Compliment to Colonel Munroe, on his return to America, 1797

As late at a feast that she gave to Munroe,
Her mark of attention to show,
Young liberty gave her libations to flow,
To honor where honor is due.

Return'd from the country that trampled on crowns
Where high in opinion he stood,
Dark malace attack'd him, with sneers, and with frowns,
But he met the applause of the good.

To the Knight of the Sceptre unwelcome he came
But freedom his merit confess'd—
He look'd at their malice, and saw it was fame,
And pity forgave them the rest.

Good humor, and pleasure, and friendship did join,
And reason the pleasure increased;
And the hero, who captured the British Burgoyne,
Presided and honor'd the feast.

On a broomstick from hell, with a quill in his hand,
Baal-Zephou came riding the air;
He look'd, and he saw that among the whole band
Not a single apostate was there.

Disappointed, he sigh'd, but still hover'd about
Till the toasts, with a vengeance, began—
He met the first four; when the next they gave out[A]
To his cavern he fled back again.

[A] Public censure, arm'd with the spear of Ithurial: may it discover the demons of tyranny, wherever they lurk, and pursue them to their native obscurity.—Freneau's note.

In liberty's temple, the petulant cur
Could see not a man but he hates;
With a curse on her cause, and a sneer, and a spur
He fled from the frown of a Gates.

[120] From the edition of 1815. Monroe was United States Minister to France from May, 1794, until August, 1796, when he was recalled for lack of sympathy with the administration. He did not arrive in America until the following year. He was loudly hailed by the Republican forces, and a dinner was arranged for him in Philadelphia over which General Gates presided and at which Jefferson, the Vice President, Dayton, the Speaker, McKean, the Chief Justice, and many others conspicuous in the government were present.

ODE[121]

For July the Fourth, 1799

Once more, our annual debt to pay,
We meet on this auspicious day
That will, through every coming age,
Columbia's patriot sons engage.

From this fair day we date the birth,
Of freedom's reign, restored to earth,
And millions learn, too long depraved,
How to be govern'd, not enslaved.[122]

Thou source of every true delight
Fair peace, extend thy sway,
While to thy temple we invite
All nations on this day.[123]

O dire effects of tyrant power!
How have ye darken'd every hour,
And made those hours embitter'd flow
That nature meant for joys below.

With sceptred pride, and brow of awe
Oppression gave the world her law,
And man, who should such law disdain,
Resign'd to her malignant reign.

Here on our quiet native coast
No more we dread the warring host
That once alarm'd, when Britain rose,
And made Columbia's sons her foes.

Parent of every cruel art
That stains the soul, that steels the heart,
Fierce war, with all thy bleeding band,
Molest no more this rising land.

May thy loud din be changed for peace,
All human woe and warfare cease,
And nations sheath the sword again
To find a long, pacific reign.[124]

Soon may all tyrants disappear
And man to man be less severe;
The ties of love more firmly bind,
Not fetters, that enchain mankind.

But virtue must her strength maintain,
Or short, too short, is freedom's reign,
And, if her precepts we despise,
Tyrants and kings again will rise.[125]

No more an angry, plundering race,
May man in every clime embrace,
And we on this remoter shore,
Exult in bloody wars no more.

On this returning annual day
May we to heaven our homage pay,
Happy, that here the time's began
That made mankind the friend of man!—

[121] From the edition of 1815. The title is manifestly wrong. The poem was first printed in a small pamphlet with the following title page:

"Means | for the | Preservation | of | Public Liberty. | An | Oration | delivered in the New Dutch Church, | on the | Fourth of July, 1797. | Being the twenty-first | Anniversary of our Independence. | By G. J. Warner. | [Ten lines from Freneau] | New York: | Printed at the Argus Office, | for | Thomas Greenleaf and Naphtali Judah. | 1797."

At the end of the pamphlet is the poem with the title: "Ode | (Composed for the Occasion, by P. Freneau.) | The Musick Performed | by the | Uranian Musical Society."

[122] This stanza in 1797 was:

"Red war will soon be chang'd for peace,
All human woe for human bliss,
And nations that embrace again
Enjoy a long pacific reign."

[123] This stanza was the chorus to be repeated after every eight lines.

[124] This stanza is not in the original version.

ADDRESS[126]

To the Republicans of America

Say—shall we pause, and here conclude our page,
Or waft it onward to the coming age?—
Just as You say, whose efforts shook his throne,
And plucked the brightest gem from George's crown—
Who, armed in Freedom's cause with hearts of steel,
Have through these stormy times toiled for the common weal;
Nor quit that standard thousands have deserted,
By foreign arts, or gold, or titles re-converted.

If You, propitious to the press and pen,
Gave vigour to the cause that roused up men
When slavery's sons approached with Britain's fleet,
Still we demand your aid—for Britain hates you yet:
Not with the sword and gun she now contends
But wages silent war, and by corruption bends,
Foe to the system that enlightens man,
Here, thrones she would erect, and frustrate Freedom's plan.

Here, on this virgin earth, the soil unstained,
Where yet no tyrant has his purpose gained,
Keep bright that flame which every bosom fired
When Hessian hirelings from these lands retired,
When, worn and wasted, all that murdering crew
And British squadrons from the Hudson flew;
When, leagued with France, you darts of vengeance hurled,
And bade defiance to the despot world.

Ye heirs and owners of the future age
Who soon will shove old actors from the stage,
To you the care of liberty they trust
When Washington and Gates are laid in dust—
When Jefferson, with Greene, in long repose
Shall sleep, unconscious of your bliss or woes,
Seeming to say, Be wise, be free, my sons,
Nor let one tyrant trample on our bones.

[125] The chorus at this point was changed in the original edition to:

"O Virtue! source of pure delight,
Extend thy happy sway, etc."

[126] First published in the Time-Piece, September 13, 1797. Freneau used this poem to end Volume I of his edition of 1809. I have followed the latter version.

TO PETER PORCUPINE.[127]

From Penn's famous city what hosts have departed,
The streets and the houses are nearly deserted,
But still there remain
Two Vipers, that's plain,
Who soon, it is thought, yellow flag will display;
Old Porcupine preaching,
And Fenno beseeching
Some dung-cart to wheel him away.

Philadelphians, we're sorry you suffer by fevers,
Or suffer such scullions to be your deceivers;
Will. Pitt's noisy whelp
With his red foxy scalp
Whom the kennels of London spew'd out in a fright,
Has skulk'd over here
To snuffle and sneer,
Like a puppy to snap, or a bull dog to bite.

If cut from the gallows, or kick'd from the post,
Such fellows as these are of England the boast
But Columbia's disgrace!
Begone from that place
That was dignified once by a Franklin and Penn,
But infested by you
And your damnable crew
Will soon be deserted by all honest men.

[127] Published in the Time-Piece, September 13, 1797, and never again reprinted by Freneau. The poem bore the following introduction:

"Among a despicable mess of scurrility in one of Porcupine's Gazettes of last week, he mentions that 'he was plagued with the Time-Piece for several months.'—It has also been a plague to some others of his brethren, and will go on to be so, till they are hustled into their native dog kennels.—At the commencement of the Time-Piece, by way of soliciting an exchange of papers, the Editor transmitted one copy to each printer of a newspaper in Philadelphia. The compliment was immediately returned by them all except Porcupine. The Editor of the Time-Piece was in no want of his dirty vehicle of ribaldry, for the purposes of compilation. The paper, however, continued to be sent for a few weeks, till finding the hoggishness of the fellow, in not consenting to an exchange, the transmission was discontinued."

ON THE ATTEMPTED LAUNCH[128]

Of a Frigate, designed for war against a Sister Republic.—1798

Unless it be for mere defence
May shipwrights fail to launch you hence,
At best, the comrade of old Nick—
Some folks will smile to see you stick.

But now, suppose the matter done,
And her the element upon;
What cause have we mad wars to wage
Or join the quarrels of the age?

Remote from Europe's wrangling race,
Who show us no pacific face
Let's tread negociation's track
Before we venture to attack.

But to the seas if we must go,
'Tis clearly seen who is the foe,
Who hastens, at no distant date,
To repossess his lost estate.

I see them raise the storm of war,
To cloud the gay columbian star,
I see them, bloody, brave and base
Make us the object of their chase.

Their ships of such superior might
All we possess will put to flight,
Or bear them off, with all on board,
To make a meal for George the third.

One frigate, only, will not do—
She must retreat while they pursue,
To make her drink affliction's cup,
And, heaven preserve us, eat her up.

A navy of stupendous strength
'Tis plain, must be our lot at length,
To sweep the seas, to guard the shore,
And crush their haughtiest seventy four.

Those puny ships that now we frame,
(The way that England plays her game)
Will to their bull-dogs fall a prey
The hour we get them under weigh.—

[128] Text from the 1815 edition.

ON THE LAUNCHING OF THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION[129]

The builders had the ship prepared,
And near her stood a triple guard,
For fear of secret foes.
Some, tiptoe stood to see her start,
And would have said, with all their heart,
In raptures, there she goes!

The stubborn ship, do what they could,
Convinced them, she was made of wood
Though plann'd with art supreme;
All art, all force the ship defy'd—
Nor brilliant day, nor top of tide
Could urge her to the stream.

Some, with their airs aristocratic,
And some with honors diplomatic,
Advanced to see the show:
In vain the builder to her call'd—
In vain the shipwrights pull'd and haul'd—
She could not—would not go.

Each anti-federal, with a smile
Observed the yet unfloating pile
As if he meant to say,
Builder, no doubt, you know your trade,
A constitution you have made
But should her ways have better laid.

Well now to heave the ship afloat,
To move from this unlucky spot,
Take our advice, and give them soon,
What should have long ago been done,
Amendments—You Know What.

[129] Text from 1815 edition.

ON THE FREE USE OF THE LANCET[130]

In Yellow Fevers[A]

[A] A practice very prevalent at the time the above was written.—Freneau's note.

In former days your starch'd divines
From notes of twenty thousand lines
Held many a long dispute;
One argued this, one argued that,
And reverend wigs, as umpires sat,
All sophists to confute.

They dwelt on things beyond their ken
And teazed and puzzled simple men
To hold them in the dark;
But their long season now is past,
The churchman's horn has blown its blast,
Things take a different mark.

Physicians now to quiet pain
Stick lancet in the patient's vein
That burns with feverish heat:
The next contend, they're wholly wrong,
That life will leak away ere long
If thus the case they treat.

Meantime a practice gets about,
Perhaps to make some doctors pout:
Old Shelah, with her herbs and teas,
And scarce a shilling for her fees,
In many instances, at least,
When deaths and funerals increased,
Did more to dispossess the fever,
Did more from dying beds deliver
Than all the hippocratian host
Could by the lancet's virtue boast;
To which, I trow, full many a ghost
Will have a grudge forever.

[130] From the edition of 1815. The yellow fever epidemic of 1797 created more than usual consternation. It was supposed to be of a more deadly type than that of 1793. The medical profession was divided as to the treatment of the disease. "Two hostile schools sprang up. At the head of one was William Currie. Benjamin Rush led the other. The Currie men declared the fever was imported and contagious. The Rush school maintained that it was not. Filthy streets, they held, and loathsome alleys had much to do with the sickness, and they urged the use of mercurial purges and the copious letting of blood."—McMaster.

THE BOOK OF ODES[131]

[131] These odes first appeared in the Time-Piece, where they were published in rapid succession between October 16 and November 13, 1797. Three of them—the fourth, sixth, and eleventh—were republished, greatly revised, in the edition of 1809. The eighth, tenth, and thirteenth were used in revised form in the 1815 edition. The others are here republished for the first time.

The first ode, which is manifestly an adaptation of Dr. Watts' well-known hymn, seems to have been objected to in some quarters, for in the Time-Piece for December 22 appeared the following:

"Some serious animadversions appear in the Connecticut Courant on the first number of the Book of Odes, published in the Time-Piece of the 14th ult. being a profane parody, as the writer insinuates, on the first Psalm of David—where the aristocrat corresponds with the saint in the psalm, and the democrat with the impenitent sinner. These gentlemen writers ought to consider that the parody in question (as they choose to call it) was not meant to be sung through a deacon's nose, to the sound of the organ: nor yet to the timbrel of seven strings: it was merely intended to be harped upon out of doors, for the benefit of all good democrats, and the utter astoundment and confusion of the contrary character. In the name of common sense how did the printers of the Connecticut Courant dare to act so irreverantly as to place the parody before the psalm? Are they trampling on all sanctity; or what do they mean? Let them beware—serious times are coming on, gentlemen:

'Your life is but a vapour, sure,
A mere old woman's qualm—
And good king David's lyric harp,
May close it—with a psalm.'"

ODE I

"He that readeth not in the Book of Odes is like a man standing with his face against a wall; he can neither move a step forward, nor survey any object."—Hau Kiou Choaan.

Blest is the man who shuns the place
Where Demo's love to meet,
Who scorns to gnaw their bread and cheese,
And hates their small beer treat:

But in the glare of splendid halls
Doth place his whole delight,
And there by day eats force-meat balls,
And roasted hogs by night.

He, like some thrifty pumpkin vine,
Near Hartford that doth grow,
Shall creep, and spread, and twist, and twine,
And shade the weeds below.

Puff'd by all dunces far and near
He'll swell to station high,
While Democrats confus'd appear
As he rides rattling by.

Not so the man of vulgar birth,
And Democratic phiz;
Want, toil, and every plague on earth,
Shall certainly be his.

Poor as a snake, and ever vile
Shall his condition be,
Who to the men of royal style
Neglects to bend the knee.

He, with the herd of little note,
May starve on bread and cheese,
And soon shall be without a coat
Or sent to pay jail-fees.

ODE II[132]

To the Frigate Constitution

"A ship carpenter being once asked, what sort of ships are the safest, he answered, those which are hauled up on dry land."

Madam!—Stay where you are,
'Tis better, sure, by far
Than venturing on an element of danger,
Where heavy seas and stormy gales
May wreck your hulk and rend your sails,
Or Europe's black-guards treat you like a stranger,

When first you stuck upon your ways
(Where half New England came to gaze)
We antifederals thought it something odd
That where all art had been display'd,
And even the builder deem'd a little god,
He had your ways not better laid.

Omens, indeed, are now exploded,
But you have something dismal boded:
Say—must the navy-system go to rack,
And things advance at such a rate
That every wisely govern'd state
Will hold the author of the scheme a quack.

O frigate Constitution! stay on shore:
Why would you meet old Ocean's roar?
Was man design'd
To be confin'd
In those fire-spitting hells a navy nam'd,
Where Vice herself, abash'd, asham'd,
Turns from the horrid scene of blood and bones,
And mangled carcases of men; and grunts and groans.

Remaining on the stocks, in gloomy pride,
Without an anchor thou shalt safely ride;
No pumping there,
To make men swear,
Waves you'll despise,
Tho' fierce they rise
To heaven when storms and tempests blow:
Steady as fate, unmov'd will you appear
When other ships the foaming surges tear—
No fear of broaching to.

Nor useless need you be, if right we deem,
For harmless purposes you proper seem—
Scorn to be made a bloody, murdering den;
Let folks of sense
At less expense
Convert you into stores—to bring in rents;
Stow pumpkins there—or anything but Men.

[132] Time-Piece, October 18, 1797.

ODE III[133]

To Duncan Doolittle

A "half-starved" Democrat

"Lodge where you must, drink small-beer where you can,
"But eat no roast pig, if no Federal man."

Duncan, with truth it may be said,
Your mouth was made for rye or barley bread;
What claim have you to halls of state,
Whose business is to stand and wait,
Subserviant to command?
What right have you to white-bread, superfine,
Who were by nature destin'd for "a swine"—
As said good Edmund Burke,
The drudge of Britain's dirty work,
Whose mighty pamphlets rous'd the royal band!

When passing by a splendid dome of pride
By speculation built (and built so vast
That there a standing army might reside)
Say, Duncan, stood you not aghast,
When gazing up (like fox that look'd for grapes)
You saw so many things in curious shapes,
Trees rang'd along the table,
And sugar-columns, far above the rabble,
With roses blooming in October,
And wisdom's figure—dull and sober.
Ah! how you smack'd your lips, and look'd so wishful
When pigs and poultry—many a lovely dish-full,
Imparted to your nose the savoury scent
For royal noses—not for Duncan's—meant.

For things like these you, caitiff, were not born—
A pewter spoon was for your chops intended;
Some shins of beef, and garlands made of thorn—
On things like these has Freedom's feast depended.
Though in the days of fight you musquet carried,
Or wandered up and down, a cannon-hauling,
Better you might in Jericho have tarried
And rebel-starving made your loyal calling.
Among our far-fam'd chieftains that are dead
(Like beer set by in mug without a lid,
And sure, a half-gill glass I'll put it all in)
I'll toast your health—yes, to the very brim
And to the little gaping world proclaim
You are a Hero fallen:
One of the wights who dar'd all death, or wound,
And warr'd for two and sixpence in the pound.

Of public virtue you're a rare example—
Go, mind your hoe, your pick-ax, or your spade;
A hut of six foot square shall be your "temple,"
And all your honour—strutting on parade.
But pray, beware of public good;
It will not always find you food,
And if your son should anything inherit,
Bequeath him not your public spirit,
But sixpence, to be train'd to sawing wood.

[133] The Time-Piece, October 20, 1797.

ODE IV[134]

To Pest-Eli-Hali

A Democratic Printer on the Western Banks of the Hudson

No easy task that press assumes
Which takes the lead in Freedom's band,
And scatters in nocturnal glooms
The blaze of Reason through our land:
Each empty bellows would, no doubt,
Rise, and aspire to put it out.

Blamed though you are, pursue your way;
Night evermore precedes the sun;
Whate'er some angry king's-men say,
You play a game that must be won:
The bliss of man—is the great prize
That yet at stake with tyrants lies.

When first a mean, designing few
Their poisonous dregs by Herald spread;
An antidote, by such as you,
Was at the root of mischief laid;
With a simple herb from Reason's plains
You kept all right in Freedom's veins.

Now hostile views, and low design
Are busy to annoy your page,
Controul its strength, its fires confine,
And war with sense and reason wage:
They hope, with fogs to quench the sun,
They hope your useful race is run.

But though some narrow hearts contrive
To shove you from your mounted car;
Right pleasantly we see you drive,
And hardly heed their little war:
Like insects, creeping in the dirt,
They merely serve to make you sport.

Who looks at Kings, a court, a queen,
With childish pomp, and borrowed fame,
But wonders from what genius mean
Their chaos of confusion came—
Yet those on little things depend,
And every reptile is their friend.

[134] From the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed in all but the title which is "To a Democratic Editor." This poem first appeared in the Time-Piece, October 23, 1797, with the following introduction: "'He that first put a real mark upon the forehead of the Beast was the inventor of Printing. This mark was impressed deeply, and becomes deeper from day to day.'—Erasmus."

ODE V[135]

To Peter Porcupine

"That one may write—and write—and be a villain,
"At least, I'm sure it may be so in—Denmark."—Hamlet.

"While with the loss of blood and spirits some faint,
"Others are seen to rise, triumphant,
"O'er slaughter'd thousands sent to Pluto's shores,
"Where Stygian water in dull torrent roars—
"What hosts, what myriads fell,
"By lancet and by calomell,
"All gone, in Philadelphia's epidemic,
"And sent the substance of mankind to mimic."

So said that Man divine
Bold Peter Porcupine,
Who through these climes his vast subscription spread,
And rais'd four thousand ghosts; and struck with dread,
All Democratic knaves,
Disorganizing slaves—
He with bold wit,
And spirit and spit,
From Nova Scotia to the woods of Maine,
True federalism did maintain;
And through those mighty thriving states,
Distributed his dainty, blackguard bits.

Ah—Peter!—Thou, poor lousy numps
Who loadest little horses' rumps,
And mak'st them trot and sweat,
On sandy road
Beneath the load
Of trash call'd Peter Porcupine's Gazette.
What have you done to claim Columbia's love
That she—like some base—
Should court a scoundrel from a foreign shore
And make him tool to—some apostate Jove,

Ah! now I see poor Carolina's horses,
With pedlar's pack,
Pil'd high on back,
Pursuing their mean, blackguard courses,
Through solitary groves and woods of pine
Transporting Goods, like thine,
————Damned stuff!
Of which Columbia, sure, has had—enough—
There Pickens, Sumpter, Greene, for freedom fought,
And Liberty her wonders wrought.

What do I hear? And have we lent thee wings
To waft thy poison into Eutaw Springs?
Those, clearer than Castalia's waters, found,
For many a hero, dead, who might have claim'd
Life—but for brutish George,
Who, having robb'd and plunder'd half the east,
Came here to close his Vulture's feast.

Now, Peter! take advice from Doctor Rush;
And—convert to the system you would crush;
Pray, let him draw your blackguard blood;
(And calomell might, also, do some good.)
Four thousand drops exhausted from your veins
Will save the future exercise of canes:
And, tell him to be speedy with his lancet,
For 'tis a truth; and many dare advance it,
That howe'er in life well fed,
No Doctor bleeds a man—when dead.

[135] The Time-Piece, October 25, 1797. William Cobbett, an English adventurer, settled in Philadelphia in 1792. Under the signature "Peter Porcupine" he wrote many political pamphlets, and edited a paper called Porcupine's Gazette. He left America in 1800 after having been convicted of libel. His works in twelve volumes, including many selections from the Gazette, were published in 1801, in London. He was an avowed enemy to the Democrats of America; he opposed the French interests, and abused roundly Dr. Priestly, Benjamin Franklin, and Dr. Rush.

ODE VI[136]

Address to a Learned Pig

Of Particular Eminence, who, in a certain Great City, was visited by
Persons of the First Taste and Distinction

O thou, marked out by Fate from vulgar swine,
Among the learned of our age to shine,
On whom 'squires, ladies, parsons, come to gaze,
Bold, science-loving pig,
Who, without gown or wig
Can force your way through learning's thorny maze
—How many high learned wights in days of old
(Whom Fame has with the great enrolled)
Starved by their wits—were banished, hanged, or sold;
—While you, on better ages fallen, O lucky swine!
Can by your wit on pyes and sweetmeats dine—

When house and lands are gone and spent,
Then learning is most excellent—
(So says a proverb through the world well known)—
You, that were pigged to grovel in a stye,
Have left your swill for science high:—
Without a rival of your race,
You hold a most distinguished place—
All that the heart can wish flows in to you,
Who real happiness pursue,
And are well fed, on whate'er hog stye thrown.

Now, if one had the chance to choose one's state
On this world's stage, and not controuled by Fate,
Who would not wish to have his little brains
Lodged in the head of Learned Pig,
Rather than be a man, and toil, and sweat, and dig
With all the sense the human scull contains.

With Us, we all are wise, we all things know,
But every pig—inferior is to you—
The rest are fools and simpletons—and so—
What, next, will be the science You attain?
Science!—to You, that opens all her store?—
Already have you in your sapient brain
More than most aldermen—and gumption more
Than some, who capers cut on Congress floor.

May we not hope, in this improving age
Of human things—to see on Terra's stage
Hogs take the lead of men, and from their styes
To honours, riches, office, rise!
Adepts in Latin, Commerce, Physick, Law?—
From what is seen, such inference we draw—

[136] Text from the edition of 1809. Originally in the Time-Piece, October 27, 1797, with the following introduction:

"Let but a dancing bear arrive,
A pig that counts you four or five,
And Cato, with his moral strain,
Shall strive to mend the town—in vain."

ODE VII[137]

On the Federal City

"Thus Cain of old, poor Abel slain,
"Departing from his native plain,
"In land of Nod, beneath the heaven's frowns,
"Built sky-topt towers and federal towns."

Enough of learned pigs,
Pigg'd for immense designs,
And shame our men of mighty wigs—
Enough of Peter Porcupines,
Whose quills, like pop-guns shooting at a fort,
Be sure have done the Demos mighty hurt,
A subject now of real weight inspires,
That soon will kindle every muse's fires,
No less than federal town,
Immortal in renown,
Which in her district—ten miles square
The center fills, like spider in her web
Catching all silly flies that venture near,
And fattening on the folly of the tribe.

When fates decreed,
Or nature said
"This spot is destin'd for a future town,"
Between them both they so contriv'd the matter
(Altho' perhaps not wholly wrong the latter)
That this should be a town of silent halls
And like Palmyra famous in the east,
Erect her columns huge and lofty walls—
Yet there in vain for men do travellers seek,
And hardly meet a townsman once a week!

Virginia's sons, as through this town they pass
Each cries, "Alas,
No sound of fiddle here,
All dull and drear,
No merry bells that jingle on the ear,
No glittering females, balls, or billiards dear—
No fighting cocks, no gallant steeds for racing:
Well-stap my vitals—is it not distressing?
No gallant ship with canvas swelling high
Engag'd in war or commerce passes by;
But corn-boats mean from Alleghany hills,
Or buck-wheat laden hulks from country mills!"

Amidst these huge hotels and regal domes
Frequent some townsman walks, as midst the tombs,
And cries, "The founders of this city blundered
In rearing up such piles for eighteen hundred:
Waiting for that must Congress absent stay?—
Ah! curse the Law's delay!
Rather than hold them there,
(Though, doubtless, it may sadly grieve her)
May Philadelphia twelve months every year
Be plagu'd and blooded for the yellow fever!"

[137] From the Time-Piece, October 31, 1797.

ODE VIII[138]

On the City Encroachments on the River Hudson

Where Hudson, once, in all his pride
In surges burst upon the shore
They plant amidst his flowing tide
Moles, to defy his loudest roar;
And lofty mansions grow where late
Half Europe might discharge her freight.

From northern lakes and wastes of snow
The river takes a distant rise,
Now marches swift, now marches slow,
And now adown some rapid flies
Till join'd the Mohawk, in their course
They travel with united force.

But cease, nor with too daring aim
Encroach upon this giant flood;
No rights reserved by nature, claim,
Nor on his ancient bed intrude:—
The river may in rage awake
And time restore him all you take.

The eastern stream, his sister, raves
To see such moles her peace molest
A London built upon her waves,
The weight of mountains on her breast:
With quicken'd flow she seeks the main
As on her bed new fabrics gain.

Bold streams! and may our verse demand
Is there not coast for many a mile,
And soils, as form'd by nature's hand
That border all Manhattan's isle:
Then why these mounds does avarice raise
And build the haunts of pale disease.

Yet in your aim to clip their wing
(It asks no wizard to descry,)
That time the woful day will bring
When Hudson's passion, swelling high,
May in a foam his wrongs repay
And sweep both house and wharf away.

[138] From the 1815 edition. The Time-Piece version, November 1, 1797, bore the title "To Thos. Swawgum, a Wharf Builder," with the following introduction:

"'And Alexander built a solid mole from the coast, even unto the isle of Tyre, through the deep waters of the channel between: and people said it would be everlasting; and yet at this day it is overwhelmed, and few vestiges left thereof.'—Modern Travels."

ODE IX[139]

On the Frigate Constitution

"And in those days men settled themselves on the waters, and lived there, not because land was wanting, but that they wished to be slaves to such as were great and mighty on the land."—Modern History.

Thus launch'd at length upon the main
And soon prepar'd the seas to roam,
In your capacious breast ere long
Will many an idler find a home
That sells his freedom for a song,
Quits fields and trees
For boisterous seas,
To tread his native soil no more,
And see—but not possess the shore.

Well! let them go—can there be loss
In those who Nature's bounty slight,
From rural vales and freedom's shades
To this dull cage who take their flight,
The axe, the hoe,
The plough forego,
The buxom milk-maid's simple treat,
The bliss of country life forget,
For tumult here
And toil severe,
A gun their pillow when they sleep,
And when they wake, are wak'd to weep.

Dick Brothers said, "The time will come,
"When war no more shall prowl the sea,
"Nor men for pride or plunder roam,
"And my millenium brings them home,
"How'eer dispers'd through each degree."
If Richard proves a prophet true,
Why may not we be quiet too,
And turn our bull-dogs into lambs,
Saw off the horns of battering rams
As well as Europe's sons?
Ye Quakers! see with pure delight,
The times approach when men of might,
And squadrons roving round the ball,
Shall fight each other not at all,
Or fight with wooden guns.

And yet that Being you address
Who shaped old Chaos into form,
May speak—and with a word suppress
The tryant and the storm.

[139] From the Time-Piece, October 31, 1797. The following account of the launch is given in the same issue:

"Boston, October 23, The Launch! On Saturday last at fifteen minutes P. M. the frigate Constitution was launched into the adjacent element, on which she now rides an elegant and superb specimen of American naval architecture, combining the unity of wisdom, strength, and beauty. On a signal being given from on board, her ordnance, on shore, announced to the neighboring Country, that the Constitution was secure."

ODE X[140]

To Santone Samuel

The Millennial Prophet, on his System of Universal Pacification

With aspect wild, in ranting strain
You bring the brilliant period near,
When monarchy will close her reign
And wars and warriors disappear;
The lion and the lamb will stray,
And, social, walk the woodland way.

I fear, with superficial view
You contemplate dame nature's plan:—
She various forms of being drew,
And made the common tryant—man:
She form'd them all with wise design,
Distinguish'd each, and drew the line.

Observe the lion's visage bold
His iron tooth, his murderous claw,
His aspect cast in anger's mould;
The strength of steel is in his paw:
Could he be meant with lambs to stray
Or feed along the woodland way?

Since first his race on earth began
War was his trade and war will be:
And when he quits that ancient plan
With milder natures to agree,
He will be changed to something new
And have some other part to do.

One system see through all this frame,
Apparent discord still prevails;
The forest yields to active flame,
The ocean swells with stormy gales;
No season did the God decree
When leagued in friendship these should be.

And do you think that human kind
Can shun the all-pervading law—
That passion's slave we ever find—
Who discord from their nature draw:—
Ere discord can from man depart
He must assume a different heart.

Yet in the slow advance of things
A time may come our race may rise,
By reason's aid to stretch their wings,
And see the light with other eyes;
And when the ancient mist is pass'd;
To find their nature changed at last,

The sun himself, the powers ordain,
Should in no perfect circle stray;
He shuns the equatorial plane,
Prefers an odd serpentine way,
And lessens yearly, sophists prove,
His angle in the voids above.

When moving in his ancient line,
And no oblique ecliptic near,
With some new influence he may shine
But you and I will not be here
To see the lion shed his teeth
Or kings forget the trade of death.

[140] From the edition of 1815, with the exception of the title, which is, "The Millennium—To a Ranting Field Orator."

ODE XI[141]

To the Philadelphia Doctors

"And the Angel Michael disputed with the Devil about the body of Moses."—Ancient History.

"To bleed or not to bleed—that is the question!
Whether 'tis better in our beds to suffer
The slights and snufflings of outrageous doctors,
Or by the Lancet—quit them."

In ancient days divines, in dismal humour,
With disputation kept the presses going;
Wrangled about some wonderous mighty things
The difference "'twixt a shadow and a shade,"
And scribbled much of "way of man with maid."
At length, as fades the crown
Their bludgeons they lay down;
And you, wise doctors, take the wrangle up,
Each cursing all who will not drink his cup.

Ah, Philadelphians! still to knaves a prey,
Take your old philosophic way;
When from the native spring you seiz'd your draught,
Health bloom'd on every face, and all was gay—
Dejection was remote—and Nature laugh'd.
A question now, of mighty weight is put,
Whether, to bleed a man is best, or not,
When scarce three drops (or not one drop) remains
In the poor devil's veins!—

Well! you decide, who are in Galen read—
Take Boorhaave's, if you please—whatever system—
(Why are men such that doctors can enlist 'em?)
Whether your methods be the right or wrong,
And man's existence shorten or prolong,
We feverish fellows, must be—put to bed.

The secret has leak'd out—be cautious doctors
(The whole shall be disclos'd in room with lock'd doors)
Old women, with their simple herbs and teas
(And asking hardly two-pence for their fees)
Disarm this dreadful epidemic fever;
Make it as tame and innocent,
(Whether home-bred or from West Indies sent)
As Continental soldier, turn'd to Weaver.

[141] From the Time-Piece, November 13, 1797.

ODE XII[142]

The Crows and the Carrion

A Medical Story

If Ephraim on his bed complains
Of feverish pulse and boiling veins,
And throbs and pulses in his brains,

Then round him flock a ghastly crew
Of doctors old and doctors new,
And doctors, some—the Lord knows who.

Hoping the men had learned their trade,
Poor Ephraim begs them for their aid,
And promises they shall be paid.

Each quotes some book, by way of sham,
Or reads some text from Sydenham,
Which some approve, and some condemn.

At once he hears a barbarous noise,
Like that from herds of butchers' boys,
That ever hope of life destroys.

He promises all bills to pay,
But they proceed in angry fray—
Poor Ephraim frets—and well he may.

Each looks at each with vengeful eyes,
As if contending for a prize
He wants his share—when Ephraim dies.

One talks of cure by Calomel;
But his wise brother, Sydrophel,
Swears, 'tis the readiest way to hell.

While one the lancet recommends,
Another for a blister sends,
And each his every cure defends.

Weary of all they have to say,
At last the patient faints away:
Poor Ephraim swoons—and well he may.

In Fancy's dreams, he thinks he roams
In realms where doctor Satan foams,
With Sydrophels and Curry-combs.

Revived at length, he begs release,
And whines, "Do let your quarrels cease,
Do, doctors, let me die in peace.

"Oh! had I sent for doctress Nan,
Or anything but cruel man,
To put me on my legs again:

"She, with her cooling tamarind tea,
At least would not have murdered me—
Come! if you love me, do agree.

"She would have held my dizzy head—
She would have something to me read—
Or would have somewhat cheering said.

"Good heavens! you cannot all be right—
O do not scratch!—O do not bite!—
Good doctors, do not, do not fight!"—

Here they began a louder fray—
Oh! Ephraim's dead!—to them all play—
Poor Ephraim dies!—and well he may.

[142] Text from the edition of 1809. The title of the newspaper version was "To the Philadelphia Doctors," with the following motto: "And he said unto him, Physician Heal Thyself."

ODE XIII[143]

A Soldier should be made of Sterner Stuff

On Deborah Gannet

The American heroine, who on Tuesday last presented a petition to Congress for a pension, in consideration of services rendered during the whole of the late war, in the character of a common follower in the regular armies of America

Ye congress men and men of weight,
Who fill the public chairs,
And many a favor have conferr'd
On some, unknown to Mars;
And ye, who hold the post of fame,
The helmsmen of our great affairs,
Afford a calm, attentive ear
To her who handled sword and spear,
A heroine in a bold career,
Assist a war-worn dame.

With the same vigorous soul inspired
As Joan of Arc, of old,
With zeal against the Briton fired,
Her spirit warm and bold,
She march'd to face her country's foes
Disguised in male attire:
Where'er they prowl'd through field or town
With steady step she follow'd on;
Resolved the conflict to sustain,
She met them on the hill, the plain,
And hostile to the English reign,
She hurl'd the blasting fire.

Now for such generous toils endured,
Her day of warfare done,
In life's decline at length reward
This faithful amazon:
She asks no thousands at your hands,
Though mark'd with many a scar;
She asks no share of indian lands,
Though lands you have to spare:

But something in the wane of days
To make her snug, and keep her warm,
A cottage, and the cheery blaze,
To shield her from the storm;
And something to the pocket too,
Your bounty might afford,
Of her, who did our foes pursue
With bayonet, gun, and sword.

Reflect how many tender ties
A female must forego
Ere to the martial camp she flies
To meet the invading foe:
How many bars has nature placed,
And custom many more,
Lest slighted woman should be graced
With trophies gain'd in war.
All these she nobly overcame,
And scorn'd a censuring age,
Join'd in the ranks, her road to fame,
Despis'd the Briton's rage;
And men, who, with contracted mind,
All arrogant, condemn
And make disgrace in womankind
What honor is in them.

[143] Published in the Time-Piece, December 4, 1797, and reprinted in the edition of 1815, the text of which I have used, though I have retained the title of the newspaper version. In the 1815 edition the title is "The Heroine of the Revolution. To the men in power," with the note "On December 23, 1797, Deborah Gannet presented a petition to congress for a pension, in consideration of services rendered during the whole of the American Revolutionary war, in the rank of a common soldier in the regular armies of the United States. The above lines were written on this occasion, at the request of the heroine. It is needless to say, she had a competency bestowed on her during her natural life." Freneau's daughter has thus recounted the circumstances under which the affair became known to the poet:

"While editor of the Time-Piece his office was thronged with visitors mostly wanting favors of one kind or another. One day he came into dinner and told Mrs. Freneau that there had been rather an eccentric character in the office that morning, telling him that she had served through the Revolutionary War in man's attire and had received several wounds and showed the scars. All he could do for her was to send her to Washington with a petition, which he did. Her name was Deborah Gannet. She went to Congress, presented her petition, and received her pension. Though he put not his name to it, it was immediately known, as many of the members were his correspondents, also Thomas Jefferson, the President."

ON THE FEDERAL CITY[144]

1797

All human things must have their rise,
And Rome advanced from little size
Till future ages saw her grown
The mistress of the world, then known.

So, bounding on Potowmac's flood,
Where ancient oaks so lately stood
An infant city grows apace
Intended for a ruling race.

Here capitols of awful height—
Already burst upon the sight,
And buildings, meant for embryo kings
Display their fronts and spread their wings.

This city bodes no common fate—
All other towns, as books relate,
With huts at first were thinly spread,
With hovels mean, or humble shed.

But matters here are quite reversed,
Here, palaces are built the first,
And late will common rustics come
In such abodes to find a home.

Meantime, it will be fair and just
(Nor will our congress fret, we trust)
If while the poor at distance lurk—
Themselves do their own dirty work.

Rome's earliest citizens were thieves,
So history tells, and man believes,
May matters be again reversed,
May they who here inhabit first
Instruct the late historians pen
To write—that they were honest men.

[144] From the 1815 edition. A young Englishman, Thomas Twining, who visited Washington in 1796, describes it as follows: "Having crossed an extensive tract of level country somewhat resembling an English heath, I entered a large wood through which a very imperfect road had been made, principally by removing the trees or the upper parts of them in the usual manner. After some time this indistinct way assumed more the appearance of a regular avenue, the trees having been cut down in a straight line although no habitation of any kind was visible. I had no doubt but I was now riding along one of the streets of the metropolitan city. I continued in this spacious avenue for half a mile and then came out upon a large spot cleared of wood, in the center of which I saw two unfinished buildings and men at work on one of them. Advancing and speaking to these workmen, they informed me that I was in the center of the city and that the building was the Capitol. Looking from where I stood I saw on every side a thick wood pierced with avenues in a more or less perfect state."

THE ROYAL COCKNEYS IN AMERICA[145]

1797

Why travel so far from your insular home,
Ye cockneys of London, and all in a foam,
To talk, and to talk, with coxcombical phiz,
And tell what a nuisance democracy is:
Twas a lesson we learn'd
When you were concern'd
In wishing success to the vast preparations
To conquer and pillage the royal-plantations.

We Americans far from your king-ridden isle
Do humbly beseech you, all democrat haters,
For fear that your bodies or souls you defile,
Would fairly go off, with your lies and your satires:
The monarch you worship requests your assistance,
And how can you help him at such a long distance?
Tis an Englishman's creed,
And they all have agreed
That, out of old England, there's nothing, they swear,
That can with old England—dear England—compare;
So, away to old England, or we'll send you there.

A swarm is arrived from the hives of the east,
Determined to sap the republic's foundation;
And who is their leader, their scribe, and their priest?
Why, Porcupine Peter,
The democrat-eater,
Transported by Pitt, at the charge of the nation,
To preach to the demos a new revelation.

His patrons in England, and some who are here,
Consented to join in his sink of scurrility,
And gave him, tis certain, four thousand a year
To print a damn'd libel, to please our nobility:
Where I—is the hero of all that is said
I—Corporal Cobbett[A]-a man of the blade!
If his countrymen thought
That for nothing we fought
And they mean to regain, by the aid of his press,
A country they lost, to their shame and disgrace,
Let them fairly engage
In some liberal page:
We can give them an answer, not relish'd by some,
Who will see their friend Peter go, whimpering, home.

[A] Alluding to the egotistical style of his writings.—Freneau's note.

[145] From the edition of 1815.

TO THE SCRIBE OF SCRIBES[146]

By the gods of the poets, Apollo and Jove,
By the muse who directs me, the spirits that move,
I council you, Peter, once more, to retire
Or satire shall pierce, with her arrows of fire.

Be careful to stop in your noisy career,
Or homeward retreat, for your danger is near:
The clouds are collecting to burst on your head,
Their sulphur to dart, or their torrents to shed.

Along with the tears, I foresee you will weep,
In the cave of oblivion I put you to sleep;—
This dealer in scandal, this bladder of gall,
This sprig of Parnassus must go to the wall.

From a star of renown in the reign of night
He has dwindled away to a little rush-light:
Then snuff it, and snuff it, while yet it remains
And Peter will leave you the snuff for your pains.—

[146] From the edition of 1815.

TO THE
AMERICANS OF THE UNITED STATES[147]

First published November, 1797

Men of this passing age!—whose noble deeds
Honour will bear above the scum of Time:
Ere this eventful century expire,
Once more we greet you with our humble rhyme:
Pleased, if we meet your smiles, but—if denied,
Yet, with Your sentence, we are satisfied.

Catching our subjects from the varying scene
Of human things; a mingled work we draw,
Chequered with fancies odd, and figures strange,
Such, as no courtly poet ever saw;
Who writ, beneath some Great Man's ceiling placed;
Travelled no lands, nor roved the watery waste.

To seize some features from the faithless past;
Be this our care—before the century close:
The colours strong!—for, if we deem aright,
The coming age will be an age of prose:
When sordid cares will break the muses' dream,
And Common Sense be ranked in seat supreme.

Go, now, dear book; once more expand your wings:
Still in the cause of Man severely true:
Untaught to flatter pride, or fawn on kings;—
Trojan, or Tyrian,[A]—give them both their due.—
When they are right, the cause of both we plead,
And both will please us well,—if both will read.

[A] Tros, Tyriusque mihi nullo discrimine agetur.—Virg.—Freneau's note.

[147] This was used as the introductory poem to Volume II of the 1809 edition.

TO A NIGHT-FLY[148]

Approaching a Candle

Attracted by the taper's rays,
How carelessly you come to gaze
On what absorbs you in its blaze!

O Fly! I bid you have a care:
You do not heed the danger near;
This light, to you a blazing star.

Already you have scorch'd your wings:
What courage, or what folly brings
You, hovering near such blazing things?

Ah me! you touch this little sun—
One circuit more and all is done!—
Now to the furnace you are gone!—

Thus folly with ambition join'd,
Attracts the insects of mankind,
And sways the superficial mind:

Thus, power has charms which all admire,
But dangerous is that central fire—
If you are wise in time retire.—

[148] First published in the Time-Piece, December 8, 1797. Text from the edition of 1815.

THE INDIAN CONVERT[149]

An Indian, who lived at Muskingum, remote,
Was teazed by a parson to join his dear flock,
To throw off his blanket and put on a coat,
And of grace and religion to lay in a stock.

The Indian long slighted an offer so fair,
Preferring to preaching his fishing and fowling;
A sermon to him was a heart full of care,
And singing but little superior to howling.

At last by persuasion and constant harassing
Our Indian was brought to consent to be good;
He saw that the malice of Satan was pressing,
And the means to repel him not yet understood.

Of heaven, one day, when the parson was speaking,
And painting the beautiful things of the place,
The convert, who something substantial was seeking,
Rose up, and confessed he had doubts in the case.—

Said he, Master Minister, this place that you talk of,
Of things for the stomach, pray what has it got;
Has it liquors in plenty?—If so I'll soon walk off
And put myself down in the heavenly spot.

You fool (said the preacher) no liquors are there!
The place I'm describing is most like our meeting,
Good people, all singing, with preaching and prayer;
They live upon these without eating or drinking.

But the doors are all locked against folks that are wicked;
And you, I am fearful, will never get there:—
A life of Repentance must purchase the ticket,
And few of you, Indians, can buy it, I fear.

Farewell (said the Indian) I'm none of your mess;
On victuals, so airy, I faintish should feel,
I cannot consent to be lodged in a place
Where's there's nothing to eat and but little to steal.

[149] First published in the Time-Piece, December 11, 1797, under the title, "Thomas Swagum, an Oneida Indian and a Missionary Parson." Text from the 1809 edition.

THE PETTIFOGGER,[150]

or Fee Simple, Esquire

In a town I could mention, a lawyer resided
As cunning as Satan, and fond of disputes;
In wrangles and quarrels he ever confided,
To keep on his docquet a long string of suits.

Of little importance, nay, paltry and mean,
The matter contested, a pig or a hen;
But one thing he stuck to, he ever was seen
To have for his pleading just one pound ten.

With pleasure he saw that the quarrels increased,
Each day he had business from wranglesome men,
But all to the 'squire was a holiday feast
While he got his dear Fee, the one pound ten.

A parchment, Caveto, hung up in his hall
Which cautioned the reader to read and attend,
That for one pound ten he would quibble and brawl,
Twist, lie, and do all things a cause to defend.

Sometimes when the limits of lots were disputed
He would put all to rights in the turn of a straw;
From the tenth of an inch he his pocket recruited
Till he made the two parties curse lawyer and law.

Thus matters went on, and the lawyer grown rich
Fed high, and swilled wine 'till the dropsy began
To bloat up his guts to so monstrous a pitch,
You would hardly have known him to be the same man.
At last he departed, and when he had died,
His worship arriving at Beelzebub's den;
How much is the entrance (demanded the guide?—)
Old Devil made answer, 'Tis One Pound Ten.

[150] First published in the Time-Piece, December 13, 1797. Text from the 1809 edition.

ON A CELEBRATED PERFORMER ON THE VIOLIN[151]

Who, as it was said, went out, in the year 1797, to excite discontents and insurrections in the western country, particularly, in Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee

Musician of the west! whose vast design
Schemes our new states with England to combine;
How vain the hope, with violin and bow,
Such feeble arms, to work internal wo!
How weak the attempt our union to divide
With not a sword or pistol at your side!
Not even a drum your engineer employs:—
He's right—a drum would blast the plot, by noise:
All must be done in midnight silence, all
Your plans must ripen or your projects fall.
Unknown, unseen, till in the destined hour
Descends the stroke of trans-atlantic power!

By music's note to sway the western wild
Indeed is new;—we heard it and we smiled.
In cold December's iron-hearted reign
Would you with blushing blossoms deck the plain;
Would you with sound immure the Thirteen Stars,
Or plant a garland on the front of Mars?
To sound, not sense, once brutes, they say, advanced,
When Orpheus whistled, fauns and satyrs danced—
You are no Orpheus—and it may be true
He play'd some tunes that are unknown to you.
Hopes, such as yours, on cat-gut who would place;
On tenor, treble, counter, or the bass:

Who arm'd with horse-hair, hopes a world to win
Who gains dominion from a violin?
Such if there was, in times, the lord knows when,
He must have been at least the first of men—
But now—the world would have not much to prize
In such a warfare where no soldier dies:
Thus would it say—by sad experience taught,
'Oh! may we never fight as these have fought!
'These to the charge with Thespian arms advanced,
'And when they should have fought, the soldiers danced;
'They had no drums, they felt no martial flame,
'But, cold as Christmas, to the conflict came!'

My dreams present you thrumming on your string
Playing at proper stands, God save the king!
I see you march, a pedlar with his pack,
And that poor fiddle swung athwart your back,
(Like Reynard from some hen-roost hurrying home
With plunder'd poultry for the feast to come)
Trudging the wilds, on bold adventures bent,
The woods at once your coverlet and tent,
To fierce rebellions our back-woods to call—
The attempt how mighty! and the means how small.

Amphion once, the classic stories say,
When on his organ he began to play,
So soft, so sweet, so melting were his tunes
That even the savage rocks danced rigadoons,
The trees, themselves, with frantic passions fired
Leap'd from their roots and every note admired:
Quitting the spot, where many a year they grew
Quick to the music sprung the enchanted crew,
Form'd o'er his head a sun-repelling power
And bow'd their shadowy heads to music's power.
If what, this moment, some relate be true
Still greater wonders are reserved for you.

Your music, far, all Amphion's art exceeds,
Not trees and rocks, but provinces it leads.
All Alleghany capers to the sound,
And southward moves to meet the iberian bound;
Kentucky hears the soul-enlivening notes
And on the artist and his music doats;
Remote Sanduskie spreads her eager wings,
And wild Miami with the concert rings;
Tiptoe, for flight, stands every hill and tree
From Huron's shores to savage Tennessee;
Arthur St. Clair might soon its influence feel;
But Arthur knows no music—but of steel:
Arthur St. Clair attends, with listening ears,
And when the purpose of your march appears,
Such music only will excite his rage,
He'll come, and drive you from your dancing stage;
Cut every string, the bridge, and sound-board seize,
By your own cat-gut hang you to the trees,
And bid you know, too late, It is no jest
To play rebellion's music to the west.

[151] From the edition of 1815.

NEW YEAR'S VERSES[152]

The Carrier of the Time-Piece, presents the following Address to His
Patrons, with the Compliments of the Season

Fellow Citizens:

The glass has run—see ninety-seven has fled,
And ninety-eight comes on with equal speed;
While safe from harm, beneath their spreading vine,
Columbia's sons in virtuous actions shine:
Their generous contributions feed the poor,
And sends them smiling from their patron's door;

Sweet Peace and Plenty crowns the festive board,
Where man reveres no domineering lord;
But free from scenes of desolating war,
Where kingdoms clash and mighty empires jar,
He lives secure from all the dread alarms
Of fell invaders and the din of arms:—
Such scenes now past have once defil'd our shore
And drench'd Columbia in her children's gore,
Let man exult, the raging storm is o'er.

To you, my customers, I bring the news
Of feuds domestic and of foreign woes;
Of Liberty extending her domain,
And Truth triumphant in her glorious reign.

Consider, patrons through the storm and snow
With constant care I am oblig'd to go;
Shivering and cold, I want the lively cup
To cheer my heart and keep my spirits up:
To stern winter's gloom can joy inspire;
Now social circles grace the Hickory fire;
And on your board, for friends and neighbors spread,
The turkey smokes the industrious peasant fed:
But not to me these blessings are dispos'd,
Fortune's capricious hand to me is clos'd;
I am condemn'd to labour long and hard,
Unknown my troubles, scanty my reward.

Such is the humble German's life of toil,
Who now solicits your approving smile;
My grateful heart still let your bounty share,
And Peace and Freedom reign from year to year.
New-York, January 1, 1798.

[152] This was published as a broadside, and distributed with the paper. As far as I can discover Freneau never reprinted it.

PART V

THE FINAL PERIOD OF WANDERING

1798—1809

THE FINAL PERIOD OF WANDERING

1798—1809[153]

ON ARRIVING IN SOUTH CAROLINA, 1798[154]

A happy gale presents, once more,
The gay and ever verdant shore,
Which every pleasure will restore
To those who come again:
You, Carolina, from the seas
Emerging, claim all power to please,
Emerge with elegance and ease
From Neptune's briny main.

To find in you a happier home,
Retirement for the days to come,
From northern coasts you saw me roam,
By flattering fancy moved:
I came, and in your fragrant woods,
Your magic isles and gay abodes,
In rural haunts and passing floods
Review'd the scenes I loved,

When sailing oft, from year to year
And leaving all I counted dear,
I found the happy country here
Where manly hearts abound;
Where friendship's kind extended hand,
All social, leads a generous band;
Where heroes, who redeem'd the land
Still live to be renown'd:

Who live to fill the trump of fame,
Or, dying, left the honor'd name
Which Athens had been proud to claim
From her historian's page—
These with invading thousands strove,
These bade the foe their prowess prove,
And from their old dominions drove
The tyrants of the age.

Long, long may every good be thine,
Sweet country, named from Caroline,
Once seen in Britain's court to shine
The fairest of the fair:
Still may the wanderer find a home
Where'er thy varied forests bloom,
And peace and pleasure with him come
To take their station here.

Here Ashley, with his brother stream,
By Charleston gliding, all, may claim,
That ever graced a poet's dream
Or sooth'd a statesman's cares;
She, seated near her forests blue,
Which winter's rigor never knew,
With half an ocean in her view
Her shining turrets rears.

Here stately oaks of living green
Along the extended coast are seen,
That rise beneath a heaven serene,
Unfading through the year—
In groves the tall Palmetto grows,
In shades inviting to repose,
The fairest, loveliest, scenes disclose—
All nature charms us here.

Dark wilds are thine, the yellow field,
And rivers by no frost congeal'd,
And, Ceres, all that you can yield
To deck the festive board;
The snow white fleece, from pods that grows,
And every seed that Flora sows—
The orange and the fig-tree shows
A paradise restored.

There rural love to bless the swains
In the bright eye of beauty reigns,
And brings a heaven upon the plains
From some dear Emma's charms;
Some Laura fair who haunts the mead,
Some Helen, whom the graces lead,
Whose charms the charms of her exceed
That set the world in arms.

And distant from the sullen roar
Of ocean, bursting on the shore,
A region rises, valued more
Than all the shores possess:
There lofty hills their range display,
Placed in a climate ever gay,
From wars and commerce far away,
Sweet nature's wilderness.

There all that art has taught to bloom,
The streams that from the mountain foam,
And thine, Eutaw, that distant roam,
Impart supreme delight:
The prospect to the western glade,
The ancient forest, undecay'd—
All these the wildest scenes have made
That ever awed the sight.

There Congaree his torrent pours,
Saluda, through the forest roars,
And black Catawba laves his shores
With waters from afar,
Till mingled with the proud Santee,
Their strength, united, finds the sea,
Through many a plain, by many a tree,
Then rush across the bar.

But, where all nature's fancies join,
Were but a single acre mine,
Blest with the cypress and the pine,
I would request no more;
And leaving all that once could please,
The northern groves and stormy seas—
I would not change such scenes as these
For all that men adore.

[153] This period comprises the time between the poet's abandonment of the Time-Piece in New York in 1798, and his final farewell to the sea, which was, in reality, in 1807. During this time Freneau lived in retirement at Mount Pleasant, making now and then voyages along the southern coast and to the Madeira Islands. The poems of the period dwell largely on the dangers of monarchy. He became more and more philosophical as he grew older. He delighted in his leisure hours to translate from the old Latin writers, and to make moralizing verses of a somewhat tedious nature. I have omitted all of the translations of this period and most of the moralizings.

[154] Freneau sailed as passenger to Charleston, January 3, 1798, and arrived on February 3, after a rough voyage. He sailed back from Charleston in the ship Maria, March 7, arriving in New York one week later. Text from the 1815 edition.

ODE TO THE AMERICANS[155]

That the progress of liberty and reason in the world is slow and gradual;
but, considering the present state of things, and the light
of science universally spreading, that it cannot be
long impeded, or its complete establishment
prevented.—1798

They who survey the human stage,
In reason's view; through time's past age,
Will find, whatever nature plann'd
Came, first, imperfect from her hand,
Or what ourselves imperfect call;
In nature's eye, though perfect all—

To man she gave to improve, adorn;
But let him halt—and all things turn
To assume their wild primeval cast,
The growth of a neglected waste.

Yond' stately trees, so fresh and fair,
That now such golden burthens bear,
Were once mean shrubs that, far from view,
In desert woods, unthrifty grew.

Man saw the seeds of something good
In these rude children of the wood;
Apply'd the knife, and pruned with care,
Till art has made them what they are.

With curious eye, search history's page,
And Man observe, through every age;
At first a mere barbarian, he
Bore nothing good, (like that wild tree).

At length by thought and reason's aid,
Reflection piercing night's dark shade,
Improvements gain'd, by slow advance
Direction, not the work of chance.

Forsaking, first, the savage den
And fellow-beasts less fierce than men,
New plans they form'd for war or power,
And sunk the ditch and raised the tower.

In course of years the human mind,
Advancing slow proved more refined,
Less brutal in external show,
But native mischief lurk'd below.

Despots and kings begun their part,
And millions fell by rules of art;
Or malice, rankling all the while,
Lay hid beneath the treacherous smile.

Religion brought her potent aid
To kings, their subjects to degrade—
Religion!—to profane your name
The hag of superstition came,

And seized your place, the world to ensnare,
A bitter harvest doom'd to bear!
And priests, or history much deceives,
Turn'd aide-de-camps to sceptred thieves.

At last that Cherub from the skies,
(Our nature meant to humanize)
And sway, without a king or crown,
Philosophy, from heaven came down.

Adorn'd with all her native charms
She clasp'd her offspring in her arms,
In hope the mists of night to chase
And hold them in her fond embrace.

She, only she, for virtue warm
Dissolved the spell and broke the charm,
That bade mankind their hands imbue
In blood, to please the scheming few.

Arm'd with a dart of fire and love
She left the seats and courts above,
And her celestial power display'd
Not to compel, but to persuade.

The moment she had whirl'd her sling
Each trembling war-hawk droop'd his wing:
They saw that reason's game was won,
They saw the trade of tyrants done:

And all was calm—she saw, well pleased,
The havoc done, the tumult ceased,
She saw her throne was now adored,
She saw the reign of peace restored,

And said, 'I leave you—pray, be wise!
'I'm on a visit to the skies,
'Let incense on my altars burn
'And you'll be blest till I return.'

But sad reverse!—when out of sight
The fiends of darkness watch'd her flight—
What she had built, they soon displaced,
Her temples burn'd, her tracks effaced.

Their force they join'd, to quench her flame,
A thousand ghastly legions came
To blast the blossom in the bud
And retrograde to chains and blood.

The people—to be bought and sold,
Were still the prize they wish'd to hold;—
All peasants, soldiers, sailors, slaves,
The common sink of rogues and knaves.

Yet, nature must her circle run—
Can they arrest the rising sun?
Prevent his warm reviving ray,
Or shade the influence of the day?

If Europe to the yoke returns,
Columbia at the idea spurns—
Let Britain wield barbarian rage
We meet her here, through every stage.

In vain her navy spreads its sails,
The strength of mind at last prevails;
And reason! thy prodigious power
Has brought it to its closing hour.

Appeal to arms henceforth should cease,
And man might learn to live in peace;
No kings with iron hearts should reign,
To seize old ocean's free domain.

Americans! would you conspire
To extinguish this increasing fire?
Would you, so late from fetters freed,
Join party in so base a deed?

Would you dear freedom sacrifice,
Bid navies on the ocean rise,
Be bound by military laws,
And all, to aid a tyrant's cause?

Oh, no! but should all shame forsake,
And gratitude her exit make,
Could you, as thousands say you can,
Desert the common cause of man?

A curse would on your efforts wait
Old british sway to reinstate;
No hireling hosts could force a crown
Nor keep the bold republic down:

The rising race, combined once more,
Would honor to our cause restore,
And in your doom and downfall seal
Such woes as wicked kings shall feel.

O liberty! seraphic name,
With whom from heaven fair virtue came,
For whom, through years of misery toss'd,
One hundred thousand lives were lost;

Still shall all grateful hearts to thee
Incline the head and bend the knee;
For thee this dream of life forego
And quit the world when thou dost go.

[155] From the 1815 edition.

ON THE WAR PATRONS, 1798[156]

Weary of peace, and warm for war,
Who first will mount the iron car?
Who first appear, to shield the Stars,
Who foremost, take the field of Mars?
For death and blood, with bold design,
Who bids a hundred legions join?

To see invasions in the air
From France, the moon, or heaven knows where;
In freedom's mouth to fix the gag,
And aid afford t' a wither'd hag;
This is the purpose of a few;
But this we see will scarcely do.
Who bears the brunt, or pays the bill?
The friends of war alone can tell:
Observe, six thousand heroes stand
With not three privates to command;
No matter for the nation's debt
If some can wear the epaulette.

If reason no attention finds,
What magic shall unite all minds?
If war a patronage ensures
That fifty thousand men procures,
Is such a force to humble France?
Will these against her arms advance?
To fight her legions, near the Rhine,
Or England's force in Holland join?

In dreams, that on the brain intrude,
When nature takes her sleepy mood,
And when she frolics through the mind,
By sovereign reason unconfined,
When her main spring is all uncoil'd
And fancy acts in whimsy wild—
I saw a chieftain, cap-a-pee,
Arm'd for the battle,—who but he?—
I saw him draw his rusty sword,
A present from a London lord:
The point was blunt, the edge too dull
I deem'd to cleave a dutchman's scull;
And with this sword he made advance,
And with this sword he struck at France—
This sword return'd without its sheath,
Too weak to cause a single death;
And there he found his work complete,
And then he made a safe retreat,
Where folly finds the camp of rest
And patience learns to do her best.

What next, will policy contrive
To bid the days of war arrive:
Is there no way to pick a quarrel,
And deck the martial brow with laurel?
Is there no way to coax a fight
And gratify some men of might?

To some, who sit at helm of state,
State-business is no killing weight,
They sign their names, inquire the news,
Look wise,—take care to get their dues;
At levees, note down who attends—
And there the mighty business ends:
To some that deal in state affairs
The world comes easy, with its cares;
To some who wish for crown and king,
A quarrel is a charming thing:
They, seated at the fountain head
Quaff bowls of nectar, and are fed
With all the danties of the land
That cash, or market may command:
But others doom'd to station low,
Their choicest draughts are but—so, so.
Hard knocks are theirs, and blood, and wounds,
Ten thousand thumps for twenty pounds:
Their youth they sell for paltry pay
For sixpence, and six kicks a day,
A pound of pork and rotten bread,
A coat lapell'd, with badge of red;
A life of din from year to year,
And thus concludes the mad career.

Ye rising race, consider well
What has been read, or what we tell.
From wars all regal mischiefs flow,
And kings make wars a raree-show,
A business to their post assign'd
To torture, damn, enslave mankind.
For this, of old, did priests anoint 'em,
Be ours the task to disappoint 'em.

But when a foe your soil invades,
A soldier is the first of trades;
Then, every step a soldier takes,
Reflection in his breast awakes,
That duty calls him to the field
Till all invaders are expell'd;
That honor sends him to the fight,
That he is acting what is right,
To guard the soil, and all that's dear;
From such as would be tyrants here.

[156] Text from the 1815 edition. During the early part of the year 1798 America was full of rumors of a French invasion. Talleyrand was scattering obscure hints that an invading army was preparing; that France well knew that America was divided; that only the Federalists would support the administration. The Federalists, supported by President Adams and by Washington, took active measures at once. In July they formally abrogated the treaty between the two countries and authorized the President to grant letters to shipmen empowering them to seize French vessels. The army was put into readiness, and financial legislation was enacted to procure means for carrying on the war. All believed that war with France was inevitable.

TO THE DEMOCRATIC COUNTRY EDITORS[157]

On a Charge of Bribery

You, Journalists, are bribed—that's clear,
And paid French millions by the year;
We see it in the coats you wear;

Such damning, such convincing proof
Of such a charge, is strong enough—
Your suits are made of costly stuff.

Dear boys! you lodge in mansions grand—
In time you'll own six feet of land,
Where now the sexton has command.

Your lodging is in garret high;
But where your best possessions lie,
Yourselves know best—and Him on high.

And have you had a foreign bribe?—
Then, why so lean?—shall we describe
The leanness of your honest tribe?

Why did you not with Tories join
To hold the British king divine—
And all his mandates very fine?

Then had your faces shined with fat—
Then had you worn the gold-laced hat—
And—said your lessons—very pat.—

Your lives are, now, continual trial,
Existence, constant self-denial,
To keep down some, who would be royal.

For public good you wear out types,
For public good you get dry wipes—
For public good you may get—stripes.

One half your time in Federal court,
On libel charge—you're made a sport—
You pay your fees—nor dare retort.—

All pleasure you are sworn to shun;
Are always cloistered, like a nun,
And glad to hide from Ragman's dun.—

All night you sit by glare of lamp,
Like Will o' Wisp in vapoury swamp,
To write of armies and the camp.—

You write—compile—compile and write,
'Till you have nearly lost your sight—
Then off to jail; and so, good night.

Turned out as poor as Christ-church rat,
Once more the trade you would be at
Which never yet made lean man fat.

You send your journals far and wide,
And though undone, and though belied;
You choose to take the patriot side.

Your works are in Kentucky found;
And there your politics go round—
And there you trust them many a pound.—

At home, to folks residing near,
You grant a credit, half a year;
And pine, mean while, on cakes and beer.

The time elapsed when friends should pay,
You urge your dun from day to day;
And so you must—and so you may.

One customer begins to fret,
And tells the dunner in a pet,
"Plague take the Printer and his debt:

"Ungrateful man—go hang—go burn—
"I read his paper night and morn,
"And now experience this return!

"Sir! was I not among the first
"Who did my name on paper trust,
"To help this Journalist accursed?

"Thus am I used for having signed:
"But I have spirit, he shall find—
"Ah me! the baseness of mankind!"

Thus, on you strive with constant pain,
The kindest tell you, call again!—
And you their humble dupe remain.

Who aims to prosper—should be sold—
If bribes are offered, take the gold,
Nor live to be forever fooled.

Salem.

[157] Found only in the edition of 1809. The anti-federal press opposed the administration of Adams, and the whole affair of the threatened French war.

THE SERIOUS MENACE[158]

Or Botany Bay and Nootka Sound: In answer to the Communications
of a Persecuting Royalist

Last week we heard a king's man say,
Do tell me where is Botany Bay?
There are, quoth he, a meddling few,
That shall go there—and we know who.

This Botany Bay is in an isle
Removed from us twelve thousand mile,
There rogues are banish'd, to atone
For roguish things in England done.

Ye vultures, here on sufferance fed,
Who curse the hand that gives you bread,
Recall your threats, or, by the way,
You'll find us act a serious play.

The haughty prince that England owns,
To make more room for royal sons,
Has given the hint, I would suspect—
And are you one of his Elect?

Ye busy tribe, of harpy face,
In search of power, in search of place,
Ye rancorous hearts, who build your all
On royal wrongs and freedom's fall,

This have we seen, and well we know,
Each son of freedom is your foe,
And these you would, unheard, convey
To places worse than Botany Bay.

Be cautious how you talk so loud—
Above your heads there hangs a cloud,
That, bursting with explosion vast,
May scatter vengeance in its blast;
And send you all, on th' devil's dray,
A longer road than—Botany Bay.

Another threat alarm'd us much—
(Indeed, we hourly meet with such)—
A cockney said, but spoke it low,
For fear the street his mind should know:
"And is there no sedition act?
("'Tis almost time to doubt the fact,)
"By which this gabbling crew are bound
"The nearest way to Nootka Sound?"
Can you but smile!—who would have thought
That they who writ, who march'd, who fought
For many a year, and little got
But liberty, and dearly bought
Must now away
With half their pay,
And seek on ocean's utmost bound
Their chance to starve at Nootka Sound!

This Nootka Sound, so far remote,
Would make us sing a serious note,
If it be true what travellers tell
That there a race of natives dwell
Who, when they would their brethren treat
And give them a regale of meat
Unchain their prisoners from the den,
And scrape the bones of bearded men.

God save us from so hard a fate!
As to be spitted, soon or late;
It is a lot that few admire—
So let us for a while retire;
And live to see some traitors drown'd
I' the deepest swash of Nootka Sound.

[158] Text from the 1815 edition.

REFLECTIONS[159]

On the Mutability of Things—1798

The time is approaching, deny it who may,
The days are not very remote,
When the pageant that glitter'd for many a day,
On the stream of oblivion will float.

The times are advancing when matters will turn,
And some, who are now in the shade,
And pelted by malice, or treated with scorn,
Will pay, in the coin that was paid:

The time it will be, when the people aroused,
For better arrangements prepare,
And firm to the cause, that of old they espoused,
Their steady attachment declare:

When tyrants will shrink from the face of the day,
Or, if they presume to remain,
To the tune of peccavi, a solo will play,
And lower the royalty strain:

When government favors to flattery's press
Will halt on their way from afar,
And people will laugh at the comical dress
Of the knights of the garter and star:

When a monarch, new fangled, with lawyer and scribe,
In junto will cease to convene,
Or take from old England a pitiful bribe,
To pamper his "highness serene;"

When virtue and merit will have a fair chance
The loaves and the fishes to share,
And Jefferson, you to your station advance,
The man for the president's chair:

When honesty, honor, experience, approved,
No more in disgrace will retire;
When fops from the places of trust are removed
And the leaders of faction retire.

[159] Text from the 1815 edition.

THE POLITICAL WEATHER-COCK[160]

'Tis strange that things upon the ground
Are commonly most steady found
While those in station proud
Are turned and twirled, or twist about,
Now here and there, now in or out,
Mere play things to a cloud.

See yonder influential man,
So late the stern Republican
While interest bore him up;
See him recant, abjure the cause,
See him support tyrannic laws,
The dregs of slavery's cup!

Thus, on yon' steeple towering high,
Where clouds and storms distracted fly,
The weather-cock is placed;
Which only while the storm does blow
Is to one point of compass true,
Then veers with every blast.

But things are so appointed here
That weather-cocks on high appear,
On pinnacle displayed,
While Sense, and Worth, and reasoning wights,
And they who plead for Human Rights,
Sit humble in the shade.

[160] From the 1809 edition.

REFLECTIONS[161]

On the Gradual Progress of Nations from Democratical States to
Despotic Empires

Mantua vae miserae nimium vicina Cremonae!—Virgil.

Oh fatal day! when to the Atlantic shore,
European despots sent the doctrine o'er,
That man's vast race was born to lick the dust;
Feed on the winds, or toil through life accurst;
Poor and despised, that rulers might be great
And swell to monarchs, to devour the state.

Whence came these ills, or from what causes grew
This vortex vast, that only spares the few,
Despotic sway, where every plague combined,
Distracts, degrades, and swallows up mankind;
Takes from the intellectual sun its light,
And shrouds the world in universal night?

Accuse not nature for the dreary scene,
That glooms her stage or hides her heaven serene,
She, equal still in all her varied ways,
An equal blessing to the world displays.
The suns that now on northern climates glow,
Will soon retire to melt Antarctic snow,
The seas she robb'd to form her clouds and rain,
Return in rivers to that source again;
But man, wrong'd man, borne down, deceived and vex'd,
Groans on through life, bewilder'd and perplex'd;
No suns on him but suns of misery shine,
Now march'd to war, now grovelling in the mine.
Chain'd, fetter'd, prostrate, sent from earth a slave,
To seek rewards in worlds beyond the grave.

If in her general system, just to all,
We nature an impartial parent call,
Why did she not on man's whole race bestow,
Those fine sensations angels only know;
Who, sway'd by reason, with superior mind
In nature's state all nature's blessings find,
Which shed through all, does all their race pervade,
In streams not niggard by a despot made?

Leave this a secret in great nature's breast,
Confess that all her works tend to the best,
Or own that man's neglected culture here
Breeds all the mischiefs that we feel or fear.
In all, except the skill to rule her race,
Man, wise and skilful, gives each part its place:
Each nice machine he plans, to reason true,
Adapting all things to the end in view,
But taught in this, the art himself to rule
His sense is folly, and himself a fool.

Where social strength resides, there rests, 'tis plain,
The power, mankind to govern and restrain:
This strength is not but in the social plan
Controling all, the common good of man,
That power concentred by the general voice,
In honest men, an honest people's choice,
With frequent change, to keep the patriot pure,
And from vain views of power the heart secure:
Here lies the secret, hid from Rome or Greece,
That holds a state in awe, yet holds in peace.

See through the world, in ages now retired,
Man foe to man, as policy required:
At some proud tyrant's nod what millions rose,
To extend their sway, and make a world their foes.
View Asia ravaged, Europe drench'd with blood,
In feuds whose cause no nation understood.
The cause we fear, of so much misery sown,
Known at the helm of state, and there alone.

Left to himself, wherever man is found,
In peace he aims to walk life's little round;
In peace to sail, in peace to till the soil,
Nor force false grandeur from a brother's toil.
All but the base, designing, scheming, few,
Who seize on nations with a robber's view,
With crowns and sceptres awe his dazzled eye,
And priests that hold the artillery of the sky;
These, these, with armies, navies, potent grown,
Impoverish man and bid the nations groan.
These with pretended balances of states
Keep worlds at variance, breed eternal hates,
Make man the poor base slave of low design,
Degrade his nature to its last decline,
Shed hell's worse blots on his exalted race,
And make them poor and mean, to make them base.

Shall views like these assail our happy land,
Where embryo monarchs thirst for wide command,
Shall a whole nation's strength and fair renown
Be sacrificed, to prop a tottering throne,
That, ages past, the world's great curse has stood,
Has throve on plunder, and been fed on blood.—
Americans! will you control such views?
Speak—for you must—you have no hour to lose.

[161] From the 1815 edition.

COMMERCE[162]

That internal commerce only, promotes the morals of a country situated
like America, and prevents its growth of luxury,
and its consequent vices

To every clime, through every sea
The bold adventurer steers;
In bounding barque, through each degree
His country's produce bears.—
How far more blest to stay at home
Than thus on Neptune's wastes to roam,
Where fervors melt, or frosts congeal—
Ah ye! with toils and hardships worn,
Condemn'd to face the briny foam;
Ah! from such fatal projects turn
The wave-dividing keel.

The product of the furrow'd plain—
Transferr'd to foreign shores,
To pamper pride and please the vain
The reign of kings restores:
Hence, every vice the sail imports,
The glare of crowns, the pomp of courts,
And War, with all his crimson train!
Thus man design'd to till the ground,
A stranger to himself is found—
Is sent to toil on yonder wave,
Is made the dreary ocean's sport,
Since commerce first to avarice gave
To sail the ocean round.

How far more wise the grave Chinese,
Who ne'er remotely stray,
But bid the world surmount the seas
And hard-earn'd tribute pay.
Hence, treasure to their country flows
Freed from the danger, and the woes
Of distant seas and dreary shores.
There commerce breeds no foreign war;
At home they find their wants supplied,
And ask, why nations come so far
To seek superfluous stores?

Americans! why half neglect
The culture of your soil?
From distant traffic why expect
The harvest of your toil?
At home a surer harvest springs
From mutual interchange of things,
Domestic duties to fulfil.—
Vast lakes within your realm abound
Where commerce now expands her sail,
Where hostile navies are not found
To bend you to their will.

[162] From the edition of 1815.

ON FALSE SYSTEMS[163]

Of Government, and the Generally Debased Condition of Mankind

Does there exist, or will there come
An age with wisdom to assume,
The Rights by heaven designed;
The Rights which man was born to claim,
From Nature's God which freely came,
To aid and bless mankind.—

No monarch lives, nor do I deem
There will exist one crown supreme
The world in peace to sway;
Whose first great view will be to place
On their true scale the human race,
And discord's rage allay.

Republics! must the task be your's
To frame the code which life secures,
And Right from man to man—
Are you, in Time's declining age,
Found only fit to tread the stage
Where tyranny began?

How can we call those systems just
Which bid the few, the proud, the first
Possess all earthly good;
While millions robbed of all that's dear
In silence shed the ceaseless tear,
And leeches suck their blood.

Great orb, that on our planet shines,
Whose power both light and heat combines,
You should the model be;
To man, the pattern how to reign
With equal sway, and how maintain
True human dignity.

Impartially to all below
The solar beams unstinted flow,
On all is poured the Ray,
Which cheers, which warms, which clothes the ground
In robes of green, or breathes around
Life;—to enjoy the day.

But crowns not so;—with selfish views
They partially their bliss diffuse
Their minions feel them kind;—
And, still opposed to human right,
Their plans, their views in this unite,
To embroil and curse mankind.

Ye tyrants, false to Him, who gave
Life, and the virtues of the brave,
All worth we own, or know:—
Who made you great, the lords of man,
To waste with wars, with blood to stain
The Maker's works below?

You have no iron race to sway—
Illume them well with Reason's ray;
Inform our active race;
True honour, to the mind impart,
With virtue's precepts tame the heart,
Not urge it to be base;

Let laws revive, by heaven designed,
To tame the tiger in the mind
And drive from human hearts
That love of wealth, that love of sway
Which leads the world too much astray,
Which points envenomed darts:

And men will rise from what they are;
Sublimer, and superior, far,
Than Solon guessed, or Plato saw;
All will be just, all will be good—
That harmony, "not understood,"
Will reign the general law.

For, in our race, deranged, bereft,
The parting god some vestige left
Of worth before possessed;
Which full, which fair, which perfect shone
When love and peace, in concord sown,
Ruled, and inspired each breast.

Hence, the small Good which yet we find,
Is shades of that prevailing mind
Which sways the worlds around:—
Let these depart, once disappear,
And earth would all the horrors wear
In hell's dominions found.

Just, as yon' tree, which, bending, grows
To chance, not fate, its fortune owes;
So man from some rude shock,
Some slighted power, some hostile hand,
Has missed the state by Nature planned,
Has split on passion's rock.

Yet shall that tree, when hewed away
(As human woes have had their day)
A new creation find:
The infant shoot in time will swell,
(Sublime and great from that which fell,)
To all that heaven designed.

What is this earth, that sun, these skies;
If all we see, on man must rise,
Forsaken and oppressed—
Why blazes round the eternal beam,
Why, Reason, art thou called supreme,
Where nations find no rest.—

What are the splendours of this ball—
When life is closed, what are they all?
When dust to dust returns
Does power, or wealth, attend the dead;
Are captives from the contest led—
Is homage paid to urns?

What are the ends of Nature's laws;
What folly prompts, what madness draws
Mankind in chains, too strong:—
Nature, to us, confused appears,
On little things she wastes her cares,
The great seem sometimes wrong.

[163] Unique, as far as I can find, in the edition of 1809.

ON THE PROPOSED SYSTEM[164]

Of State Consolidation, &c., about 1799

In thoughtless hour some much misguided men,
And more, who held a prostituted pen,
From monstrous creeds a monstrous system drew,
That every State into one kettle threw,
And boil'd them up until the goodly mass
Might for a kingdom, or a something, pass.
In the gay circle of saint James's placed,
From thence, no doubt, this modest plan they traced,
Suit with the splendor that surrounds a king,
Too many sigh'd, and wish'd to be that thing.
Thence came a book (where came it but from thence?)
Made up of all things but a grain of sense.
Lawyers and counsellors echo'd back the note
And lying journals praised the trash they wrote.

Though British armies could not long prevail,
Yet British politics may turn the scale:
In ten short years, of freedom weary grown,
The state, republic, sickens for a throne;
Senates and sycophants a pattern bring
A mere disguise for parliament and king.
A pensioned army! Whence a plan so base?—
A despot's safety, liberty's disgrace.
What saved these states from Britain's wasting hand,
Who but the generous rustics of the land,
A free-born race, inured to every toil,
Who clear the forest and subdue the soil?
They tyrants banish'd from this injured shore,
And home-bred traitors may expel once more.

Ye, who have propp'd the venerated cause,
Who freedom honor'd, and sustain'd her laws!
When thirteen states are moulded into one,
Your rights are vanish'd and your glory gone;
The form of freedom will alone remain—
Rome had her senate when she hugg'd her chain.
Sent to revise our system,—not to change,
What madness that whole system to derange,
Amendments, only, was the plan in view,
You scorn amendments, and destroy it too.
How much deceived! would heroes of renown
Scheme for themselves, and pull the fabric down,
Bid in its place Columbia's column rise
Inscribed with these sad words,—Here freedom lies!

[164] From the 1815 edition.

ON A PROPOSED NEGOTIATION[165]

With the French Republic, and Political Reformation—1799

Thus to the verge of battle brought
Reflection leads a happy thought,
Agrees, half way, the Gaul to meet,
Prepared to fight him or to treat.

Fatigued with long oppression's reign,
Tis time to break oppression's chain;
One gem we ravish'd from one crest
And time, perhaps, will take the rest.

The revolutions of this age
(To swell the late historian's page)
Are but old prospects drawing near,
The outset of a new career.

What Plato saw, in ages fled,
What Solon to the Athenians said,
What fired the British Sydney's page,
The Solon of a modern age,

Is now unfolding to our view;
A system liberal, great, and new,
Which from a long experience springs
And bodes a better course of things.

And will these States, whose beam ascends,
On whose resolve so much depends;
Will these, whose Washington, or Greene,
Gave motion to the vast machine;

Will these be torpid, careless found
To help the mighty wheel go round;
These, who began the immortal strife,
And liberty preferr'd to life.

If not the cause of France we aid
Yet never should the word be said
That we, to royal patrons prone,
Made not the cause of man our own.

Could Britain here renew her sway,
And we a servile homage pay,
The coming age, too proud to yield,
Would drive her myriads from the field.

Time will mature the mighty scheme,
We build on no platonic dream;
The light of truth shall shine again,
And save the democratic reign.

[165] From the 1815 edition. An embassy, headed by Chief Justice Ellsworth, had been appointed by Adams early in 1799 for the purpose of negotiating a treaty with France, but owing to diplomatic tangles it did not depart until late in the year.

STANZAS TO AN ALIEN[166]

Who after a Series of Persecutions emigrated to the Southwestern Country.—1799

Remote, beneath a sultry star,
Where Mississippi flows afar,
I see you rambling, God knows where.

Sometimes, beneath a cypress bough,
When met in dreams, with spirits low,
I long to tell you what I know.

How matters go, in this our day,
When monarchy renews her sway,
And royalty begins her play.

I thought you wrong to come so far
Till you had seen our western star
Above the mists ascended clear.

I thought you right, to speed your sails
If you were fond of loathsome jails,
And justice with uneven scales.

And so you came and spoke too free
And soon they made you bend the knee,
And lodged you under lock and key.

Discharged at last, you made your peace
With all you had, and left the place
With empty purse and meagre face.—

You sped your way to other climes
And left me here to teaze with rhymes
The worst of men in worst of times.

Where you are gone the soil is free
And freedom sings from every tree,
"Come quit the crowd and live with me!"

Where I must stay, no joys are found;
Excisemen haunt the hateful ground,
And chains are forged for all around.

The scheming men, with brazen throat,
Would set a murdering tribe afloat
To hang you for the lines you wrote.

If you are safe beyond their rage
Thank heaven, and not our ruling sage,
Who shops us up in jail and cage.

Perdition seize that odious race
Who, aiming at distinguish'd place,
Would life and liberty efface;

With iron rod would rule the ball
And, at their shrine, debase us all,
Bid devils rise and angels fall.

Oh wish them ill, and wish them long
To be as usual in the wrong
In scheming for a chain too strong.

So will the happy time arrive
When coming home, if then alive,
You'll see them to the devil drive.

[166] From the 1815 edition.

STANZAS[167]

Written in Blackbeard's, the Pirate's, Castle, near the Town of St. Thomas, in the West Indies.—1799

The ancient knave, who raised these walls,
Now to oblivion half resign'd—
His fortress to the mind recalls
The nerve that stimulates mankind;
When savage force exerts its part
And ruffian blood commands the heart.

This pirate, known to former days,
The scourge of these unhappy climes,
In this strong fabric thought to raise
A monument to future times:
To guard himself and guard his gold,
Or shelter robbers, uncontrol'd.

A standard on these walls he rear'd,
And here he swore the oath profane,
That by his god, and by his beard,
Sole, independent, he would reign;
And do his best to crush the sway
Of legal right and honesty.

Within these walls, and in these vaults,
Of princely power and wealth possess'd,
Dominion hung on all his thoughts,
And here he hoped an age of rest;
The wealth of princes flowing in
That from the Spaniards he did win.

He many a chief and captain awed,
Or chain'd with fetters, foot and hand;
Uncheck'd, his fleets he sent abroad,
Commission gave, conferr'd command;
And if his sailors skulk'd or fled,
He made them shorter—by a head.

Half Europe's flags he bade retire
From ponderous guns he hurl'd the ball—
He fill'd his glass with liquid fire
And drank damnation to them all:
For many a year he held the sway
And thousands at his mercy lay.

Confiding in his castle's strength
Mann'd by a fierce, heroic crew,
He blunder'd on till they at length,
The model of a city drew,
Where he might reign and be obey'd,
And be the tyrant of all trade.

Vain hope! his fort neglected stands
And, crumbling, hastens to decay;—
Where, once, he train'd his daring bands
The stranger scarcely finds his way:
The bushes in the castle grow
Where once he menaced friend and foe.

In this mysterious scene of things
There must be laws or who could live?
There must be laws to aid the wings
Of those who on the ocean strive
To earn by commerce, bold and free,
The honest gains of industry.

[167] Text from the 1815 edition.

LINES WRITTEN AT SEA[168]

No pleasure on earth can afford such delights,
As the heavenly view of these tropical nights:
The glow of the stars, and the breeze of the sea,
Are heaven—if heaven on ocean can be.—

The star of old Cancer is right overhead,
And the sun in the water has travelled to bed;
He is gone, as some say, to recline at his ease,
And not, like ourselves, to be pestered with fleas.

What pity that here is no insular spot,
Where quarrels, and murder, and malice are not:
Where a stranger might land, to recruit his worn crew,
Replenish the casks, and the water renew.

On this Empire of waves, this expanse of the main,
In the track we are sailing, no island is seen:
The glow of the stars, and the breath of the wind
Are lost!—for they bring not the scent of the land!

Huge porpoises swim, where there should be an isle,
Where an Eden might bloom, or a Cyprus might smile—
From Palma,[A] thus far, with a tedious delay,
Salt water and æther is all we survey!

[A] The most north-westerly of the Canary Islands.—Freneau's note.

Like an artist that's busy in melting his lead,
At random it falls, and is carelessly spread,
So Nature, though wisely the globe she has planned,
Left the surface to chance—to be sea, or be land.

[168] Unique in the edition of 1809.

STANZAS[169]

To the memory of General Washington, who died December 14, 1799

Terra tegit, populus mæret, cælum habet!

Departing with the closing age
To virtue, worth, and freedom true,
The chief, the patriot, and the sage
To Vernon bids his last adieu:
To reap in some exalted sphere
The just rewards of virtue here.

Thou, Washington, by heaven design'd
To act a part in human things
That few have known among mankind,
And far beyond the task of kings;
We hail you now to heaven received,
Your mighty task on earth achieved.

While sculpture and her sister arts,
For thee their choicest wreaths prepare,
Fond gratitude her share imparts
And begs thy bones for burial there;
Where, near Virginia's northern bound
Swells the vast pile on federal ground.

To call from their obscure abodes
The Grecian chief, the Roman sage,
The kings, the heroes, and the gods
Who flourish'd in time's earlier age,
Would be to class them not with you,—
Superior far, in every view.

Those ancients of ferocious mould,
Blood their delight, and war their trade,
Their oaths profaned, their countries sold,
And fetter'd nations prostrate laid;
Could these, like you, assert their claim
To honor and immortal fame?

Those monarchs, proud of pillaged spoils,
With nations shackled in their train,
Returning from their desperate toils
With trophies,—and their thousands slain;
In all they did no traits are known
Like those that honor'd Washington.

Who now will save our shores from harms,
The task to him so long assign'd?
Who now will rouse our youth to arms
Should war approach to curse mankind?
Alas! no more the word you give,
But in your precepts you survive.

Ah, gone! and none your place supply,
Nor will your equal soon appear;
But that great name can only die
When memory dwells no longer here,
When man and all his systems must
Dissolve, like you, and turn to dust.

[169] From the 1815 edition.

STANZAS[170]

Upon the Same Subject with the Preceding

The chief who freed these suffering lands
From Britain's bold besieging bands,
The hero, through all countries known,—
The guardian genius of his own,

Is gone to that celestial bourne
From whence no traveller can return,
Where Scipio and where Trajan went;
And heaven reclaims the soul it lent.

Each heart with secret wo congeals;
Down the pale cheek moist sorrow steals,
And all the nobler passions join
To mourn, remember, and resign.

O ye, who carve the marble bust
To celebrate poor human dust,
And from the silent shades of death
Retrieve the form but not the breath,

Vain is the attempt by force of art
To impress his image on the heart:
It lives, it glows, in every breast,
And tears of millions paint it best.

Indebted to his guardian care,
And great alike in peace and war,
The loss they feel these States deplore,—
Their friend—their father—is no more.

What will they do to avow their grief?
No sighs, no tears, afford relief:
Dark mourning weeds but ill express
The poignant wo that all confess;
Nor will the monumental stone
Assuage one tear—relieve one groan.

O Washington! thy honor'd dust
To parent nature we entrust;
Convinced that your exalted mind
Still lives, but soars beyond mankind,
Still acts in virtue's sacred cause,
Nor asks from man his vain applause.

In raptures with a theme so great,
While thy famed actions they relate,
Each future age from thee shall know
All that is good and great below;
Shall glow with pride to hand thee down
To latest time, to long renown,
The brightest name on freedom's page,
And the first honor of our age.

[170] From the 1815 edition.

STANZAS[171]

Occasioned by certain absurd, extravagant, and even blasphemous
panegyrics and encomiums on the character of the late Gen.
Washington, that appeared in several pamphlets, journals,
and other periodical publications, in January, 1800

No tongue can tell, no pen describe
The phrenzy of a numerous tribe,
Who, by distemper'd fancy led,
Insult the memory of the dead.

Of old, there were in every age
Who stuff'd with gods the historian's page,
And raised beyond the human sphere
Some who, we know, were mortal here.

Such was the case, we know full well,
When darkness spread her pagan spell;
Mere insects, born for tombs and graves,
They changed into celestial knaves;
Made some, condemn'd to tombs and shrouds,
Lieutenant generals in the clouds.

In journals, meant to spread the news,
From state to state—and we know whose—
We read a thousand idle things
That madness pens, or folly sings.

Was, Washington, your conquering sword
Condemn'd to such a base reward?
Was trash, like that we now review,
The tribute to your valor due?

One holds you more than mortal kind,
One holds you all ethereal mind,
This puts you in your saviour's seat,
That makes you dreadful in retreat.

One says you are become a star,
One makes you more resplendent, far;
One sings, that, when to death you bow'd,
Old mother nature shriek'd aloud.

We grieve to see such pens profane
The first of chiefs, the first of men.—
To Washington—a man—who died,
As abba father well applied?

Absurdly, in a frantic strain,
Why ask him not for sun and rain?—
We sicken at the vile applause
That bids him give the ocean laws.

Ye patrons of the ranting strain,
What temples have been rent in twain?
What fiery chariots have been sent
To dignify the sad event?—

O, ye profane, irreverent few,
Who reason's medium never knew:
On you she never glanced her beams;
You carry all things to extremes.

Shall they, who spring from parent earth,
Pretend to more than mortal birth?
Or, to the omnipotent allied,
Control his heaven, or join his side?

O, is there not some chosen curse,
Some vengeance due, with lightning's force
That far and wide destruction spreads,
To burst on such irreverent heads!

Had they, in life, be-praised him so,
What would have been the event, I know
He would have spurn'd them, with disdain,
Or rush'd upon them, with his cane.

He was no god, ye flattering knaves,
He own'd no world, he ruled no waves;
But—and exalt it, if you can,
He was the upright, Honest Man.

This was his glory, this outshone
Those attributes you doat upon:
On this strong ground he took his stand,
Such virtue saved a sinking land.

[171] From the 1815 edition.

TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD RUTLEDGE, ESQ.[172]

Late Governor of South Carolina

Removed from life's uncertain stage,
In virtue firm, in honor clear,—
One of the worthies of our age,
Rutledge! resigns his station here.

Alike in arts of war and peace,
And form'd by nature to excel,
From early Rome and ancient Greece,
He modell'd all his actions well.

When Britons came with chains to bind,
Or ravage these devoted lands,
He our firm league of freedom sign'd
And counsell'd how to break their bands.

To the great cause of honor true,
He took his part with manly pride,
His spirit o'er these regions flew,
The patriots' and the soldiers' guide.

In arts of peace, in war's bold schemes
Amongst our brightest stars he moved,
The Lees, the Moultries, Sumpters, Greenes—
By all admired, by all beloved.

A patriot of superior mould,
He dared all foreign foes oppose,
Till, from a tyrant's ashes cold,
The mighty pile of freedom rose.

In process of succeeding days
When peace resumed her joyous reign,
With laurel wreaths and twining bays
He sought less active life again.

There, warm to plead the orphan's cause
From misery's eye to dry the tear,
He stood where justice guards the laws
At once humane, at once severe.

'Twas not his firm enlighten'd mind,
So ardent in affairs of state;
'Twas not that he in armies shined
That made him so completely great:

Persuasion dwelt upon his tongue,
He spoke—all hush'd, and all were awed;—
From all he said conviction sprung,
And crowds were eager to applaud.

Thus long esteem'd, thus early loved,
The tender husband, friend sincere;
The parent, patriot, sage, approved,
Had now survived his fiftieth year—

Had now the highest honors met
That Carolina could bestow;
Presiding o'er that potent state
Where streams of wealth and plenty flow.

Where labor spreads her rural reign
To western regions bold and free;
And commerce on the Atlantic main
Wafts her rich stores of industry:

Then left this stage of human things
To shine in a sublimer sphere
Where time to one assemblage brings
All virtuous minds, all hearts sincere.

[172] From the 1815 edition. Edward Rutledge was a member of the Continental Congress from South Carolina and a signer of the Declaration of Independence. He was a conspicuous figure during the whole war. He was elected governor of South Carolina in 1798, but died January 23, 1800, before completing his term.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF PETER PORCUPINE[173]

For England

A bird of night attends the sail
That now towards us turns her tail
With Porcupine, escaped from jail.

O may the sharks enjoy their bait:
He came such mischief to create
We wish him not a better fate.

This hero of the pension'd pen
Has left our shores, and left his den
To write at home for English men.

Five thousand dollars,[174] we may guess,
Have made his pension something less—
So, Peter left us,—in distress.

He writ, and writ, and writ so long[A]
That sheriff came, with writ more strong,
And he went off, and all went wrong.

[A] For several years he published newspapers and other periodical works in Philadelphia which had a vast circulation; the whole scope and tendency of which was, as is well remembered, to render the republican institutions of this country contemptible, as well as odious to the people; and by discontenting them with their government, to open the way for the introduction of a monarchial system. He was thought to be a pensioner of the English government; but whether such or not is uncertain.—Freneau's note.

May southern gales that vex the main,
Or Boreas, with his whistling train
Make Peter howl and howl again.

I hear him screech, I hear him shout!—
The storm has put his Rush light[B] out—
I see him famish'd with sour crout.

[B] A weekly pamphlet publication, in which the political as well as private character of Dr. Rush, and other persons of celebrity, was vilified to the lowest degree of scurrility, malignancy and falsehood.—Ib.

May on the groaning vessel's side
All Neptune's ruffian strength be try'd
Till every seam is gaping wide.

And while the waves about him swell
May not one triton blow the shell
(A sign at sea of doing well):

But should he reach the british shore,
(The land that englishmen adore)
One trouble will he find and more:

His pen will run at such a rate,
His malice so provoke the great,
They soon will drive him out of date.

With broken heart and blunted pen
He'll sink among the little men
Or scribble in some Newgate den.

Alack, alack! he might have stay'd
And followed here the scribbling trade,
And lived without the royal aid.

But democratic laws he hated,
Our government he so be-rated
That his own projects he defeated.

He took his leave from Sandy-Hook,
And parted with a surly look,
That all observed and few mistook.

[173] From the 1815 edition. William Cobbett sailed for England in June, 1800.

[174] Cobbett was sued by Dr. Rush for libel, was found guilty, and compelled to pay a fine of $5,000.

THE NAUTICAL RENDEZVOUS[175]

Written at a house in Guadaloupe, in 1800, where they were collecting Recruits for a Privateer

The ship preparing for the main
Enlists a wild, but gallant train,
Who in a moving jail would roam
Disgusted with the world at home.

They quit the fields and quit the trees
To seek their bread on stormy seas;
Perhaps to see the land no more,
Or see, but not enjoy the shore.

There must be some as this world goes
Who every joy and pleasure lose,
And round the world at random stray
To gain their bread the shortest way.

They hate the ax, they hate the hoe
And execrate the rural plough,
The mossy bank, the sylvan shade
Where once they wrought, where once they play'd:

Prefer a boisterous, mad career,
A broken leg, and wounds severe,
To all the joys that can be found
On mountain top or furrow'd ground.

A hammock holds them when they sleep;
A tomb, when dying, in the deep,
A crowded deck, a cann of beer
These sons of Amphitrite prefer
To all the verdure of the fields
Or all a quiet pillow yields.

There must be such a nervous race,
Who venture all, and no disgrace;
Who will support through every blast,
The shatter'd ship, the falling mast—
Who will support through every sea
The sacred cause of liberty,
And every foe to ruin drag
Who aims to strike the gallic flag.

[175] From the 1815 edition.

TO THE MEMORY[176]

Of the Late Ædanus Burke, Esq., of South-Carolina

Quiesco—ubi saeva indignatio,
Ulterius cor lacerare nequit!

A land enslaved, his generous heart disdain'd
Which tyrants fetter'd, and where tyrants reign'd:
Disgusted there, he left the hibernian shore
The laws that bound him, and the isle that bore.

Bold, open, free, he call'd the world his own,
Preferr'd our new republics to a throne;
And lent his aid their insults to repay,
Repel the britons and to win the day.

In every art of subtlety untaught,
He spoke no more, than "just the thing he ought;"
For justice warm, he spurn'd, with just disdain,
The mean evasion, and the law's chicane.

Burke! to thy shade we pay this last address,
And only say what all, who knew, confess:
Your virtues were not of the milder kind,
But rugged independence ruled your mind,
And, stern, in all that binds to honor's cause,
No interest sway'd you to desert her laws.

Then rest in peace, the portion of the just,
Where Carolina guards your honor'd dust:
Beneath a tree, remote, obscure, you sleep,
But all the sister virtues, round you, weep;
Your native worth, no tongue, no time arraigns,
That last memorial, and the best remains!

[176] From the edition of 1815. Ædanus Burke, a native of Ireland, died in Charleston, S. C., March 30, 1802. He was a soldier of the Revolution, a judge of the State Supreme Court, and a member of the first Federal Congress. He was a man of the purest patriotism, and his influence was wide and potent.

TO THE
REV. SAMUEL STANHOPE SMITH, D.D.[177]

And president of Nassau-hall, at Princeton, New-Jersey, on the rebuilding
of that noble edifice, which had been destroyed by fire

This honor'd pile, so late in ashes laid,
Once more emerges, by your generous aid;
Your aid, and their's, who through our vast domain,
Befriend the muses, and their cause sustain.

In flames involved, that stately fabric fell,
Where, long presiding, you deserved so well;
But to the dust when you beheld it fall,
The honor'd, famed, majestic, Nassau-Hall,
Not then repining in that darkened hour
Your native genius show'd its native power,
And plann'd the means to bid a structure rise
Pride of the arts, and favorite of the wise.
For this we saw you trace the unwearied mile
And saw the friends of Nassau on you smile;
They to your efforts lent their generous aid,
And every honor to your genius paid,
To the firm patron of the arts they gave
What Alfred lavish'd, and what arts should have.

For this we saw you rove the southern waste
In our Columbia's milder climates placed,
Those happier shores, where Carolina proves
The friend of Princeton's academic groves,
Where Georgia owns the wreath to science due
And honor'd science, genius, art, and you:
And Charleston every generous wish return'd,
Sigh'd for the loss, and for her favorite mourn'd,
Proud of her sons, who by your cares are seen
Lights of the world, and pride of social man.
There Ramsay met you, esculapian sage,
The famed historian of a warring age,
His word gave vigor to your vast design,
And his strong efforts equall'd all but thine.

Nassau revived, from thence in time proceed
Chiefs, who shall empire sway, or legions lead,
Who, warm'd with all that philosophic glow
Which Greece, or Rome, or reasoning powers bestow,
Shall to mankind the friends and guardians be
Shall make them virtuous, and preserve them free.
From that lost pile, which, now to ashes turn'd;
The sage regretted and the muses mourn'd,
Sprung, once, a race who firm to freedom's cause,
Repell'd oppression and despotic laws,
Unsceptered kings, or one at least dismiss'd,
With half the lords and prefects on his list:
Such, early, here imbibed the sacred flame
That glanced from heaven, or from true science came;
With these enroll'd, be every honor done
To our firm statesman, patriot, Madison,
Form'd to the purpose of a reasoning age,
To raise its genius, and direct its rage.

This tribute from a friendly heart receive,
O Smith! which must your kind indulgence crave,
If half a stranger to the poet's lay,
It fails your just, your due reward to pay.

[177] The text is from the edition of 1815. The interior of Nassau Hall was destroyed by fire March 6, 1802. The damage was promptly repaired by generous contributions from the alumni and friends of the institution. President Smith took an active part in the work of rebuilding and it was in no small measure due to his efforts that the edifice was so quickly restored.

Nassau Hall, the oldest and because of its historical associations the most interesting of the Princeton buildings, was erected in 1756 from plans drawn by Robert Smith and Dr. Shippen of Philadelphia. It was for many years the handsomest and most commodious academic structure in the colonies and as such attracted no little attention. During the Revolution it served repeatedly as barracks and hospital for both armies and suffered considerable damage. From the 26th of June until the 4th of November, 1783, it was the national capitol. Within its walls the Congress of the nation found a safe retreat and for more than four months held quiet session in the spacious library-room remote from the mutinous troops at Philadelphia. Here the Minister from the States General of Holland, the first ambassador accredited to America after the declaration of peace was received, and here the grateful acknowledgments of Congress were tendered Washington for his services in establishing the freedom and independence of the United States.

STANZAS

Published at the Procession to the Tomb of the Patriots

In the Vicinity of the Former Stations of the Prison Ships, at New-York.[178]

Beneath these banks, along this shore,
And underneath the waters, more
Forgotten corpses rest;
More bones by cruelty consigned
To death, than shall be told mankind
To chill the feeling breast:

More bones of those who, dying here
In floating dungeons, anchored near,
A prey to fierce disease,
Than fame in her recording page
Will tell some late enquiring age,
When telling things like these.

Ah me! what ills, what sighs, what groans,
What spectre forms, what moving moans,
What woes on woes were found;
When here oppressed, insulted, crossed,
The vigour of the soul was lost
In miseries thickening round.

The youths of firm undaunted mind,
To climate nor to coast confined,
All misery taught to bear—
I saw them, as the sail they spread,
I saw them by misfortune led
To capture, and to care.

Though night and storms were round them cast,
They climbed the well-supported mast,
And reefed the fluttering sail;
Though thunders roared and lightnings glared,
They toil, nor death, nor danger feared,
They braved the loudest gale.—

Great Cause, that brought them all their woe:
Thou, Freedom!—bade their spirits glow;
But forced, at last, to yield,
Died in despair each sickening crew:
They vanished from the world—but you,
Columbia, kept the field.

They sunk, unpitied, in their bloom,—
They scarcely found a shallow tomb
To hide the naked bones:
For, feeble was the nervous hand
That once could toil, or once command
The force of Neptune's sons.

In aid of that immortal cause
Which spurned at England's tyrant laws,
These passed the troubled main;
They dared the seas she called her own,
To meet the ruffians of a throne,
And honour's purpose gain.

All generous—while that power was proved,
To war the brave adventurers moved,
And catched the seaman's art,
Met on their own domain, the crew
Of foreign slaves, that never knew
The independent heart.

Thou, Independence, vast design;
The efforts of the brave were thine,
When doubtful all, and dark;
It was a chaos to explore;
It seemed all sea, without a shore,
Nor on that sea an ark.

For You, the young, the firm, the brave,
Too often met an early grave,
Unnoticed and unknown:
On naked shores were seen to lie,
In scorching heats were doomed to die
With agonizing groan.

By strength, or chance, if some survived
Disease, which hosts of life deprived,
That life they should devote,
To venture all in Freedom's cause,
To combat tyrants, and their laws,
So felt near this sad spot.

Yes—and the spirit which began,
(We swear by all that's great in man)
That spirit shall go on,
To brighten and illume the mind,
'Till tyrants vanish from mankind
And Tyranny is Done.

[178] From the edition of 1809.

THE TOMB OF THE PATRIOTS[179][A]

    Quae Tiberine, videbis
Funera, cum, tumulum praeter labore recentum! Virg.

[A] Occasioned by the general procession of many thousands of the citizens of New York on the 26th of May, 1808, to inter the bones and skeletons of american prisoners who perished in the old Jersey, and other prison ships, during the revolutionary war; and which were now first discovered by the wasting of the shores and banks on Long Island, where they had been left.—Freneau's note.

When Philip's son possess'd his native lands
And train'd on grecian fields his grecian bands,
In Thebes subdued, or Athens near her fall,
He saw no honor, or despised it all.
To be reduced to universal sway
The world's vast prospect in perspective lay;—
While yet restricted to Larissa's plain
He cursed his fortune for a lot so mean,
On all his steps the gloom of sadness hung,
And fierce resentment all his bosom stung
That fortune's whim restrain'd to such a floor,
Had done so little, and might do no more.
Mercantile Tyre his laboring mind oppress'd,
The persian throne deprived his soul of rest—
The world his stage, he meant to play his part,
And unsubjected India gall'd his heart!

Look to the east where Tamerlane display'd
His crescent[B] moons and nations prostrate laid,
March where he would, the world before him bow'd
In conquest mighty, as of conquest proud—
What was the event? let tragic story tell
While sad sensations in the bosom swell—
What were the effects? in every step we trace
The wasteful havoc of a royal race,
Once fertile fields a howling desert made
The town in ashes, or the town decay'd,
Degraded man to native wildness turn'd,
His prospects clouded and his commerce spurn'd—
If such the outset of this mad career
What will the last disgusting scene appear,
Of all he conquer'd, when no more remains
Than vagrant subjects, or unpeopled plains!

[B] The three crescent moons in the turkish military standard, which had their origin, it is said, from the asiatic Tartars. Timurbeck (or Tamerlane) was of tartarian extraction.—Freneau's note.

Thus, when ambition prompts the ardent mind,
The soul, eccentric, frantic, unconfined,
To peace a stranger, soars to heights unknown,
And, slighting reason, yields the will to none;
Mere passion rules, degrading powers prevail,
And cool reflection quits the unbalanced scale.
It leaves the haunts of happiness and rest
To float on winds, disorder'd and unblest,
Quits all the calm that nature meant for man
To find some prize, or form the aspiring plan;
That plan ungain'd, the object cheats the view,
Or, if attain'd, they other marks pursue;
Till all is closed in disappointment's shade
And folly wonders at the flight she made:
Ambition's self finds every prospect vain,
The visions vanish, and the glooms remain.

And such the vice, with nations as with man,
Such the great failing since the world began:
To power exalted, as to power they rose
By honest toils, and humbling all their foes;
That zenith gain'd, they covet vast domains
And all, that pride from vast possession gains,
Till glittering visions bring the uneasy sigh
And uncontrol'd dominion blasts the eye.

Britain! we cite you to our bar, once more;
What but ambition urged you to our shore?—
To abridge our native rights, seven years you strove;
Seven years were ours your arm of death to prove,
To find, that conquest was your sovereign view;
Your aims, to fetter, humble, and subdue,
To seize a soil which not your labor till'd
When the rude native scarcely we repell'd,
When, with unbounded rage, their nations swore
To hurl the out-law'd stranger from their shore,
Or swell the torrent with their thousands slain
No more to approach them, or molest their reign.—

What did we ask?—what right but reason owns?
Yet even the mild petition met your frowns.
Submission, only, to a monarch's will
Could calm your rage, or bid your storm be still,

Before our eyes the angry shades appear
Of those, whose relics we this day inter:
They live, they speak, reproach you, and complain
Their lives were shorten'd by your galling chain:
They aim their shafts, directed to your breast,—
Let rage, and fierce resentment tell the rest.

These coffins, tokens of our last regard,
These mouldering bones your vengeance might have spared.—
If once, in life, they met you on the main,
If to your arms they yielded on the plain,—
Man, once a captive, all respect should claim
That Britain gave, before her days of shame.
How changed their lot! in floating dungeons thrown,
They sigh'd unpitied, and relieved by none:
In want of all that nature's wants demand,
They met destruction from some traitor's hand,
Who treated all with death or poison here,
Or the last groan, with ridicule severe.

A sickening languor to the soul returns
And kindling passion at the motive spurns:
The murders here, did we at length display
Would more than paint an indian tyrant's sway:
Then hush the theme, and to the dust restore
These, once so wretched near Manhattan's shore,
When tyrants ruled, whose hearts no mercy felt:
In blood they wallow'd as in death they dealt.

Thou who shalt come, by sad reflection taught,
To seek on Nassau's isle this lonely vault;
Think, when surveying this too gloomy scene,
Think what, had heaven decreed, you might have been.
When, with the rest, you pass'd the weary hour
Chain'd or subjected to some ruffian's power,
Think, as you see the sad procession pass'd,
Think what these are, and you must be at last.—

Learn, as you hope to find your heart's applause,
To love your country and respect her laws;
Revere the sages, who your rights explain'd,
Revere the patriots, who your cause sustain'd.
Your country's Hero, rising to your view,
Attend his precepts, and with care pursue,
He first to shield you, rais'd his powerful arm,
To honor steady as for freedom warm;
When she relumed her half-extinguish'd fire,
Then, not till then, did Washington retire,
And left a light, a radiance to display,
And mark his efforts, when he led the way.
When war's long waste your independence crown'd
And Hudson heard th' invigorating sound!
His was the task; to him the part assign'd
To paralize the vultures of mankind.

Admit no tyrants, to debase your minds;
Some selfish motive to all tyrants binds;
If robed in ermine or in scarlet clad,
The worst of idiots is a king run mad:
And Rome's worst prince accomplish'd by a word
No more, than by his councils, George the third!

How oft has rugged nature charged my pen
With gall, to shed it on that worst of men,
Who, dumb to all that reason might decide,
Mankind, their reason, and their prayers defy'd:
Who, firm to all that phrenzy could pursue,
Explored the ancient world, to chain the new;
And tired the despot, search'd each dark recess,
And ransack'd hell, to find the hireling hesse:—
Could he be here, a witness to this day,
With calm delight he would this scene survey,
Would see unmoved, with apathy of mind,
The gaping vault, this havoc of mankind!
Without a tear, these mouldering bones review,
That fell by ruffian hands—employ'd by you.

His phrenzy, rampant with the right divine,
Inspired a nation with a black design,
To blast with poison, like a wizard's spell,
And plant on man the characters of hell!—

Thou, who shalt come, of feeling mind possest,
And, heaven's first gift, the patriotic breast,
On this bleak coast, to tread the island plain,
Think, what revenge disgraced a monarch's reign!
Who, not content with wealth and power we gave,
Forgot the subject, to enthral the slave:
Such was his hope;—that hope to realize
He sent his myriads to demand the prize;
What were the splendid trophies he acquired?
Were these bleach'd bones the trophies he admired?

While passion fires, or kindred sorrows fall,
Ask not, if this sequester'd cell is all,
Is all that honors these collected bones?—
Enough is done to stigmatize all thrones:
Ask not, while passion with resentment fires,
Why to the skies no monument aspires?—
Enough is done to rouse the patriot glow
And bid the rising race your feelings know.

[179] From the edition of 1815.

ON THE PEAK OF PICO

ONE OF THE AZORES, OR WESTWARD ISLANDS[180]

Attracted to this airy steep
Above the subject hills,
Ocean, from his surrounding deep
The urn of Pico fills.

Thence gushing streams, unstinted, stray
To glad the mountain's side;
Or, winding through the vallies, gay,
Through fields, and groves, and vineyards glide.
To him the plains their verdure owe
Confessing what your smiles bestow,
Thou Peak of the Azores.

From day to day the unwearied sail
Surveys your towering cone,
And when th' adjacent prospects fail,
And neighboring isles no more they hail,
You meet the eye alone.
Twice forty miles the exploring eye
Discerns you o'er the waste,
Now, a blue turret in the sky
When not by mists embraced.
Long may you stand, the friendly mark,
To those who sail afar,
A spot that guides the wandering barque,
A second polar star.

[180] From the edition of 1815. Freneau sailed for the Madeira Islands May 12, 1803, arriving there on June 23. He was back in Charleston on August 16 following.

A BACCHANALIAN DIALOGUE

Written 1803[181]

Arrived at Madeira, the island of vines,
Where mountains and vallies abound,
Where the sun the wild juice of the cluster refines,
To gladden the magical ground:

As pensive I stray'd in her elegant shade,
Now halting and now on the move,
Old Bacchus I met, with a crown on his head,
In the darkest recess of a grove.

I met him with awe, but no symptom of fear
As I roved by his mountains and springs,
When he said with a sneer, "how dare you come here,
You hater of despots and kings?—

Do you know that a prince, and a regent renown'd
Presides in this island of wine?
Whose fame on the earth has encircled it round
And spreads from the pole to the line?

Haste away with your barque: on the foam of the main
To Charleston I bid you repair:
There drink your Jamaica, that maddens the brain;
You shall have no Madeira—I swear."

"Dear Bacchus," (I answered) for Bacchus it was
That spoke in this menacing tone:
I knew by the smirk and the flush on his face
It was Bacchus, and Bacchus alone—

"Dear Bacchus, (I answered) ah, why so severe?—
Since your nectar abundantly flows,
Allow me one cargo—without it I fear
Some people will soon come to blows:

I left them in wrangles, disorder, and strife,
Political feuds were so high,
I was sick of their quarrels, and sick of my life,
And almost requested to die."

The deity smiling, replied, "I relent:—
For the sake of your coming so far,
Here, taste of my choicest—go, tell them repent,
And cease their political war.

With the cargo I send, you may say, I intend
To hush them to peace and repose;
With this present of mine, on the wings of the wind
You shall travel, and tell them, here goes

A health to old Bacchus! who sends them the best
Of the nectar his island affords,
The soul of the feast and the joy of the guest,
Too good for your monarchs and lords.

No rivals have I in this insular waste,
Alone will I govern the isle
With a king at my feet, and a court to my taste,
And all in the popular style.

But a spirit there is in the order of things,
To me it is perfectly plain,
That will strike at the scepters of despots and kings,
And only king Bacchus remain."

[181] From edition of 1815.

STANZAS WRITTEN AT THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA[182]

On the fatal and unprecedented torrents of water which collected from the mountains on the
ninth of October, 1803, and destroyed a considerable part of the city of Funchal,
drowned a vast number of people, and damaged, to a great amount,
several plantations and villages in that neighborhood.

The rude attack, if none will tell,
On Bacchus, in his favorite isle;
If none in verse describe it well,
If none assume a poet's style
These devastations to display;—
Attend me, and perhaps I may.

To those who own the feeling heart
This tragic scene I would present,
No fiction, or the work of art,
Nor merely for the fancy meant:
Twas all a shade, a darken'd scene,
Old Noah's deluge come again!

From hills beyond the clouds that soar,
The vaults of heaven, the torrents run,
And rushing with resistless power,
Assail'd the island of the sun:
Fond nature saw the blasted vine,
And seem'd to sicken and repine.

As skyward stream'd the electric fire
The heavens emblazed, or wrapt in gloom;
The clouds appear, the clouds retire
And terror said, "the time is come
When all the groves, and hill, and plain
Will sink to ocean's bed again."

The cheery god, who loves to smile
And gladness to the heart bestows,
Almost resolved to quit his isle,
And in unwonted passion rose;
He sought his caves in wild dismay
And left the heavens to have their way.

The whistling winds had ceased to blow;
Not one, of all the aerial train—
No gale to aid that night of wo
Disturb'd the slumbers of the main;
In distant woods they silent slept;
Or, in the clouds, the tempest kept.

The bursting rains in seas descend,
Machico[A] heard the distant roar,
And lightnings, while the heavens they rend,
Show'd ruin marching to the shore:
Egyptian darkness brought her gloom
And fear foreboded nature's doom.

[A] A distant village on the island.—Freneau's note.

The heavens on fire, an ocean's force
Seized forests, vineyards, herds, and men,
And swelling streams from every source
Bade ancient chaos come again:
Through Fonchal's[B] road their courses held
And ocean saw his waves repell'd.

[B] The capital town of the island.—Ibid.

Ill fated town!—what works of pride
In one short hour were swept away!
Huge piles that time had long defy'd,
In ruthless ruin scatter'd lay:
Some buried in the opening deep—
With crowds dismiss'd to endless sleep,

From her fond arms the daughter torn,
The mother saw destruction near;
Both on the whirling surge were borne,
Forgetful of the farewell tear:
At distance torn, with feeble cries,
Far from her arms the infant dies.

Her dear delight, her darling boy
In morn of days and dawning bloom,
This opening bud of promised joy
Too early found a watery tomb,
Or floated on the briny waste;
No more beloved, no more embraced.

From heights immense, with force unknown,
Enormous rocks and mangled trees
Were headlong hurl'd and hurrying down,
Fix'd their foundation in the seas!
Or, rushing with a mountain's weight,
Hurl'd to the deeps their domes of state.

On heaven intent the affrighted priest
Where church was left, to churches ran,
With suppliant voice the skies addrest,
And wail'd the wickedness of man:
For which he thought, this scourge was meant,
And, weeping, said, repent, repent!

But Santa Clara's lofty walls,
Where pines through life the pious nun,
Whose prison to the mind recalls
What superstition's power has done:
No conquest there the floods essay'd,
Religion guarded man and maid.

What seem'd beyond the cannon's power,
The walls of rock, were torn away;
To ruin sunk the church and tower,
And no respect the flood would pay
To silver saints, or saints of wood,
The bishop's cap, the friar's hood.

Hard was their fate! more happy thou
The lady of the mountain tall;[C]
When desolation raged below
She stood secure, and scorn'd it all,
Where Gordon,[D] for retirement, chose
His groves, his gardens, and the muse.

[C] Nossa Senyora da Montana, a fine church on a high eminence in the mountains.—Freneau's note.

[D] A respectable gentleman of the island.—Ibid.

Who on this valley's drowning bed
Would plan a street, or build again,
Unthinking as the Brazen head[E]
For wretches builds a source of pain,
A church, a street, that soon or late
May share the same, or a worse fate.

[E] A rocky promontory a few miles eastward of the capital.—Ibid.

Let some vast bridge assume their place
Like those the romans raised of old,
With arches, firm as nature's base,
Of architecture grand and bold;
So will the existing race engage
The thanks of a succeeding age.

Pontinia[F] long must wear the marks
Of this wide-wasting scene of wo,
Where near the Loo, the tar embarks
When prosperous winds, to waft him, blow:
These ravages may time repair,
But he and I will not be there.

[F] The western quarter, near the Loo fort, where is the only eligible place of landing.—Ibid.

General Note.

From the best accounts that could be procured at Madeira, there perished in and near the city of Funchal, five hundred and fifty persons. The ravages were chiefly confined to the eastern parts of the town where the loss was immense in bridges, houses, streets and other property, public as well as private—there was one magnificent church totally destroyed, standing near the sea, and called in the portuguese tongue, Nossa Senyora da Caillou (lady of the beach) besides this, there were five handsome chapels carried away. Five very considerable streets with their immense stone buildings have entirely disappeared, or but some insignificant parts remaining. The water rose in a short space of time from 14 to 16 feet in the adjacent parts of the city, and bursting into the buildings, where it did not much injure the latter, it greatly damaged the merchantile property lodged therein. There were about two hundred persons supposed to be lost in other parts of the island, particularly in the villages, and small towns. The following circumstance it was asserted, added not a little to the devastations occasioned by the accumulation of water in the vallies. The governor, with several other considerable landholders in the mountains, had, for several years back, been in the practice of erecting stone dams across the vast and spacious valley above the city, at different intervals of distance for the purpose of watering the adjacent grounds, or leading off streams in a variety of directions—when the immense body of rain fell in October last, all this gave way, and carried death and destruction therewith.—Freneau's note.

[182] From the edition of 1815. Freneau sailed from Charleston January 25, 1804, and on March 7 he arrived at Madeira. On April 15 he was at Santa Cruz, and on May 11 he sailed for home.

ON THE PEAK OF TENERIFFE

1804[183]

No mean, no human artist laid
The base of this prodigious pile,
The towering peak—but nature said
Let this adorn Tenaria's isle;
And be my work for ages found
The polar star to islands round.

The conic-point that meets the skies
Indebted to volcanic fire,
First from the ocean bid to rise,
To heaven was suffer'd to aspire;
But man, ambitious, did not dare
To plant one habitation there:

For torrents from the mountain came;
What molten floods were seen to glow!
Expanded sheets of vivid flame,
To inundate the world below!
These, older than the historian's page
Once bellow'd forth vext nature's rage.

In ages past, as may again,
Such lavas from those ridges run.
And hastening to the astonish'd main
Exposed earth's entrails to the sun;
These, barren, once, neglected, dead,
Are now with groves and pastures spread.

Upon the verdant, scented lawn
The flowers a thousand sweets disperse,
And pictures, there, by nature drawn,
Inspire some island poet's verse,
While streams through every valley rove
To bless the garden, grace the grove.

To blast a scene above all praise
Should fate, at last, be so severe,
May this not hap' in Julia's[A] days,—
While Barrey[A] dwells all honor'd, here:
While Little[A] lives, of generous mind,
Or Armstrong,[A] social as refined.—

[A] A lady, and gentlemen of the first respectability, then residing at Santa Cruz, san Christoval de Laguna, and Port Oratava in the island of Teneriffe.—Freneau's note.

[183] From the edition of 1815.

ANSWER TO A CARD OF INVITATION

To visit a nunnery at Garrichica, on the north side of Teneriffe[184]

It came to hand, your friendly card,
No doubt, a token of regard;
But time is short, and I must leave
Your pensive town of Oratave,
And, soon departing, well you know,
Have many a weary mile to go.

Then stay and sip Canary wines,
While I return to oaks and pines,
To rail at kings, or court the muse,
To smoke a pipe, or turn recluse,
To think upon adventures past—
To think of what must come at last—
To drive the quill—and—to be brief,
To think no more of Teneriffe.—

How happy you who once a week,
Can storm a fort at Garrichique,
Or talk, familiar with the nuns
Secluded there with Levi's sons;
To see them smile, or hear them prate,
Or chant, and chat behind the grate!
All this is heaven, I half suspect,
And who would such a heaven neglect?
All I can say is what I mean,
May you embrace each Iphigene,
And hug and kiss them all the while,
These fair Calypsoes of the isle:
Then if what Sappho said, be true,
Blest as the immortal gods are you.

For me, not favor'd so by fate,
I venture not behind the grate:
There dragons guard the golden fleece,
And nymphs immured find no release:
Forbidden fruit you weekly see,
Forbidden fruit on every tree,
When he who tastes, may look for strife,
Where he who touches ventures life.
The jealous priests, with threatening eye
Look hard at all approaching nigh:
The monks have charge of brittle ware,
The friar bids you have a care;
That they alone the fruit may eat
That fills religion's last retreat:
The mother abbess looks as sour'd
As if you had the fruit devour'd,
And bids the stranger haste away,—
Not rich enough for fruit to pay.

How much unlike, our western fair,
Who breathe the sweets of freedom's air;
Go where they please, do what they will,
Themselves are their own guardians still:—
Then come, and on our distant shore
Some blooming rural nymph adore;
And do not make the day remote,
For time advances, quick as thought,
When thus some grave rebuke will say
When you approach the maiden gay:
'You should have courted in your prime,
'Our Anastasia's, at that time
'When blood ran quick, and Hymen said,
'Colin! my laws must be obey'd.'

Your card to slight, I'm much distrest,
Your card has robb'd me of my rest:
Should I attempt the nuns to accost
The priests might growl, and all be lost:
My cash might fail me when to pay;
No chance, perhaps, to run away;—
So, I decline the needless task
Return to Charleston, with the cask
Of wine, you send from Teneriffe,
To glad some hearts, and dry up grief:

I add, some dangerous neighbors here
May disappoint my hopes I fear;
The breakers near the vessel roll;
The lee-ward shore, the rocky shoal!
The whitening seas that constant lave
The craggy strand of Oratave;
The expected gale, the adjacent rock
Each moment threatens all our stock,
And Neptune, in his giant cup
Stands lurking near, to gulp it up.
But here's a health to Neptune's sons
Who man the yard—nor dream of nuns.

[184] From the edition of 1815.

ON SENIORA JULIA

Leaving a Dance, under Pretence of Drowsiness[185]

She, at the soul enlivening, ball,
And in the lamp illumined hall
But small amusement found;
She shunn'd the cards' bewitching play,
She shunn'd the noisy and the gay,
Nor cared for music's sound.

No nymph discover'd so much spleen,
Was so reserved as Julia, seen
On that enchanting night:
And yet she had her part to say
When young Almagro shared the play,
Then cards were her delight.

But he retired, amid the dance;
He heard, he said, of news from France,
And of a serious cast:
He wish'd to know beyond all doubt,
What Bonaparte was now about,
How long his sway would last.

Then, Julia made a good retreat,
But left the assembly incomplete;
She was with sleep oppress'd.—
Who shall the midnight dance prolong
Who lead the minuet, raise the song
Where Julia is no guest?

Yet, love declared her judgment right,
And whisper'd, when she bade good night
And feign'd an aching head,
"While some retreat and some advance,
Let them enjoy the festive dance,
You, Julia, go to bed."

[185] From the edition of 1815.

LINES ON SENIORA JULIA

of Port Oratave[186]

Adorn'd with every charm that beauty gives,
That nature lends, or female kind receives,
Good sense and virtue on each feature shine;
She is—she is not—yes, she is divine.
She speaks, she moves with all attracting grace,
And smiles display the angel on the face;
Her aspect all, what female would not share?
What youth but worship, with a mind so fair?

In this famed isle, the cloud-capp'd Teneriffe,
Where health abounds and languor finds relief;
In this bright isle, where Julia treads the plain,
What rapture fires the bosom of the swain!
At her approach, the breast untaught to glow,
Like the vast peak, retains eternal snow.
Feels not the first, best ardors of the mind;
Respect and awe, to love and friendship join'd.

When to Laguna's[A] heights she deigns to stray,
To myrtle bowers, and gardens ever gay,
Where spring eternal on the fragrant grove
Breathes the bright scenes of harmony and love;
All eyes, attracted, by her graceful mein
View her, the unrivall'd favorite of the green,
And when, too soon, she would the garden leave,
See Paradise forsaken by its Eve.

[A] An ancient town once the capital. Four miles from the sea.—Freneau's note.

Return bright nymph, attractive as admired,
And be what Plato from your sex required;
Mild as your clime, that rarely knows a storm,
The angelic nature in a female form.
Canary's[B] towns their splendid halls prepare,
But all is dark, when Julia is not there.
Not Oratava, on the sea-beat shore,
In her gay circles finds one Julia more,
Not high Lavelia[C] boasts so sweet a face;
Not Garrachica could yourself replace;
Not old Laguna can supply your loss,
Nor yet the city of the holy-cross.[D]

[B] Canary, a large island south eastward of Teneriffe.—Ibid.

[C] An old city in the mountains.—Ibid.

[D] Santa Cruz, the Capital; on the southeast quarter of the island.—Ibid.

Where love and passion, from the world conceal'd:
Devotion's winter has to frost congeal'd;
Yet beauty, there, adorns the brilliant dome,
Invites her loves, and bids her votaries come;
Fair Santa-Cruz her beauty, too, commands,
And, was but Julia there, unrivall'd stands.

Flush'd with the blessings of the generous vine,
The island bards, to honor you, combine;
The stranger guest, all tongues, when you appear,
Confess you, lovely, charming, all things dear;
Among the rest, accept my homely lay:
The last respect I can to Julia pay:
A different subject soon my verse awaits,
Contending powers, or disunited states;
Yet shall remembrance renovate the past,
And, when you die, your name unfading last:
Though mists obscure, or oceans round me swell,
To the deep seas I go, the world to tell
That Julia, foremost, does this isle engage,
And moves the first, bright Venus of my page.

[186] From the edition of 1815.

ON A RURAL NYMPH

Descending from one of the Madeira mountains, with a bundle of fuel wood, on her head[187]

Six miles, and more, with nimble foot
She came from some sequestered spot,
A handsome, swarthy, rustic maid
With furze and fern, upon her head:
The burthen hid a bonnet blue,
The only hat, perhaps, she knew,
No slippers on her feet were seen;
Yet every step display'd a mein
As if she might in courts appear,
Though placed by wayward fortune here.

An english man, who saw her, said,
Your burthen is too heavy laid,
Dear girl your lot is rather hard,
And, after all, a poor reward:
This is not labor suiting you,
Come with me home to England go,
And you shall have a coach and four,
A silken gown—and something more.

'Disturb me not (the girl replied)
'I choose to walk—let others ride:
'I would not leave yond' rugged hill
'To have your London at my will—
'You are too great for such as I:—'
When thus the briton made reply:

'Had I but thirty years to spare,
'And you precisely what you are,
'Had seen you thirty years ago
'In style of living, high or low,
'You should have been a lady gay,
'And dizzen'd out as fine as May:
'Why stay you here, to face the sun,
'And drudging till the day is done,
'While little to the purse it brings
'But little store of little things?'

She said, 'before the sun was up
'I finish'd with my chocolate cup:
'A hank of yarn I fairly spun,
'And, when the hank of yarn was done,
'To have a fire, and cook our mess
'I travell'd yonder wilderness;
'I climb'd a mountain very tall,
'Unwearied, and without a fall,
'And gather'd up this little pack
'Which now you see me carrying back;—
'Your northern girls at this might laugh,
'But such a jaunt would kill them half—
'Disturb me not, I must go on;
'Ten minutes, while I talk, are gone.'—

If she grew rich by hanks of yarn,
Is more than we shall ever learn;
If thrive she did by climbing hills,
No history or tradition tells;
But this we know, and this we say,
That where a despot holds the sway,
To pay the tax of king and queen
The common herd are poor and mean.
The slaves of lords the slaves of priests,
And nearly saddled, like the beasts.—
Where liberty erects her reign
Dulcina would have had her swain,
With horse and cow—which she had not,
Nor ever to possess them thought:
She would have had, to save her feet,
A pair of shoes and suit complete.
A decent dress, and not of rags,
A state above the rank of hags;
A language if not over fine,
At least above the beggar's whine.
Yet such attend on fortune's frowns,
And such support the pride of crowns.

[187] From the edition of 1815.

ON GENERAL MIRANDA'S EXPEDITION

Towards the Caraccas, Spanish Provinces in South America, February—1805[188]

To execute a vast design,
The soul, Miranda, was not thine:
With you the fates did not combine
To make an empire free.
We saw you spread Leander's sail,
We saw the adverse winds prevail,
Sad omen that the cause would fail
That led you to the sea.

By feeble winds the sail was fill'd
By feebler hands the helm was held—
We saw you from the port repell'd[A]
You might have made your own.
We saw you leave a manly crew
To the base spaniard, to imbrue
His hands in blood—and not a few
Were on his mercy thrown:

[A] Porto Cavallo, or Cabello, a seaport town of Terra Firma, in South America, on the coast of the Caraccas, and the Caribbean Sea; said to have been the first object of Miranda's expedition.—Freneau's note.

In dungeons vile they pass'd the day,
Far from their country, far away
From pitying friends, from liberty!
That years could scarce retrieve!
Twas thus Miranda play'd his game;
But who with him should share the blame?
Perhaps if we the men did name,
Credulity would not believe!

[188] From the edition of 1815. Miranda was a Spanish-American revolutionist, who devoted his life to the emancipation of Venezuela from Spanish rule. His first expedition was a failure.

ON THE ABUSE OF HUMAN POWER

As exercised over opinion[189]

What human power shall dare to bind
The mere opinions of the mind?
Must man at that tribunal bow
Which will no range to thought allow,
But his best powers would sway or sink,
And idly tells him what to Think?

Yes! there are such, and such are taught
To fetter every power of thought;
To chain the mind, or bend it down
To some mean system of their own,
And make religion's sacred cause
Amenable to human laws.

Has human power the simplest claim
Our hearts to sway, our thoughts to tame;
Shall she the rights of heaven assert,
Can she to falsehood truth convert,
Or truth again to falsehood turn,
And at the test of reason spurn?

All human sense, all craft must fail
And all its strength will nought avail,
When it attempts with efforts blind
To sway the independent mind,
Its spring to break, its pride to awe,
Or give to private judgment, law.

Oh impotent! and vile as vain,
They, who would native thought restrain!
As soon might they arrest the storm
Or take from fire the power to warm,
As man compel, by dint of might,
Old darkness to prefer to light.

No! leave the mind unchain'd and free,
And what they ought, mankind will be,
No hypocrite, no lurking fiend,
No artist to some evil end,
But good and great, benign and just,
As God and nature made them first.

[189] From the edition of 1815.

OCTOBER'S ADDRESS[190]

October came the thirtieth day:
And thus I heard October say;

"The lengthening nights and shortening days
Have brought the year towards a close,
The oak a leafless bough displays
And all is hastening to repose;
To make the most of what remains
Is now to take the greater pains.

"An orange hue the grove assumes,
The indian-summer-days appear;
When that deceitful summer comes
Be sure to hail the winter near:
If autumn wears a mourning coat
Be sure, to keep the mind afloat.

"The flowers have dropt, their blooms are gone,
The herbage is no longer green;
The birds are to their haunts withdrawn,
The leaves are scatter'd through the plain;
The sun approaches Capricorn,
And man and creature looks forlorn.

"Amidst a scene of such a cast,
The driving sleet, or falling snow,
The sullen cloud, the northern blast,
What have you left for comfort now,
When all is dead, or seems to die
That cheer'd the heart or charm'd the eye?

"To meet the scene, and it arrives,
(A scene that will in time retire)
Enjoy the pine—while that remains
You need not want the winter fire.
It rose unask'd for, from the plain,
And when consumed, will rise again.

"Enjoy the glass, enjoy the board,
Nor discontent with fate betray,
Enjoy what reason will afford,
Nor disregard what females say;
Their chat will pass away the time,
When out of cash or out of rhyme.

"The cottage warm and cheerful heart
Will cheat the stormy winter night,
Will bid the glooms of care depart
And to December give delight."—
Thus spoke October—rather gay,
Then seized his staff, and walk'd away.

[190] From the edition of 1815.

TO A CATY-DID[A][191]

[A] A well-known insect, when full grown, about two inches in length, and of the exact color of a green leaf. It is of the genus cicada, or grasshopper kind, inhabiting the green foliage of trees and singing such a song as Caty-did in the evening, towards autumn.—Freneau's note.

In a branch of willow hid
Sings the evening Caty-did:
From the lofty locust bough
Feeding on a drop of dew,
In her suit of green array'd
Hear her singing in the shade
Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did!

While upon a leaf you tread,
Or repose your little head,
On your sheet of shadows laid,
All the day you nothing said:
Half the night your cheery tongue
Revell'd out its little song,
Nothing else but Caty-did.

From your lodgings on the leaf
Did you utter joy or grief—?
Did you only mean to say,
I have had my summer's day,
And am passing, soon, away
To the grave of Caty-did:—
Poor, unhappy Caty-did!

But you would have utter'd more
Had you known of nature's power—
From the world when you retreat,
And a leaf's your winding sheet,
Long before your spirit fled,
Who can tell but nature said,
Live again, my Caty-did!
Live, and chatter Caty-did.

Tell me, what did Caty do?
Did she mean to trouble you?—
Why was Caty not forbid
To trouble little Caty-did?—
Wrong, indeed at you to fling,
Hurting no one while you sing
Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!

Why continue to complain?
Caty tells me, she again
Will not give you plague or pain:—
Caty says you may be hid
Caty will not go to bed
While you sing us Caty-did.
Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!

But, while singing, you forgot
To tell us what did Caty not:
Caty-did not think of cold,
Flocks retiring to the fold,
Winter, with his wrinkles old,
Winter, that yourself foretold
When you gave us Caty-did.

Stay securely in your nest;
Caty now, will do her best,
All she can, to make you blest;
But, you want no human aid—
Nature, when she form'd you, said,
"Independent you are made,
My dear little Caty-did:
Soon yourself must disappear
With the verdure of the year,"—
And to go, we know not where,
With your song of Caty-did.

[191] From the edition of 1815.

ON PASSING BY AN OLD CHURCHYARD[192]

Pensive, on this green turf I cast my eye,
And almost feel inclined to muse and sigh:
Such tokens of mortality so nigh.

But hold,—who knows if these who soundly sleep,
Would not, alive, have made some orphan weep,
Or plunged some slumbering victim in the deep.

There may be here, who once were virtue's foes,
A curse through life, the cause of many woes,
Who wrong'd the widow, and disturb'd repose.

There may be here, who with malicious aim
Did all they could to wound another's fame,
Steal character, and filch away good name.

Perhaps yond' solitary turf invests
Some who, when living, were the social pests,
Patrons of ribands, titles, crowns and crests.

Can we on such a kindred tear bestow?
They, who, in life, were every just man's foe,
A plague to all about them!—oh, no, no.

What though sepultured with the funeral whine;
Why, sorrowing on such tombs should we recline,
Where truth, perhaps, has hardly penn'd a line.

—Yet, what if here some honest man is laid
Whom nature of her best materials made,
Who all respect to sacred honor paid.

Gentle, humane, benevolent, and just,
(Though now forgot and mingled with the dust,
There may be such, and such there are we trust.)

Yes—for the sake of that one honest man
We would on knaves themselves bestow a tear,
Think nature form'd them on some crooked plan,
And say, peace rest on all that slumber here.

[192] From the edition of 1815.

STANZAS OCCASIONED BY A MELANCHOLY

SURVEY OF AN OLD ENGLISH TOBACCO BOX INSCRIBED 1708[193]

Written in a dearth of tobacco, by Hezekiah Salem.

Had I but what this box contained
Since good Queen Anne in Britain reigned,
My happiness would be increased
To more, perhaps, than she possessed.

This box, in many a pocket worn
(And to be used by some unborn)
Has been unfilled a week or more,
And curses the tobacco store,

Which now has had its turn to fail;
The door shut up, the man in jail
Who late behind the counter stood
And vended what was pretty good.

("And are you here?—the turnkey said,
"I rather would have seen you dead!"—
—Yes! I am here—the man replied—
And better so than to have died!)

This box again, in spite of that,
Shall be repackt with—I know what—
Again I'll fill its empty chest
With old Virginia's very best.

The fragrance of that mild perfume
Again shall cheer the reading room,
Again delight your men of wit
Who have the taste to relish it.

This box I deem a small estate
Where all my prospects are complete,
Whose oval round, and clasp, confines
The riches of Potosi's mines.

My best ideas here are sown,
(And best expressed when most alone)
Here, every muse can find a place
Yet take no atom of its space.

Tobacco! what to thee we owe,
Is what alone true smokers know:
To thee they owe the lively thought,
And joys without repentance bought.

To thee they owe the moral song,
The night that never seems too long,
The pleasant dream, refreshing sleep,
And sense that all should strive to keep.

It cures the pride of self-debate,
And pensive care, and deadly hate;
And love itself would nearer bring,
Did females love this coaxing thing.—

But they, the slaves of custom's rule,
Are ever to the smoker cool,
And hate the plant, whose gentle sway
Bids us their noisy tongues obey.

The happy days I would recall
When Jane to me was all in all!
The firm we to the town did show
Was, Salem, Jane, Segar, and Co.

The sanded box was near us placed
Which held the dregs we chose to waste;
Thus pleased to pass the winter's eve,
And thus the lingering hours deceive.

No wrangling was permitted there—
'Twas friendship all, and love sincere;
And they received affronts enough
Who entered with the Cloven Hoof.

The social whiff went cheerly on!—
But Jane is to that people gone
Where dear tobacco!—strong and sound—
Is not upon their invoice found!—

It sheds a magic on my pen
To deaden all despotic men,
A charm that can the soul command,
Nor kings, nor courtiers shall withstand:

Such, vested with imperial sway,
O'er bodies reign, dull, stupid, blind;
But us the nobler powers obey,
We reign, despotic, o'er the mind!

It aids us in the tuneful art
To catch the ear, or move the heart;
An hour with Nancy can beguile,
But meets not her approving smile.

Of northern pine her floors were made,
A carpet on the boards was spread;
And who shall dare this floor prophane,
Which Nancy keeps without a stain?

The watchful demon in her eye
The smallest speck can there espy;
And he shall curse his natal hour
Who spits upon this velvet floor:

I saw her anger waxing hot,
I heard her threaten, Do it not,
Or, instant, quit these doors of mine,
And be converted into swine.—

This powerful plant, if fortune frown,
Can make the bitter draught go down;
It keeps me warm in Greenland's frost,
And gives me more than all I lost.

The joys of wine, without its bane,
That kindles frenzy in the brain;
All these are here—and more than these
In this tobacco box I'll squeeze.

It holds a part of all I prize
Within this world that bounded lies;
And when the ashes only shows,
The spirit into aether goes.

Dismissed to that Serene Abode,
Where no tobacco is allowed!——
The comfort is, that free from care,
We neither wish, nor want it There.

[193] From the edition of 1809.

ON THE DEATH OF A MASTER BUILDER

Or Free Mason of High Rank[194]

(Written by Request.)

Assembled this day on occasion of grief,
We mourn the occasion, the loss of our chief;
A Mason, our master, that built up a pile
By the compass and square in the masonic style.

At the word of the Builder, who built All at first,
Turned chaos to order, and darkness dispersed,
Our architect leaves us, that mason so skilled,
The fabric of virtue and freedom to build.

As far as this nature, called human, can go,
A pattern he was of perfection below;
By the line and the plummet he built up a wall,
As firm as old time, and, we trust, not to fall.

By science enlightened, a friend to mankind,
He came, for the purpose exactly designed;
Like the Baptist of old, in the annals of fate,
Precursor of all that is noble and great.

He thought it an honour the trowel to hold,
And to be with the craft, as a brother enrolled:
To the practice of virtue he knew they were bound
Wherever a lodge or a mason is found.

Designed as he was, to excel and transcend,
Yet he courted the titles of brother and friend,
And these in the fabric of masons are more
Than monarchs can give,—and which tyrants abhor.

With a patron like this, we are proud to prepare
The stone and the mortar, our building to rear,
And copy, from Him, who can make it endure,
Who raised the first building, and keeps all secure.

In such a grand master all masons were blessed;
The world and all masons his merits confessed;
But now he is gone in new orbits to move
And join the first builder of all things above.

[194] From the edition of 1809.

ON THE DEATH OF A MASONIC GRAND SACHEM[195]

This day we unite
And all Brethren invite
To honour a man of our nation;
Who, honest as brave,
Is gone to his grave
And takes an unchangeable station.

In our subject we view
(To Liberty true)
The officer firm in all danger;
Who stood to his post
At the head of a host
His country to save, and avenge her.

By compass and square
This artisan rare
Defeated all foreign invasion,
Then returned to his farm
When no longer alarm
Distracted the mind of the nation.

In all that he did,
In all that he said
The bliss of mankind was intended;—
He rose for their good,
To support them he stood,
And Liberty ever defended.

The foundation he laid,
And the fabric he made
No mason but he could pretend to;
It will stand, we foresee,
'Till that era shall be
When the globe of the world there's an end to.

So, fame to the man
Who the building began,
Whose model all nations will take
When kingdoms are fled,
Standing armies are dead,
And monarchs—no longer awake.

[195] From the edition of 1809.

ON A HONEY BEE

Drinking from a Glass of Wine and Drowned Therein[196]

(By Hezekiah Salem.)

Thou, born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come on vagrant wing?—
Does Bacchus tempting seem—
Did he, for you, this glass prepare?—
Will I admit you to a share?

Did storms harass or foes perplex,
Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay—
Did wars distress, or labours vex,
Or did you miss your way?—
A better seat you could not take
Than on the margin of this lake.

Welcome!—I hail you to my glass:
All welcome, here, you find;
Here, let the cloud of trouble pass,
Here, be all care resigned.—
This fluid never fails to please,
And drown the griefs of men or bees.

What forced you here, we cannot know,
And you will scarcely tell—
But cheery we would have you go
And bid a glad farewell:
On lighter wings we bid you fly,
Your dart will now all foes defy.

Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink,
And in this ocean die;
Here bigger bees than you might sink,
Even bees full six feet high.
Like Pharoah, then, you would be said
To perish in a sea of red.

Do as you please, your will is mine;
Enjoy it without fear—
And your grave will be this glass of wine,
Your epitaph—a tear—
Go, take your seat in Charon's boat,
We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.

[196] From the edition of 1809.

ON THE FALL OF AN ANCIENT OAK TREE[197]

While onward moves each circling year
Thy mandates, Nature, all obey,
As with this moving, changeful sphere
The seasons change and never stay;
Old Oak, I to your place return,
Where late you stood, and viewing mourn,

For the great loss my heart sustained
When you declined, long will I sigh,
That hour when you no more remained
To cheer the summer, passing by;
No longer blessed my eager view,
But like some dying friend withdrew.

Though frequent, by that nipping frost,
The blast which cold November sends,
I saw your leafy honours lost;
Hope, for such losses, made amends:
The spring again beheld them grow,
And we were pleased, and so was you.

Since I your fatal fall survive,
Remembrance long shall hold you dear,
And bid some young successor live;
By sad Amyntor planted here;
Its buds to swell, its leaves to spread,
And shade the place when he is dead.

A prince among your towering race,
What more your vanished form endears
Is that your presence in this place
Had been at least one hundred years;
And men that long in dust have laid,
When boys, beneath your shadow played.

You had your time to feel the sun,
To wanton in his cheering ray;—
That time is past, your race is run,
And we have nothing more to say,
Than, may your oaken spirit go
Among Elysian oaks below.

[197] From the edition of 1809.

STANZAS ON THE DECEASE OF THOMAS PAINE

Who died at New-York, on the 8th of June, 1809[198]

Princes and kings decay and die
And, instant, rise again:
But this is not the case, trust me,
With men like Thomas Paine.

In vain the democratic host
His equal would attain:
For years to come they will not boast
A second Thomas Paine.

Though many may his name assume;
Assumption is in vain;
For every man has not his plume—
Whose name is Thomas Paine.

Though heaven bestow'd on all its sons
Their proper share of brain,
It gives to few, ye simple ones,
The mind of Thomas Paine.

To tyrants and the tyrant crew,
Indeed, he was the bane;
He writ, and gave them all their due,
And signed it,—Thomas Paine.

Oh! how we loved to see him write
And curb the race of Cain!
They hope and wish that Thomas P——
May never rise again.

What idle hopes!—yes—such a man
May yet appear again.—
When they are dead, they die for aye:
—Not so with Thomas Paine.

[198] From the edition of 1815.

PART VI

THE WAR OF 1812

1809—1815

THE WAR OF 1812

1809—1815

ON THE SYMPTOMS OF HOSTILITIES.[199]

1809

But will they once more be engaged in a war,
Be fated to discord again?
A peace to the nations will nothing restore
But the challenge of death and a deluge of gore!
A modern crusade
Is undoubtedly made:—
With treaties rejected, and treaties renew'd,
A permanent treaty they never conclude.

And who is to blame? we submissively ask—
Did nature predestine this curse to mankind;
Or is it the cruel detestable task
That tyrants impose, with their minions combined?
We are anxious to know
The source of our wo
In a world where the blessings of nature abound
Why discord, the bane of her blessings, is found.

Must our freedom, our labors, our commerce, our all
Be tamely surrender'd, to tyrants convey'd;
Must the flag of the country disgracefully fall,
To be torn by the dogs of the slaughtering trade?
Does no one reply,
With a tear in his eye,
It must be the case, if we do not resent
What monarchs have menaced and tyranny meant.

Not a ship, or a barque, that departs from the shore
But her cargo is plunder'd, her sailors are slain,
Or arriving in England, we see them no more,
Condemn'd in the court of deceit and chicane,
Where their wicked decrees
And their costs and their fees
Have ruin'd the merchant—mechanics half fed,
And sailors uncaptured are begging their bread.

To reason with tyrants is surely absurd;
To argue with them is to preach to the deaf:
They argue alone by the length of the sword;
Their honor the same as the word of a thief.
In such to confide
When a cause they decide,
Is the wolf and the lamb (if the tale we recall)
Where the weakest and meekest must go to the wall.

But an englishman's throat is expanded so wide
Not the ocean itself is a mess for his maw:
And missions there are, and a scoundrel employ'd
To divide, and to rule by the florentine law[A]:
New-England must join
In the knavish design,
As some have predicted to those who believe 'em;
—The event is at hand—may the devil deceive 'em.

[A] Nicholas Machiavel's maxim, divide et impera; divide and govern. He was a native of Florence, in Italy.—Freneau's note.

With an empire at sea and an empire on land,
And the system projected, monopolization,
The western republic no longer will stand
Than answers the views of a desperate nation,
Who have shackled the east,
Made the native a beast,
And are scheming to give us—the matter is clear—
A man of their own for the president's chair,

Then arouse from your slumbers, ye men of the west,
Already the indian his hatchet displays;
Ohio's frontier, and Kentucky distrest;
The village, and cottage, are both in a blaze:—
Then indian and english
No longer distinguish,
They bribe, and are bribed, for a warfare accurst;
Of the two, we can hardly describe which is worst.

In the court of king Hog was a council convened,
In which they agreed we are growing too strong:
They snuffled and grunted, and loudly complained
The sceptre would fall, if they suffer'd it long;
To cut up our trade
Was an object, they said,
The nearest and dearest of all in their view;
Not a fish should be caught if old England said, No!

Then arouse from your slumbers, ye men of the west,
A war is approaching, there's room to suppose;
The rust on your guns we abhor and detest,
So brighten them up—we are coming to blows
With the queen of the ocean
The prop of devotion,
The bulwark of all that is truly divine;
A motto she often has put on her sign.

[199] The poems in this section are all from the edition of 1815.

LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. JEFFERSON,

On his retirement from the Presidency of the United States.—1809.

Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores—Hor.

To you, great sir, our heartfelt praise we give,
And your ripe honors yield you—while you live.

At length the year, which marks his course, expires,
And Jefferson from public life retires;
That year, the close of years, which own his claim,
And give him all his honors, all his fame.
Far in the heaven of fame I see him fly,
Safe in the realms of immortality:
On Equal Worth his honor'd mantle falls,
Him, whom Columbia her true patriot calls;
Him, whom we saw her codes of freedom plan,
To none inferior in the ranks of man.

When to the helm of state your country call'd
No danger awed you and no fear appall'd;
Each bosom, faithful to its country's claim,
Hail'd Jefferson, that long applauded name;
All, then, was dark, and wrongs on wrongs accrued
Our treasures wasted, and our strength subdued;
What seven long years of war and blood had gain'd,
Was lost, abandon'd, squander'd, or restrain'd:
Britania's tools had schemed their easier way,
To conquer, ruin, pillage, or betray;
Domestic traitors, with exotic, join'd,
To shackle this last refuge of mankind;
Wars were provoked, and France was made our foe,
That George's race might govern all below,
O'er this wide world, uncheck'd, unbounded, reign,
Seize every clime, and subjugate the main.

All this was seen—and rising in your might,
By genius aided, you reclaim'd our right,
That Right, which conquest, arms, and valor gave
To this young nation—not to live a slave.

And what but toil has your long service seen?
Dark tempests gathering over a sky serene—
For wearied years no mines of wealth can pay,
No fame, nor all the plaudits of that day,
Which now returns you to your rural shade,
The sage's heaven, for contemplation made,
Who, like the Roman, in their country's cause
Exert their valor, or enforce its laws,
And late retiring, every wrong redress'd,
Give their last days to solitude and rest.

This great reward a generous nation yields—
Regret attends you to your native fields;
Their grateful thanks for every service done,
And hope, your thorny race of care is run.

From your sage counsels what effects arise!
The vengeful briton from our waters flies;
His thundering ships no more our coasts assail,
But seize the advantage of the western gale.
Though bold and bloody, warlike, proud, and fierce,
They shun your vengeance for a Murdered Pearce,
And starved, dejected, on some meagre shore,
Sigh for the country they shall rule no more.

Long in the councils of your native land,
We saw you cool, unchanged, intrepid, stand:
When the firm Congress, still too firm to yield,
Stay'd masters of the long contested field,
Your wisdom aided, what their counsels framed—
By you the murdering savages were tamed—
That Independence we had sworn to gain,
By you asserted (nor Declared in vain)
We seized, triumphant, from a tyrant's throne,
And Britain totter'd when the work was done.

You, when an angry faction vex'd the age,
Rose to your place at once, and check'd their rage;
The envenom'd shafts of malice you defied,
And turn'd all projects of revolt aside:—
We saw you libell'd by the worst of men,
While hell's red lamp hung quivering o'er his pen,
And fiends congenial every effort try
To blast that merit which shall never die—

These had their hour, and traitors wing'd their flight,
To aid the screechings of distracted night.

Vain were their hopes—the poison'd darts of hell,
Glanced from your flinty shield, and harmless fell.

All this you bore—beyond it all you rose,
Nor ask'd despotic laws to crush your foes.
Mild was your language, temperate though severe;
And not less potent than Ithuriel's spear
To touch the infernals in their loathsome guise,
Confound their slanders and detect their lies.

All this you braved—and, now, what task remains,
But silent walks on solitary plains:
To bid the vast luxuriant harvest grow,
The slave be happy and secured from wo—
To illume the statesmen of the times to come
With the bold spirit of primeval Rome;
To taste the joys your long tried service brings,
And look, with pity, on the cares of kings:—
Whether, with Newton, you the heavens explore,
And trace through nature the creating power,
Or, if with mortals you reform the age,
(Alike, in all, the patriot and the sage)
May peace and soft repose, attend you, still,
In the lone vale, or on the cloud-capp'd hill,
While smiling plenty decks the abundant plain,
And hails Astrea to the world again.

ON THE PROSPECT OF WAR,

AND AMERICAN WRONGS.

Americans! rouse at the rumors of war,
Which now are distracting the hearts of the nation,
A flame blowing up, to extinguish your power
And leave you, a prey, to another invasion;
A second invasion, as bad as the old,
When, northward or southward, wherever they stroll'd
With heart and with hand, a murdering band
Of vagrants, came over to ravage your land:
For liberty's guard, you are ever array'd
And know how to fight, in the sun or the shade.

Remember the cause that induced you to rise
When oppression advanced, with her king-making host,
Twas the cause of our nation that bade you despise
And drive to destruction all England's proud host,
Who, with musket and sword, under men they adored,
Rush'd into each village and rifled each shade
To murder the planter, and ravish the maid.

What though you arose, and resolved to be free,
With spirit to humble all Europe combining,
You had soon bit the dust or been drown'd in the sea
By the slaves of a king, and a court all designing,
Had not liberty swore she would cover your shore,
Her colors display'd, and with vengeance repaid
The myriads that came from a blood-thirsty isle
Our groves, and our streams, and our beds to defile.

Our churches defaced, by a merciless foe,
Or made the poor captive's distress'd habitation:
The prison-ship, fraught with its cargo of wo,
Where thousands were starved, without shame or compassion;
All these, and yet more, were the evils we bore
From a motherly dame, Great Britain her name,
From a nation, that once we accounted our friends,
Who would shackle the country, that freedom defends.

All true-born americans! join, as of old;
For freedom's defence, be your firm resolution;
Whoever invades you by force, or with gold,
Alike is a foe to a free constitution:
Unite to pull down that imposture, a crown;
Oppose it at least, tis a mark of the beast:
All tyranny's engines again are at work
To make you as poor and as base as the turk.

Abandon'd to all the intrigues of a knave,
Abounding with sharpers of every description,
They would plunder our towns, and prohibit the wave;
Their treaties of commerce are all a deception:
Not a ship do we send but they rob without end;
With their law of blockade they have ruin'd our trade;
The shops of mechanics at midnight they burn
That home manufactures may cease to be worn.

Look round the wide world; and observe with a sigh,
Wherever a monarch presides o'er a nation,
Sweet nature appears with a tear in her eye,
And the mantle of sorrow enshrouds the creation.
The ocean is chain'd, all freedom restrain'd,
The soil is resign'd to the pests of mankind,
To royals and nobles, the guard of the throne,
And the slaves they have bribed, to make freedom their own.

All hail to the nation, immortal and great,
Who, rising on bold philosophical pinion,
Reforms, and enlightens, and strengthens the state,
Not places her weal in excess of dominion.
What reason can do she intends to pursue;
And true to the plan, on which she began,
Will the volume unfold she to freedom assign'd,
Till tyrants are chased from the sight of mankind.

Since the day we declared, they were masters no more,
The day we arose from the colony station,
Has England attack'd us, by sea and by shore,
In war by the sword, as in peace by vexation;
Impressment they claim'd, till our seamen, ashamed,
Grew sick of our flag, that against the old hag
Of Britain, no longer their freedom protected
But left them, like slaves, to be lash'd and corrected.

Old Rome, that in darkness so long had been lost,
Since on her republic bright freedom was shining:
The warmth of her spirit congeal'd in a frost,
Under tyrants and popes, many centuries, pining:
At the close of the page, who can bridle his rage
To see her return to the fetters she broke,
When tyranny sicken'd, and liberty spoke:
What an image of clay have they thrown in her way!
The king and the priest on her carcass will feast;
When these are allied, the world they divide;
The nations they plunder, the nations they kill,
And bend all the force of the mind to their will:
Not the spirit to rise, or the strength to command,
But friars and monks—and the scum of the land.—
No more of your Nero's or Caesars complain,
Leave Brutus and Cato, and take them again.

But reason, that sun, whose unquenchable ray
Progressive, has dawn'd on the night of the mind,
From the source of all good, may hereafter display,
And man a more dignified character find:
As far as example and vigor can go,
As long as forbearance and patience will do,
The western republic will carry it through—:
May order and peace through the nations increase,
And murder, and plunder, and tyranny cease:
May justice and honor through empires prevail
And all the bad passions weigh light in the scale,
Till man is the being that nature at first
Placed here, to be happy, and not to be cursed.

Approaching, at hand, in the progress of time,
An era will come, to begin its career,
When freedom reviving, and man in his prime,
His rights will assert, and maintain without fear
Of that cunning, bold race, who our species disgrace;
On the blood of a nation who make calculation
To rise into splendor and fill a high station;
Nay, climb to the throne on a villanous plan
To plunder his substance, and trample on man.

ON THE BRITISH COMMERCIAL DEPREDATIONS.

As gallant ships as ever ocean stemm'd—
A thousand ships are captured, and condemn'd!
Ships from our shores, with native cargoes fraught,
And sailing to the very shores they ought:
And yet at peace!—the wrong is past all bearing;
The very comets[A] are the war declaring:
Six thousand seamen groan beneath your power,
For years immured, and prisoners to this hour:

[A] A large comet appeared for several months, about this time.—Freneau's note.

Then England come! a sense of wrong requires
To meet with thirteen stars your thousand fires;
On your own seas the conflict to sustain,
Or drown them, with your commerce in the main!

True do we speak, and who can well deny,
That England claims all water, land, and sky
Her power expands—extends through every zone,
Nor bears a rival—but must rule alone.
To enforce her claims, a thousand sails unfurl'd
Pronounce their home the cock-pit of the world;
The modern Tyre, whose fiends and lions prowl,
A tyrant navy, which in time must howl.[B]
Heaven send the time—the world obeys her nod:
Her nods, we hope, the sleep of death forbode;
Some mighty change, when plunder'd thrones agree,
And plunder'd countries, to make commerce free.

[B] Howl, ye ships of Tarshish, &c.—Ezekiel.—Freneau's note.

TO AMERICA:

On the English Depredations on the American Coast.

When Alfred held the english throne,
And England's self was little known,
Yet, when invaded by the Dane,
He early faced them on the main.

That scythian race who ruled the sea—
He soon pronounced their destiny;
To leave his isle, to sheath the sword;
Disgraced, defeated, and abhorr'd.

So now, these worse than danes appear
To do their deeds of havoc here—
For all they did in seasons past,
The day of grief must come at last.

For plains, yet white with human bones,
For murders past, no prayer atones;
For ruin spread in former years,
Not even the mitred clergy's tears.

Let us but act the part we ought,
And tyrants will be dearly taught
That they, who aid a country's claim,
Fight not for ribands, or a name.

Still hostile to the rights of man,
A deadly war, the english plan;
The gothic system will prevail,
To ruin where they can assail;
A war, where seas of blood may flow
To ornament their scenes of wo.

O Washington! thy honored dust
The foe will not profane, we trust;
Or if they do, will vengeance sleep,
Or fail to drive them to the deep?

For shores well known, they shape their course,
An english fleet, with all its force;
A british fleet may soon appear
To ravage all we counted dear.

Advancing swift, by beat of drum,
Half England's dregs, or Scotland's scum;
With these unite the indian tribes,
Now hostile made by force of bribes—
And they will dare the eagle's frown,
Though half his force can put them down.

The envenom'd foe, inured to war,
May scatter vengeance wide and far,
Unless, to assert our country's right,
All hearts resolve, all hands unite.

Let party feuds be hush'd, forgot,
Past discord from the memory blot,
And Britain, from our coasts repell'd,
Shall rue the day she took the field.

The dart, to assail the english power,
In time must reach that hostile shore,
And red with vengeance, on its way,
Their naval power in ruins lay.

The western world a blow must deal
To let them know, and make them feel
That much too long a plundering hag
Has mortified all Europe's flag.

By wars and death while despots thrive
What pity one remains alive!
By them the seeds of war are sown,
By them, our lives are not our own.

Their deadly hate to freedom's growth,
To reason's light—that spurns them both,
That deadly hate predicts our doom,
And digs the pit for freedom's tomb.

Be not deceived—the league of kings,
Confederate crowns, this warfare brings;
These send their hosts to forge our chains,
Harass our shores, renew their reigns.

At Pilnitz they who join'd to swear
And wage with France wide wasting war
Till freedom should her claims recall,
And Louis reign, or myriads fall;

At Pilnitz, with decided aim,
They form'd their schemes to blast our fame:
And, faithful now to what they swore,
Would, kings dismiss'd and thrones, restore.

Ye hearts of steel, observe these hosts!
The odious train my soul disgusts;
They rise upon the vultures wings
To prop the tottering cause of kings.

Observe them well—through every grade
They exercise the robber's trade;
They sail upon a plundering scheme,
They march, to give you sword and flame.

And burn you must, if, slow to act,
You wait to see your cities sack'd,
Yourselves enslav'd, and all things lose
That labor earns or wealth bestows;
If slow to send your heated balls,
Indignant, through their wooden walls.

O may you see their squadrons yield
Their legions sink on every field;
And new Burgoynes, to slaughter bred,
Burgoynes, once more, in fetters led.

And may you see all foreign power
Forever banish'd from your shore,
And see disheartened tyrants mourn,
And Britain to her hell return.

THE SUTTLER AND THE SOLDIER.

"Who would refuse this cheering draught?"
The suttler said, and saying, laugh'd
The soldier, then, the liquor quaff'd,
And felt right bold.

The suttler soon foresaw the rest,
And thus the son of Mars address'd,
"This brandy is the very best
Of all I've sold.

"The journey you are bound to go,
In former times, I travell'd too,
When Arnold march'd, with lord knows who,
To seize Quebec.

"And if he fail'd in that assault,
It was not, sure, the brandy's fault;
The best, at times, may make a halt,
Ay, break his neck.

"Now hear a dotard of your trade:—
Of old I lived by flint and blade,
But, disregarded, and decay'd,
I'm nothing now.

"This leaky shed is not my own,
And here I stay, unheard, unknown,
Poor Darby, and without a Joan,
Nor horse, nor cow.

"But mend your draught—I have more to say:—
You now are young, and under pay;
Be warn'd by me, whose hairs are grey;
The time will come

"When you may find this trade of arms,
The march, that now your bosom warms,
Has little but illusive charms,
Mere beat of drum:

"But yet, in such a cause as this
I deem your ardor not amiss—
I know you are no hireling swiss;
Your country calls:

"And when she calls, you must obey;
For wages not—fig for the pay—
Tis honor calls you out this day
To face the balls.

"You have to go where George Provost
Has many a soldier made a ghost,
Where indians many a prisoner roast
Or seize their scalps.

"And what of that?—mere fate of war—
God grant you may have better fare—
Go, fight beneath a kinder star,
And scourge the whelps.

"They scarce are men—mere flesh and blood—
Mere ouran-outangs of the wood,
Forever on the scent of blood,
And deers at heart.

"When men, like you, approach them nigh,
They make a yell, retreat, and fly:
On equal ground, they never try
The warrior's art.

"Then dare their strength—at honor's call
Explore the road to Montreal,
To dine, perchance, in Drummond's hall,
Perhaps in jail.

"Of all uncertain things below
The chance of war is doubly so;
For this I saw, and this I know;—
Yet, do not fail.

"To live, for months on scanty fare,
To sleep, by night in open air,
To fight, and every danger share;
All these await.

"But bear them all!—wherever led,
And live contented, though half fed:—
A couch of straw, and canvas shed
Shall be your fate!

"And mind the mark—remember me—
When full of fight, and full of glee,
Be of your brandy not too free:—
Ay, mind the mark!

"Who drinks too much, the day he fights,
Calls danger near, and death invites
To dim, or darken all his lights;—
His noon is dark!

"It is a friend in a stormy day;
Then brandy drives all care away,
But, over done, it will betray
The wisest sage.

"Then strictly guard the full canteen—
Its power enlivens every scene,
And helps to keep the soul serene
When battles rage.

"This potent stuff, if managed well,
(And strong it is, the sort I sell)
Can every doubt and fear expel,
When prudence guides.

"Though mountains rise, or rocks intrude,
This nectar smooths the roughest road,
And cheers the heart, and warms the blood
Through all its tides.

"Then drink you this, and more," (he said,
And held the pitcher to his head)
"This drink of gods, when Ganymede
Hands round the bowl,

"Will nerve the arm, and bid you go
Where prowls the vagrant Eskimau,[A]
Where torpid winter tops with snow
The darkened pole,—"

[A] The savage inhabitants of Labrador, or New-Britain.—Freneau's note.

"Enough, enough!"—(the sergeant said)
"Now, suttler, he must go to bed—
See! topsy-turvy goes his head;
I hear him snort."

"Since I know where to get my pay
(The suttler answered rather gay)
No matter what I said or say—
I've sold my quart."

MILITARY RECRUITING

To a Recruit Fond of Segar Smoking

—— Ex fumo dare lucem
Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat—Hor.

When first I arrived to the age of a man
And met the distraction of care,
As the day to a close rather sorrowful ran
Yet I smiled and I smoked my segar:
O, how sweet did it seem
What a feast, what a dream
What a pleasure to smoke the segar!

In vain did the din of the females assail
Or the noise of the carts in the street,
With a spanish segar and a pint of good ale
I found my enjoyment complete:
Old care I dismiss'd
While I held in my fist
The pitcher, and smoked the segar.

What a world are we in, if we do not retire,
And, at times, to the tavern repair
To read the gazette, by a hickory fire,
With a sixpence or shilling to spare,
To handle the glass
And an evening pass
With the help of a lively segar.

The man of the closet, who studies and reads,
And prepares for the wars of the bar;
The priest who harangues, or the lawyer who pleads,
What are they without the segar?
What they say may be right,
But they give no delight
Unless they have smoked the segar.

The farmer still plodding, who follows his plough,
A calling, the first and the best,
Would care not a fig for the sweat on his brow
If he smoked a segar with the rest:
To the hay-loft alone
I would have it unknown,
For there a segar I detest.

The sailor who climbs and ascends to the yard
Bespatter'd and blacken'd with tar,
Would think his condition uncommonly hard
If he did not indulge the segar,
To keep them in trim
While they merrily swim
On the ocean, to countries afar.

The soldier untry'd, in the midst of the smoke,
The havoc and carnage of war,
Would stand to his cannon, as firm as a rock,
Would they let him but smoke his segar:
Every gun in the fort
Should make its report
From the fire which illumes the segar.

Come then, to the tavern, ye sons of the sword,
No fear of a wound or a scar;
If your money is gone, your account will be scored
By the lady who tends at the bar:
And this I can say,
Not a cent need you pay
For the use of the social segar.

ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIERE,

Captain Dacres, August 19, 1812—by the Constitution, american frigate, capt. Hull.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

Long the tyrant of our coast
Reign'd the famous Guerriere;
Our little navy she defy'd,
Public ship and privateer:
On her sails in letters red,
To our captains were display'd
Words of warning, words of dread,
All, who meet me, have a care!
I am England's Guerriere.[A]

[A] Female warrior, or amazon.—Freneau's note.

On the wide, Atlantic deep
(Not her equal for the fight)
The Constitution, on her way,
Chanced to meet these men of might:
On her sails was nothing said,
But her waist the teeth displayed
That a deal of blood could shed,
Which, if she would venture near,
Would stain the decks of the Guerriere.

Now our gallant ship they met—
And, to struggle with John Bull—
Who had come, they little thought,
Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull:
Better, soon, to be acquainted:
Isaac hail'd the lord's anointed—
While the crew the cannon pointed,
And the balls were so directed
With a blaze so unexpected;
Isaac did so maul and rake her
That the decks of captain Dacres
Were in such a woful pickle
As if death, with scythe and sickle,
With his sling, or with his shaft
Had cut his harvest fore and aft.

Thus, in thirty minutes ended,
Mischiefs that could not be mended:
Masts, and yards, and ship descended,
All to David Jones' locker—
Such a ship in such a pucker!

Drink about to the Constitution!
She perform'd some execution
Did some share of retribution
For the insults of the year
When she took the Guerriere.
May success again await her,
Let who will again command her
Bainbridge, Rodgers, or Decatur—
Nothing like her can withstand her,
With a crew, like that on board her
Who so boldly call'd "to order"
One bold crew of english sailors,
Long, too long our seamen's jailors,
Dacre' and the Guerriere!

THEODOSIA

In the Morning Star.[200]

The fatal and perfidious barque!
Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That sunk so low that angel form of thine!

The morning star, resplendent in the east,
May be our station, when from life released,

Tempestuous cape! how fatal proved the day
When from thy shores the faithless ship withdrew,
Yet, prosperous gales impell'd her on her way
Till the broad canvas vanish'd from the view.

Long on that height the pensive friends remain'd
Till ocean's curve conceal'd her from the eye,
And all was hope that she her port attain'd
Ere ten more suns illumed the morning sky.

Fond friends! false hope! no port beheld her come
With flowing sheet, to meet the pilot's sail:
No pilot met her on the Atlantic foam—
What could the pilot, or his art, avail?

Detested barque! nor art thou yet arrived—
Nor wilt thou come! three years are roll'd away!
You, Theodosia of her life deprived,
You sunk her from the cheerful beams of day!

Where dost thou rest, with her whose genius rose
Above her sex—for science so renown'd—
But does her spirit in the deep repose
Or find new mansions on celestial ground?

That soars above to heights unknown before,
Where all is joy, and life that never ends;
Where all is rapture, all admire, adore;
Immortal nature, with angelic friends.

Oh! shed no more the tears of sad regret;
The hymns of joy, the lofty verse prepare—
Her briny doom, the ingulphing wave forget
For Theodosia in the Morning Star.

[200] Theodosia, the brilliant and accomplished daughter of Aaron Burr, embarked from Charleston, S. C., December 29, 1812, in the schooner Patriot for New York. The boat never was heard from afterwards. It doubtless foundered off Cape Hatteras in the severe gale which sprang up soon after the vessel had left the harbor.

IN MEMORY OF JAMES LAWRENCE, ESQUIRE,

Late commander of the United States frigate Chesapeake, who fell in the
action, with the british ship of war Shannon, June 1st. 1813

—Semper honoratum habebo—Virg.

To lift his name to high renown
His native merits led the way;
His morning sun resplendent shone
Till clouds obscured the fading ray:
His country's voice his worth confess'd,
His country's tears disclose the rest,
In battle brave, his lofty mind
Aspired to all that fame relates
Of those, who on her page we find
Defenders of insulted states:
Of all who fought, or all who fell,
The noblest part he copied well.

For Lawrence dead, his Jersey mourns,
With tearful eye laments the day
When all the worth that men adorns
One fatal moment snatch'd away!
On honor's bed his doom he found,
In honor's cause, the deadly wound.

To what vast heights his mind aspired,
Who knew him best can best relate:—
A longer term the cause required
That urged him to an early fate:
But He, whose fires illumed his breast,
Knew what was right and what was best.

His country to her breast receives
His mangled form, and holds it dear;
She plants her marble, while she grieves,
Where all, who read, might drop a tear,
And say, while memory calls to mind
The chief, who with our worthies shined,
Here Lawrence rests, his country's pride,
On valor's decks who fought and died!

ON THE LAKE EXPEDITIONS

Where Niagara's awful roar
Convulsive shakes the neighboring shore,
Alarm'd I heard the trump of war,
Saw legions join!

And such a blast, of old, they blew,
When southward from st. Lawrence flew
The indian, to the english true,
Led by Burgoyne.

United, then, they sail'd Champlain,
United now, they march again,
A land of freedom to profane
With savage yell.

For this they scour the mountain wood;
Their errand, death, their object, blood:
For this they stem thy subject flood,
O stream Sorel!

Who shall repulse the hireling host,
Who force them back through snow and frost,
Who swell the lake with thousands lost,
Dear freedom? say!—

Who but the sons of freedom's land,
Prepared to meet the bloody band;
Resolved to make a gallant stand
Where lightnings play.

Their squadrons, arm'd with gun and sword,
Their legions, led by knight and lord
Have sworn to see the reign restored
Of George, the goth;

Whose mandate, from a vandal shore,
Impels the sail, directs the oar,
And, to extend the flames of war,
Employs them both.

THE BATTLE OF LAKE ERIE

September 10, 1813

"To clear the lake of Perry's fleet
And make his flag his winding sheet
This is my object—I repeat—"
—Said Barclay, flush'd with native pride,
To some who serve the british crown:—
But they, who dwell beyond the moon,
Heard this bold menace with a frown,
Nor the rash sentence ratified.

Ambition so bewitch'd his mind,
And royal smiles had so combined
With skill, to act the part assign'd
He for no contest cared, a straw;
The ocean was too narrow far
To be the seat of naval war;
He wanted lakes, and room to spare,
And all to yield to Britain's law.

And thus he made a sad mistake;
Forsooth he must possess the lake,
As merely made for England's sake
To play her pranks and rule the roast;
Where she might govern, uncontrol'd,
An unmolested empire hold,
And keep a fleet to fish up gold,
To pay the troops of George Provost.

The ships approach'd, of either side,
And Erie, on his bosom wide
Beheld two hostile navies ride,
Each for the combat well prepared:
The lake was smooth, the sky was clear,
The martial drum had banish'd fear,
And death and danger hover'd near,
Though both were held in disregard.

From lofty heights their colors flew,
And Britain's standard all in view,
With frantic valor fired the crew
That mann'd the guns of queen Charlotte.
"And we must Perry's squadron take,
And England shall command the lake;—
And you must fight for Britain's sake,
(Said Barclay) sailors, will you not?"

Assent they gave with heart and hand;
For never yet a braver band
To fight a ship, forsook the land,
Than Barclay had on board that day;—
The guns were loosed the game to win,
Their muzzles gaped a dismal grin,
And out they pulled their tompion pin,
The bloody game of war to play.

But Perry soon, with flowing sail,
Advanced, determined to prevail,
When from his bull-dogs flew the hail
Directed full at queen Charlotte.
His wadded guns were aim'd so true,
And such a weight of ball they threw,
As, Barclay said, he never knew
To come, before, so scalding hot!

But still, to animate his men
From gun to gun the warrior ran
And blazed away and blazed again—
Till Perry's ship was half a wreck:
They tore away both tack and sheet,—
Their victory might have been complete,
Had Perry not, to shun defeat
In lucky moment left his deck.

Repairing to another post,
From another ship he fought their host
And soon regain'd the fortune lost,
And down, his flag the briton tore:
With loss of arm and loss of blood
Indignant, on his decks he stood
To witness Erie's crimson flood
For miles around him, stain'd with gore!

Thus, for dominion of the lake
These captains did each other rake,
And many a widow did they make;—
Whose is the fault, or who to blame?—
The briton challenged with his sword,
The yankee took him at his word,
With spirit laid him close on board—
They're ours—he said—and closed the game.

ON THE CAPTURE

OF THE UNITED STATES FRIGATE ESSEX,

Of thirty-two guns, David Porter, esq. commander, in the neutral port of
Valparisso, on the coast of Chili, in South America, January, 1814,
by the british frigate Phoebe, capt. Hillyer, of forty-nine
guns, and the Cherub of thirty-two guns.

"All the devils were there, and hell was empty!"

From cruising near the southern pole
Where wild antarctic oceans roll,
With a gallant crew, a manly soul,
Heroic Porter came.
Then, weathering round the stormy cape,
And facing death in every shape,
Which Anson[A] hardly could escape,
(So says the page of fame.)

[A] See Lord Anson's voyage round the world between 1740 and 1744, by his chaplain, the rev. Richard Walter. The terrors and dangers of a winter passage round Cape Horn into the Western Ocean, are depicted in that work by a masterly hand, who was witness to the scene.—Freneau's note.

He made the high chilesian coast,
The Andes, half in vapor lost,
The Andes, topp'd with snow and frost,
Eternal winter's reign!
Then, to the rugged western gale,
He spread the broad columbian sail;
And, Valparisso, thy fair vale
Received him, with his men.

There, safely moor'd, his colors fly,
Columbia's standard waved on high;
The neutral port, his friends, were nigh;
So gallant Porter thought;
Nor deem'd a foe would heave in sight
Regardless of all neutral right;
And yet, that foe he soon must fight,
And fight them as he ought.

His Essex claim'd his fondest care,
With her he every storm could dare,
With her, to meet the blast of war,
His soul was still in trim:
In her he cruised the northern main,
In her he pass'd the burning line,
In her he all things could attain,
If all would act like him.

At length, two hostile ships appear,
And for the port they boldly steer—
The Phoebe first, and in her rear
The Cherub, all secure.
They loom'd as gay as for a dance,
Or ladies painted in romance—
Do, mind how boldly they advance.
Who can their fire endure?

The Phoebe mounted forty-nine—
All thought her on some grand design—
Does she alone the fight decline?
Say, Captain Hillyer, say?
The Cherub's guns were thirty-two—
And, Essex! full a match for you—
Yet to her bold companion true,
She hugg'd her close, that day.

Ye powers, that rule the southern pole!
Are these the men of English soul?
Do these, indeed, the waves control?
Are these the ocean's lords?
Though challenged singly to the fight
(As Porter, Hillyer, did invite)
These men of spunk, these men of might,
Refused to measure swords!

What, fight alone! bold Hillyer said—
I will not fight without my Aid—
The Cherub is for war array'd,
And she must do her share!
Now Porter saw their dastard plan—
To fight them both was surely vain;
We should have thought a man insane
That would so madly dare.

Then, hands on deck! the anchors weigh!
—And for the sea he left the bay,
A running fight to have that day,
And thus escape his foes.
But oh!—distressing to relate—
As round a point of land he beat
A squall from hell the ship beset,
And her maintopmast goes!

Unable to attain that end,
He turns toward the neutral friend,
And hoped protection they might lend,
But no protection found.
In this distress, the foe advanced—
With such an eye at Essex glanced!
And such a fire of death commenced
As dealt destruction round!

With every shot they raked the deck,
Till mingled ruin seized the wreck:
No valor could the ardor check
Of England's martial tars!
One hundred men the Essex lost:
But Phoebe found, and to her cost,
That Porter made them many a ghost
To serve in Satan's wars.

Oh, clouded scene!—yet must I tell
Columbia's flag, indignant, fell—
To Essex, now, we bid farewell;
She wears the english flag!
But Yankees she has none on board
To point the gun or wield the sword;
And though commanded by a lord
They'll have no cause to brag.

THE TERRIFIC TORPEDOES[201]

OR SIR THOMAS HARDY'S SOLILOQUY.

"Then traitor come! as black revenge excites,
Extinguish all our claims with all my lights!
But keen remorse, which vengeful furies lead,
Will act her part for this inhuman deed.
How will her vultures on your vitals prey!
How will her stings our every death repay!—
O nature! is all sympathy a jest;
Art thou a stranger to the human breast?
Has manly prowess quit the abandon'd stage,
Are midnight plots the order of the age?

"Where proud New-London holds her flaming guide
To steer Decatur through the darksome tide,
I stay too long! what station can I find
To shake distraction from a tortured mind!

"Then, traitor, come! your dark attack begin,
Renown'd inventor of the black machine:
But mark!—for when some future poet tells,
Or some historian on the subject dwells,
No word of praise shall meet the listening ear,
Disgustful story, to repeat or hear—
Was you, an infant, to a mother press'd,
Or did ferocious tigers give the breast—
Did nature in some angry moment plan
Some fierce hyena to degrade the man?
Resolve me quick, for doubtful while I stay
These dark torpedoes may be on their way.
Does nature thus her heaviest curse impart
And will she give such countenance to art?—
She gave you all that rancor could bestow,
She lent her magic from the world below;
She gave you all that madness could propose,
And all her malice in your bosom glows;
She gave you sulphur, charcoal, nitre join'd:
She gave you not—a great and generous mind."

So spoke the knight, and slamm'd the door,
And thus went on, with feelings sore:
"I relish not torpedo war:—
Die when I will, or where I may,
I would not choose so short a way:
These twenty nights I did my best
To shut my eyes, and take my rest,
But drowsy Morpheus might as well
Upon the main mast try his spell.
No potion from the poppy's leaf
Can close my lids;—and, to be brief,
This Fulton, with his dashing plans,
Distracts my head, my heart unmans:
And, every night, I have my fears
Of such infernal engineers;
Who, when I sup, or could I sleep
Might row their wherry through the deep,
And screw their engine to the keel,
And blow us—where there's no appeal;
No question how, or where we died,
But how we lived, and how applied
The little sense our heads contain
To save our souls, and live again.

"They, who support torpedo plans
Should have no plaudit for their pains;
Should be employ'd on dark designs,
Explorers of peruvian mines;
Such have not felt the patriot glow,
A feeling they could never know:
For treasons they were surely made,
Have princes slain and kings betray'd.—
Ye powers above! and must I wait
Till these prevail in every state,
Till pale disease, or shivering age
Drives such false patriots from the stage!

"The chaplain said he heard me snore,
But many a fib he told before;
And if I snored, I'm satisfied
Twas when my eyes were open wide.

"Torpedoes! who contrived the word?
Torpedoes! worse than gun or sword!
They are a mode of naval war
We cannot have a relish for:—
In all the chronicles I read
Of former times, they nothing said
Of such a horrible machine
That would disgrace an algerine,
And only yankees would employ,
Not to distress, but to destroy.

"What human eye, without dismay
Can see torpedo-lightning's play?
What mortal heart, but dreads a foe
That fights unseen from fields below!

"What passion must that heart inspire
That dives the sea, to deal in fire,
What can he fear, I trembling ask
Who undertakes the daring task?

"With engines of perdition spread,
Amazed, I see the ocean's bed!
And find with rage, regret, despair,
I have no power to meet them there!

"Alack! my nerves are on the rack—
They're hammering at the garboard streak!
Some yankee dog is near the keel!
Ho, sailors give the ship a heel:
Go, chaplain, to the starboard chains
And ask the rascal what he means?
Who knows but Fulton's self is there
With all his dark infernal gear:
Who knows but he has fix'd his screws,
And left a match, to fire the fuze—
Who knows, but in this very hour,
The Ramillies will be no more!
Will only live in empty fame,
And I, myself, be but a name!

"Should the torpedo take effect,
Her carcass will be worse than wreck'd;
In scatter'd fragments to the sky
This ship of ships will clattering fly:
And then—ah, chaplain!—ah, what then!
Where will I be, and all my men?
And where will you a lodging find,
A traveller on a gale of wind!
And where will be the pretty maid
That sweeps my floor and makes my bed?

Oh Fanny, Fanny! must we part?—
Torpedoes!—I am sick at heart!—
How will the flames those lips deface!
How will they spoil that blooming face!
How will they scorch your auburn hair—?
—You'll have your plagues, and I my share.

And must I all my fears impart;
And do these guns my ship ensure?
And must I ask my fluttering heart
If on these decks I stand secure?

"Do, Fanny, go and boil some tea:
Come hither, love, and comfort me:
A glass of wine! my spirits sink!
The last perhaps that I shall drink!—
Or go—unlock the brandy case
And let us have a dram a piece;—
No matter if your nose is red,
We shall be sober when we're dead.

"In fancy's view the mine is sprung,
The rudder from the stern unhung,
My valiant sailors torn asunder,
The ship herself a clap of thunder,
From fathoms down, a deadly blast
Unbolts the keel, unsteps the mast,
While Fulton, with a placid grin
Exulting, views the infernal scene!

The sails are vanish'd, tack and clue,
The rigging burnt, by lord knows who,
The star that glitter'd on my breast
Is gone to Davy Jones's chest;
The glorious ensign of st. George,
Of Spain the dread, of France the scourge,
Is from the staff, unpitied, torn
And for a cloak by satan worn:
The Lion mounted on the prow,
To awe the subject sea below
With flames that Lion is oppress'd—
They will not spare the royal beast.—
O vengeance! why does vengeance sleep?
The yards are scatter'd o'er the deep,
Our guns are buried in the seas,
And thus concludes the Ramillies!

"The world, I think, can witness bear
My name was never stain'd by fear:
At least the british fleet can say
I never shunn'd the face of clay:
But Fulton's black, infernal art—
Has stamp'd me—coward—to the heart!

"When Nelson met the spanish fleet,
And every pulse for conquest beat,
At Nelson's side I had my stand;
When Nelson fell I took command:
Not Etna's self, with all her flames—
Vesuvius—such description claims;
Not Hecla, in her wildest rage,
Does with such fires the heavens engage,
As on that day, in mourning clad,
Was thunder'd from the Trinidad.[A]

[A] The Santa Trinidada, the spanish admiral's ship, of 112 guns, from the mizen top of which admiral Nelson was mortally wounded by a musket shot. Another account says, he received his death wound from the Redoubtable, french 74.—Freneau's note.

"And yet, amidst that awful scene,
I stood unhurt, composed, serene;
Though balls, by thousands, whistled round,
Not one had leave to kill or wound—
But here! in this torpedo war
I perish, with my glittering star,
The laurels that adorn my brow—
My laurels are surrender'd now.
O Fanny! these envenom'd states
Have doom'd our deaths among the rats,
In one explosion, to the sky
Our chaplain, rats, and sailors fly.

"To deal in such inhuman war
Is more than English blood can bear;
It brings again the gothic age,
Renews that period on the stage,
When men against the gods rebell'd,
And Ossa was on Pelion piled:
The trojan war, when Diomede
In battle, made fair Venus bleed;
Or, when the giants of renown
Attempted Jove's imperial crown:—
From such a foe, before we meet,
The safest way, is to retreat,
To leave this curst unlucky shore
And come to trouble them no more.

"But, should it be my fate to-night
Not to behold to-morrow's light
But mingle with the vulgar dead,
With all my terrors on my head—
Should such a fate be mine, I say,
Dear Fanny, you must lead the way;—
You are the saint that will atone
For what amiss I might have done:
If such as you will intercede
The chaplain may a furlow plead,
While you and I in raptures go
Where stormy winds no longer blow,
Where guns are not, to shed our blood,
Or if there be, are made of wood;
Where all is love, and no one hates;
No falling kings or rising states;
No colors that we must defend,
If sick, or dead, or near our end;
Where yankees are admitted not
To hatch their damn'd torpedo plot:
Where you will have no beds to make,
Nor I be doom'd to lie awake."

[201] It is a fact well ascertained that during a great part of the summer of 1814 the knight was under such serious apprehensions of being blown up by the Torpedo men, that he enjoyed no sleep or rest for many nights together. With such feelings, and under such impressions, he is supposed to begin his soliloquy abruptly, under all the emotions of horror, incident to such an occasion.—Freneau's note.

Sir Thomas Hardy was commander of the 74 gun ship Ramillies, the leader of the squadron which lay off New London during the summer of 1814. The following in Niles' Register, May 7, 1814, is suggestive: "It appears the British squadron off New London are yet disturbed by torpedoes. One of them lately exploded under the sprit-sail yard of the La Hoque, and threw up a volume of water near her fore top. The enemy, it seems, has a list of the persons concerned in the management of these machines!"

THE NORTHERN MARCH

Written Previously to the Battles of Chippewa and Bridgewater.[202]

Come, to the battle let us go,
Hurl destruction on the foe;
Who commands us, well we know,
Tis the gallant general Brown.
Haste away from field or town,
Pull the hostile standard down—
If but led by general Brown
What will be the event, we know.

If but led against that foe,
Soon their doom the english know,
Soon their haughtiest blood shall flow,
When opposed to general Brown.
Haste away from town and farm:
If we meet them, where's the harm?
English power has lost its charm,
England's fame is tumbling down.

Long she ruled the northern waste,
Freedom is by her debased,
Freedom is not to her taste;
All the world must wear her chain!!!
"Not a keel shall plough the wave,
Not a sail, without her leave;
Not a fleet, the nations have,
Safe from her, shall stem the main!!!

Let this day's heroic deeds
Let the generous breast that bleeds,
Let our chief who bravely leads
Tell them that their reign is done:
Soon to quit Columbia's shore,
Is their doom—we say no more;
General Brown, in the cannon's roar
Tells them how the field is won!

[202] Early in the year 1814 the British army obtained possession of Fort Niagara and thereupon determined to remove the seat of the war to the Niagara frontier. The American expedition intended to invade Canada was directed, under command of General Jacob Brown, to dislodge the British from this position. The first decisive action was the battle of Chippewa, fought July 5, 1814, on Canadian soil, opposite Niagara Falls. Three weeks later, July 25, he again closed with the British at Bridgewater, or Lundy Lane, in the same vicinity. In both engagements the Americans were victorious.

ON POLITICAL SERMONS

When parsons preach on politics, pray why
Should declamation cease, if you go by?

We heard a lecture, or a scold,
And, doubtful which it might be call'd,
But senseless as the bell that toll'd,
And pleasing neither young nor old.

We kept our seats amid the din,
Then quit the field, with all our sin,
Just as good as we went in.

Tell me what the preacher said,
Ye, who somewhat longer stay'd
Till the last address was made:—

Why,—he talk'd of ruin'd states,
Demagogues and democrates,
Falling stars, and Satan's baits.

Did he mention nothing more?—
Simply, what he said before—
Repetitions, twenty score.

His arguments could nothing prove,
His text alarm'd the sacred grove,
His prayer displeased the powers above.

He would not pray for those who rule,
But hoped that in Bethesda's pool
They all might dip, to make them cool.

He deprecated blood and war,
Its many mischiefs did deplore
Except when England mounts the car.

At Congress he had such a fling,
As plainly show'd, he wish'd a king,
Might here arrive, on Vulture's wing;

And that himself an horn might blow
To shake our modern Jericho,
And bring its ramparts very low.

To english notes his psalm was sung,
With politics the pulpit rung,
And thrice was bellow'd from his tongue,
"The president is always wrong!

"He brought these evils on our land,
And he must go—the time's at hand—
With Bonaparte to take his stand."—

Must not the wheels of fate go on?
Must not the lion's teeth be drawn,
Because it suits not Prester John!—

A Bishop's Lawn is such a prize
Such virtue in a mitre lies,
Democracy before it flies.

And these he hopes, if George prevails,
In time may hoist his shorten'd sails
And waft him on, with fortune's gales.

To gain by preaching, nett and clear,
Some twenty hundred pounds a year;
Which democrats would never bear.

To England why so much a friend,
Or why her cause with heat defend?—
There is, no doubt, some selfish end.

Dear Momus come, and help me laugh—
This England is the stay and staff
Of true religion—more than half!

She is the prop of all that's good,
A bulwark, which for ages stood
To guard the path and mark the road!

One proof of which can soon be brought,
The temple rais'd to Jaggernaut,[A]
And India to his temple brought,

[A] The temple of Jaggernaut, an idolatrous establishment in India, to the support of which the english government contributed largely. The unwieldy idol, to which the temple is dedicated, is, on certain days, carried about the streets on a huge carriage, under the wheels of which the superstitious multitude, it is said, suffer themselves to be trampled and crushed to pieces, by hundreds, from a superstitious motive. If this be not fiction, may the british government exert its influence to eradicate so barbarous and bloody a superstition from the minds of millions of idolatrous wretches.—Freneau's note.

To see her murder'd, mangled sons,
To worship idols, stocks, and stones,
Or reliques of some scoundrel's bones.

And "long may heaven on England smile—
(So says our preacher, all the while)
The world's last hope, fast anchor'd isle!"—

Religion there is made no sport,
State tailors there have deckt her out
In a birth-day suit—to go to court!—

LINES ON NAPOLEON BONAPARTE[203]

Napoleon, born for regal sway,
With fortune in a smiling mood,
To a foreign land explored his way,
Where Cairo stands, or Memphis stood.

And still he fought, and still she smiled,
And urged him far, and spurr'd him on,
And on his march, at length beguiled,
One thinking man to wear a crown.

The crown attracted many a care,
And war employ'd him, day and night;
He by a princess had an heir
Born to succeed him, or—who might.

Through russian tribes he forced his way,
To blast their hopes and hurl them down
Whose valor might dispute his sway,
Or dispossess him of a crown.

At last arrived the fatal time,
When powerful tyrants, jealous grown,
Agreed to count it for a crime
A commoner should fill a throne.

European states, with England join'd
To keep unmixt the royal race,
And let the famed Napoleon find
A dotard might supply his place.

[203] This poem and the one following were written shortly after the news of Napoleon's banishment to Elba, April 11, 1814, had reached America.

ON THE DISMISSION OF BONAPARTE

From the French Throne.

Famed Bonaparte, in regal pride,
Put slighted Josephine aside,
And wedded an imperial bride,
Of fortune sure.

But when he droop'd, and when he fell,
(I took my pen and mark'd it well)
This jilt of jilts, this austrian belle,
No longer styled him, Mon Amour;

Which means, I think, my dearest heart,
My love!—but lovers often part
When friendship does not point the dart,
Nor fix the flame.

And warning, hence, let others take,
Nor love's decree for interest break;
In marriage, too much lies at stake
To slight its claim.

Retreating to the tuscan coast,
An empire, wife, and fortune lost,
He found the throne a dangerous post,
And wars a cheat;

Where all, who play their game too deep,
Must hazard life, and discord reap,
Or thrown from grandeur's giddy steep,
Lament their fate.

Napoleon, with an empty chest!
An austrian princess must detest;
And yet, she wears upon her breast
The painted toy;[A]

[A] A miniature picture of the late emperor Napoleon.—Freneau's note.

And often weeps, the story goes,
That royal blood not wholly flows
In every vein, from head to toes,
Of her dear boy.

To Elba's isle she could not go—
The royal orders said "No, no!
On Elba's island we bestow
No royal throne:"

And thus Napoleon, shoved from power,
Has many a lonely gloomy hour
To walk on Elba's sea-beat shore,
Alone! alone!

O save us from ambition's sway,
Ye powers, who tread the milky way;
It will deceive, it will betray
Nine out of ten.

Napoleon's history let us read:
In science he was great indeed—
Ambition's lantern did mislead
This prince of men:—

And yet, ambition had its use,
It check'd the royal game of goose,
And many a flagrant vile abuse
Fell at his frown.

But, doom'd to share immortal fame,
Despotic powers will dread his name,
Though he, perhaps, was much the same,
Raised to a throne!

THE PRINCE REGENT'S RESOLVE

The regent prince, enraged to find
The standard from his frigates torn,
To a full court thus spoke his mind,
With hand display'd and soul of scorn,
"Since fate decreed Napoleon's fall,
Now, now's the time to conquer all!

"We at the head of all that's great,
Tis ours to hold the world in awe:
Let Louis reign in regal state,
And let his subjects own his law;
Their tide of power tis ours to stem—
We'll govern those who govern them.

"But here's the rub, and here's my grief;
My frigates from the seas are hurl'd!
What shall we do? how find relief?
How strike and stupefy the world?
Our flag, that long control'd the main,
Our standard must be raised again.

"A land there lies towards the west
There must my royal will be done;
That land is an infernal nest
Of reptiles, rul'd by Madison:
That nest I swear to humble down,
There plant a king, and there a crown.

"Depart, my fleet, depart, my slaves,
Invade that nest, attack and burn;
Where'er the ocean rolls his waves,
Subdue, or dare not to return;
Subdue and plunder all you can,
Who plunders most—shall be my man.

"To scatter death, by fire and sword,
To prostrate all, where'er you go:
That is the mandate, that the word,
Though seas of blood around you flow:
No more!—go, aid the indian yell:
Be conquerors, and I'll feed you well.

So spoke the prince, but little knew
His minions were for slaughter fed;
Nor did he guess, that vengeance, too,
Would fall on his devoted head;
When all his plans and projects fail,
And he ascends Belshazzar's scale.[A]

[A] Mene mene, Tekel, Peres!—thou art weighed in the balance, and art found wanting!—Daniel.—Freneau's note.

THE VOLUNTEER'S MARCH[A]

July, 1814

Dulce est pro patria mori.

[A] This little ode, with the addition of two new stanzas is somewhat altered from one of Robert Burns' compositions, and applied to an american occasion: the original being Bruce's supposed address to his army, a little before the battle of Bannockbourne.—Freneau's note.

Ye, whom Washington has led,
Ye, who in his footsteps tread,
Ye, who death nor danger dread,
Haste to glorious victory.

Now's the day and now's the hour;
See the British navy lour,
See approach proud George's power,
England! chains and slavery.

Who would be a traitor knave?
Who would fill a coward's grave?
Who so base to be a slave?
Traitor, coward, turn and flee.

Meet the tyrants, one and all;
Freemen stand, or freemen fall—
At Columbia's patriot call,
At her mandate, march away!

Former times have seen them yield,
Seen them drove from every field,
Routed, ruin'd, and repell'd—
Seize the spirit of those times!

By oppression's woes and pains—
By our sons in servile chains
We will bleed from all our veins
But they shall be—shall be free.

O'er the standard of their power
Bid Columbia's eagle tower,
Give them hail in such a shower
As shall blast them—horse and man!

Lay the proud invaders low,
Tyrants fall in every foe;
Liberty's in every blow,
Forward! let us do or die.

THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON

ON THE SEABOARD OF CONNECTICUT

In an attack upon the town and a small fort of two guns, by the Ramillies,
seventy-four gun ship, commanded by Sir Thomas Hardy; the
Pactolus, 38 gun ship, Despatch, brig of 22 guns, and
a razee, or bomb ship.—August, 1814.

Four gallant ships from England came
Freighted deep with fire and flame,
And other things we need not name,
To have a dash at Stonington.

Now safely moor'd, their work begun;
They thought to make the yankees run,
And have a mighty deal of fun
In stealing sheep at Stonington.

A deacon, then popp'd up his head
And parson Jones's sermon read,
In which the reverend doctor said
That they must fight for Stonington.

A townsman bade them, next, attend
To sundry resolutions penn'd,
By which they promised to defend
With sword and gun, old Stonington.

The ships advancing different ways,
The britons soon began to blaze,
And put th' old women in amaze,
Who fear'd the loss of Stonington.

The yankees to their fort repair'd,
And made as though they little cared
For all that came—though very hard
The cannon play'd on Stonington.

The Ramillies began the attack,
Despatch came forward—bold and black—
And none can tell what kept them back
From setting fire to Stonington.

The bombardiers with bomb and ball,
Soon made a farmer's barrack fall,
And did a cow-house sadly maul
That stood a mile from Stonington.

They kill'd a goose, they kill'd a hen,
Three hogs they wounded in a pen—
They dash'd away, and pray what then?
This was not taking Stonington.

The shells were thrown, the rockets flew,
But not a shell, of all they threw,
Though every house was full in view,
Could burn a house at Stonington.

To have their turn they thought but fair;—
The yankees brought two guns to bear,
And, sir, it would have made you stare,
This smoke of smokes at Stonington.

They bored Pactolus through and through,
And kill'd and wounded of her crew
So many, that she bade adieu
T' the gallant boys of Stonington.

The brig Despatch was hull'd and torn—
So crippled, riddled, so forlorn,
No more she cast an eye of scorn
On th' little fort at Stonington.

The Ramillies gave up th' affray
And, with her comrades, sneak'd away—
Such was the valor, on that day,
Of british tars near Stonington.

But some assert, on certain grounds,
(Besides the damage and the wounds)
It cost the king ten thousand pounds
To have a dash at Stonington.

ON THE BRITISH INVASION

1814[204]

From France, desponding and betray'd,
From liberty in ruins laid,
Exulting Britain has display'd
Her flag, again to invade us.

Her myrmidons, with murdering eye,
Across the broad Atlantic fly
Prepared again their strength to try,
And strike our country's standard.

Lord Wellington's ten thousand slaves,[A]
And thrice ten thousand, on the waves,
And thousands more of brags and braves
Are under sail, and coming

[A] Lord Wellington's army embarked on the river Garonne, in France, in several divisions, for the invasion of the United States, amounting, it was said, to sixty or seventy thousand men.—Freneau's note.

To burn our towns, to seize our soil,
To change our laws, our country spoil,
And Madison to Elba's isle
To send without redemption.

In Boston state they hope to find
A yankee host of kindred mind
To aid their arms, to rise and bind
Their countrymen in shackles:

But no such thing—it will not do—
At least, not while a Jersey Blue
Is to the cause of freedom true,
Or the bold Pennsylvanian.

A curse on England's frantic schemes!
Both mad and blind—her monarch dreams
Of crowns and kingdoms in these climes
Where kings have had their sentence.

Though Washington has left our coast,
Yet other Washingtons we boast,
Who rise, instructed by his ghost,
To punish all invaders.

Go where they will, where'er they land,
This pilfering, plundering, pirate band,
They liberty will find at hand
To hurl them to perdition:

If in Virginia they appear,
Their fate is fix'd, their doom is near,
Death in their front and hell their rear—
So says the gallant buckskin.

All Carolina is prepared,
And Charleston doubly on her guard;
Where, once, sir Peter badly fared,
So blasted by fort Moultrie.

If farther south they turn their views,
With veteran troops, or veteran crews,
The curse of heaven their march pursues
To send them all a-packing:

The tallest mast that sails the wave,
The longest keel its waters lave,
Will bring them to an early grave
On the shores of Pensacola.

[204] This poem was written early in August, on receipt of the news that a large squadron was on its way across the Atlantic to lay waste the seaboard cities. The squadron finally sailed into Chesapeake Bay and turned its attention first to Washington and Baltimore.

ON THE ENGLISH DEVASTATIONS

AT THE CITY OF WASHINGTON[205]

Their power abused! that power may soon descend:
Years, not remote, may see their glory end:—
The british power, the avaricious crown,
Pull'd every flag, hurl'd every standard down;
Columbian ships they seized on every sea,
Condemn'd those ships, nor left our sailors free.—
So long a tyrant on the watery stage,
They thought to tyrannize through every age;
They hoped all commerce to monopolize;
Europe, at sea, they affected to despise;
They laugh'd at France contending for a share
Of commerce, one would think, as free as air.
They captured most, without remorse or plea,
And grew as proud as arrogance could be.

Stung by a thousand wrongs, at length arose
The Western States, these tyrants to oppose;
With just resentment, met them on the main,
And burnt, or sunk their ships, with hosts of slain.

The blood ran black from every english heart
To see their empire from the seas depart,
To see their flag to thirteen stripes surrender,
And many an english ship made fire and tinder;
They swore, they raged; they saw, with patience spent,
Each last engagement had the same event—
What could they do? revenge inspired their breasts,
And hell's sensations seized their swelling chests.—
All to revenge, to Maryland they came,
And costly works of art assail'd with flame;
In Washington they left a dismal void,—
Poor compensation for their ships destroy'd!—
We burn, where guns their frigates poorly guard;
They burn, where scarce a gun is seen or heard!

[205] Washington was taken by the British, August 24, 1814. "It was only the vandalism of the British soldiers and sailors, incited by Cockburn and ill restrained by Ross, that made this incursion at once memorable and infamous. To public edifices, having no immediate relation to the war, the torch was applied; to the unfinished Capitol (which contained the library of Congress); the President's house, the Treasury,—to all the government buildings in fact, except the Patent Office, besides numerous private dwellings about Capitol Hill."—Schouler's History of the United States.

"All this was the more shameful because done under strict orders from home."—Green's History of the English People.

ON THE CONFLAGRATIONS AT WASHINGTON

August 24, 1814

——Jam deiphobi dedit ampla ruinam,
Vulcano superante, domus; jam proximus ardet
Ucalegon.—Virgil.

Now, George the third rules not alone,
For George the vandal shares the throne,
True flesh of flesh and bone of bone.

God save us from the fangs of both;
Or, one a vandal, one a goth,
May roast or boil us into froth.

Like danes, of old, their fleet they man
And rove from Beersheba to Dan,
To burn, and beard us—where they can.

They say, at George the fourth's command
This vagrant host were sent, to land
And leave in every house—a brand.

An idiot only would require
Such war—the worst they could desire—
The felon's war—the war of fire.

The warfare, now, th' invaders make
Must surely keep us all awake,
Or life is lost for freedom's sake.

They said to Cockburn, "honest Cock!
To make a noise and give a shock
Push off, and burn their navy dock:

"Their capitol shall be emblazed!
How will the buckskins stand amazed,
And curse the day its walls were raised!"

Six thousand heroes disembark—
Each left at night his floating ark
And Washington was made their mark.

That few would fight them—few or none—
Was by their leaders clearly shown—
And "down," they said, "with Madison!"

How close they crept along the shore!
As closely as if Rodgers saw her—
A frigate to a seventy-four.

A veteran host, by veterans led,
With Ross and Cockburn at their head—
They came—they saw—they burnt—and fled.

But not unpunish'd they retired;
They something paid, for all they fired,
In soldiers kill'd, and chiefs expired.

Five hundred veterans bit the dust,
Who came, inflamed with lucre's lust—
And so they waste—and so they must.

They left our congress naked walls—
Farewell to towers and capitols!
To lofty roofs and splendid halls!

To courtly domes and glittering things,
To folly, that too near us clings,
To courtiers who—tis well—had wings.

Farewell to all but glorious war,
Which yet shall guard Potomac's shore,
And honor lost, and fame restore.

To conquer armies in the field
Was, once, the surest method held
To make a hostile country yield.

The mode is this, now acted on;
In conflagrating Washington,
They held our independence gone!

Supposing George's house at Kew
Were burnt, (as we intend to do,)
Would that be burning England too?

Supposing, near the silver Thames
We laid in ashes their saint James,
Or Blenheim palace wrapt in flames;

Made Hampton Court to fire a prey,
And meanly, then, to sneak away,
And never ask them, what's to pay?

Would that be conquering London town?
Would that subvert the english throne,
Or bring the royal system down?

With all their glare of guards or guns,
How would they look like simpletons,
And not at all the lion's sons!

Supposing, then, we take our turn
And make it public law, to burn,
Would not old english honor spurn

At such a mean insidious plan
Which only suits some savage clan—
And surely not—the english man!

A doctrine has prevail'd too long;
A king, they hold, can do no wrong—
Merely a pitch-fork, without prong:

But de'il may trust such doctrines, more,—
One king, that wrong'd us, long before,
Has wrongs, by hundreds, yet in store.

He wrong'd us forty years ago;
He wrongs us yet, we surely know;
He'll wrong us till he gets a blow

That, with a vengeance, will repay
The mischiefs we lament this day,
This burning, damn'd, infernal play;

Will send one city to the sky,
Its buildings low and buildings high,
And buildings—built the lord knows why;

Will give him an eternal check
That breaks his heart or breaks his neck,
And plants our standard on Quebec.

TO THE LAKE SQUADRONS[206]

The brilliant task to you assign'd
Asks every effort of the mind,
And every energy, combined,
To crush the foe.

Sail where they will, you must be there;
Lurk where they can, you will not spare
The blast of death—but all things dare
To bring them low.

To wield his thunders on Champlain,
Macdonough leads his gallant train,
And, his great object to sustain,
Vermont unites

Her hardy youths and veterans bold
From shelter'd vale and mountain cold,
Who fought, to guard, in days of old
Their country's rights.

That country's wrongs are all your own
And to the world the word is gone—
Her independence must to none
Be sign'd away.

Be to the nation's standard true,
To Britain, and to Europe shew
That you can fight and conquer too,
And prostrate lay.

That bitter foe, whose thousands rise
No more to fight us in disguise,
But count our freedom for their prize,
If valor fails:

Beneath your feet let fear be cast,
Remember deeds of valor past,
And nail your colors to the mast
And spread your sails.

In all the pride and pomp of war
Let thunders from the cannon roar,
And lightnings flash from shore to shore,
To wing the ball.

Let Huron from his slumbers wake,
Bid Erie to his centre shake,
Till, foundering in Ontario's lake,
You swamp them all!

[206] This poem refers to the campaign during the late summer of 1814 against the English fleet on Lake Ontario and Lake Champlain.

THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN

September 11, 1814

Between the british squadron, of 93 guns and 1050 men, and the
American fleet of 86 guns and 820 men. The Confiance, of
39 and the Saratoga, of 26 guns, were the flag ships of
the two commanders, Downie and Macdonough.

Parading near saint Peter's flood
Full fourteen thousand soldiers stood;
Allied with natives of the wood,
With frigates, sloops, and galleys near;
Which southward, now, began to steer;
Their object was, Ticonderogue.

Assembled at Missisqui bay
A feast they held, to hail the day,
When all should bend to british sway
From Plattsburg to Ticonderogue.

And who could tell, if reaching there
They might not other laurels share
And England's flag in triumph bear
To the capitol, at Albany!!!

Sir George advanced, with fire and sword,
The frigates were with vengeance stored,
The strength of Mars was felt on board,—
When Downie gave the dreadful word,
Huzza! for death or victory!

Sir George beheld the prize at stake,
And, with his veterans, made the attack,
Macomb's brave legions drove him back;
And England's fleet approach'd to meet
A desperate combat, on the lake.

With sulphurous clouds the heavens were black;
We saw advance the Confiance,
Shall blood and carnage mark her track,
To gain dominion on the lake.

Then on our ships she pour'd her flame,
And many a tar did kill or maim,
Who suffer'd for their country's fame,
Her soil to save, her rights to guard.

Macdonough, now, began his play,
And soon his seamen heard him say,
No Saratoga yields, this day,
To all the force that Britain sends.

"Disperse, my lads, and man the waist,
Be firm, and to your stations haste,
And England from Champlain is chased,
If you behave as you'll see me."

The fire began with awful roar;
At our first flash the artillery tore
From his proud stand, their commodore,
A presage of the victory.

The skies were hid in flame and smoke,
Such thunders from the cannon spoke,
The contest such an aspect took
As if all nature went to wreck!
From isle La Motte to Saranac[A]

[A] A river which rises from several small lakes among the mountains to the westward of Lake Champlain, and after a north easterly course of near seventy-five miles, enters the grand lake in the vicinity of Plattsburg.—Freneau's note.

Amidst his decks, with slaughter strew'd,
Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood,
Or waded through a scene of blood,
At every step that round him stream'd:

He stood amidst Columbia's sons,
He stood amidst dismounted guns,
He fought amidst heart-rending groans,
The tatter'd sail, the tottering mast.

Then, round about, his ship he wore,
And charged his guns with vengeance sore,
And more than Etna shook the shore—
The foe confess'd the contest vain.

In vain they fought, in vain they sail'd,
That day; for Britain's fortune fail'd,
And their best efforts nought avail'd
To hold dominion on Champlain.

So, down their colors to the deck
The vanquish'd struck—their ships a wreck—
What dismal tidings for Quebec,
What news for England and her prince!

For, in this fleet, from England won,
A favorite project is undone:
Her sorrows only are begun—
And she may want, and very soon,
Her armies for her own defence.

A DIALOGUE AT WASHINGTON'S TOMB

Genius of Virginia—and—Virginia.

Genius. Who are these that lawless come
Washington! too near thy tomb?—
Are they those who, long before,
Came to subjugate this shore?—
Are they those whom he repell'd,
Captured, or imprison'd held?
Or the sons of those of old
Cast in nature's rudest mould,—
Dear Virginia, can it be?
What a stain is laid on thee!

Virginia. Such a stain as I do swear
Fills my swelling heart with care
How to wash away the stain,
How to be myself again.
From my breast the hero rose,
In my soil his bones repose:
But this insult to thy shade,
Washington, shall be repaid.

Genius. Dear Virginia! tell me how?—
Tell me not, or tell me now,
Can you wield the bolts of Jove,
Seize the lightnings from above?
Tear the mountain from its base
To confound this hated race,
Who, with hostile step, presume
To violate the honor'd tomb
Of my bravest, noblest son,
Of th' immortal Washington!

Virginia. Not the artillery of the sky,
Not the vengeance from on high
Did I want, to guard my son,
I have lightnings of my own!
But I wanted——

Genius.         ——Wanted what?
Tell me now, or tell me not.

Virginia. Men, whom Washington had taught,
Men of fire, and men of thought,
All their spirits in a glow,
Ever ready for the foe;
Born to meet the hostile shock,
Sturdy as the mountain oak—
Active, steady, on their guard,
For the scene of death prepared;
Such I wanted—say no more;
Time, perhaps, may such restore.

Genius. By the powers that guard this spot,
Want them longer you shall not,
I, the patron of your land,
From this moment take command,
Kindle flames in every breast,
Thirst of vengeance for the past;
Vengeance, that from shore to shore
Shall dye your bay with english gore,
And see them leave their thousands slain,
If they dare to land again:
This is all I choose to say—
Seize your armour—let's away!

SIR PETER PETRIFIED

On the Modern Sir Peter Parker's[207] Expedition to Kent Island in Chesapeake Bay.

—1814—

Sir Peter came, with bold intent,
To persecute the men of Kent
His flag aloft display'd:
He came to see their pleasant farms,
But ventured not without his arms
To talk with man or maid.

And then the gallant colonel Reed
Said, "we must see the man indeed;
He comes perhaps in want—
Who knows but that his stores are out:
Tis hard to dine on mere sour krout,
His water may be scant."

He spoke—but soon the men of Kent
Discover'd what the errand meant,
And some, discouraged, said,
"Sir Peter comes to petrify,
He points his guns, his colors fly,
His men for war array'd!"

Secure, as if they own'd the land,
Advanced this daring naval band,
As if in days of peace;
Along the shore they, prowling, went,
And often ask'd some friends in Kent
Where dwelt the fattest geese?

The farmers' geese were doom'd to bleed;
But some there were, with colonel Reed,
Who would not yield assent;
And said, before the geese they take,
Sir Peter must a bargain make
With us, the boys of Kent.

The Britons march'd along the shore,
Two hundred men, or somewhat more;
Next, through the woods they stray'd:
The geese, still watchful, as they went,
To save the capitol of Kent
Their every step betray'd.

The british march'd with loaded gun
To seize the geese that gabbling run
About the isle of Kent:
But, what could hardly be believed,
Sir Peter was of life bereaved
Before he pitch'd his tent.

Some kentish lad, to save the geese,
And make their noisy gabbling cease
Had took a deadly aim:
By kentish hands sir Peter fell,
His men retreated, with a yell
And lost both geese and game!

Now what I say, I say with grief,
That such a knight, or such a chief
On such an errand died!!!
When men of worth their lives expose
For little things, where little grows
They make the very geese their foes;
The geese his fall deride:

And, sure, they laugh, if laugh they can,
To see a star and garter'd man
For life of goose expose his own,
And bite the dust, with many a groan—
Alas! a gander cry'd—
"Behold, (said he,) a man of fame
Who all the way from England came
No more than just to get the name
Of Peter Petrified!"

[207] Sir Peter Parker, commander of the British Frigate Menelaus, was prominent for a month in the blockading squadron in Chesapeake Bay during the summer of 1814. After the burning of Washington he was ordered down the bay "but Sir Peter said he 'must have a frolic with the yankees before he left them' and on the 30th of August after dancing and drinking they proceeded to the sport and made a circuitous route to surprise Col. Read encamped in Moore's fields not far from Georgetown X Roads on the eastern shore of Maryland. The Colonel was fully apprised of their proceedings.... The ground was obstinately contended for nearly an hour when the enemy retreated leaving thirteen killed and three wounded on the field. It is ascertained that they carried off seventeen others among whom was Sir Peter who, with several others, are since dead."—Niles' Register.

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL ROSS[208]

Who had the principal command of the english army at the attack upon
Baltimore, in which he fell, while out with a reconnoitering party.

Give them the shadow of the cypress bough!
The chief who came our prowess to defy,
Who came, to bind fresh laurels on his brow,
Who came, too sure to conquer not to die:—
Low lies the chief upon th' unconscious plain,
The laurels wither, and no wreathes remain.

To kindle up your torch, ambition's flame
Heroic chief, had all its flames supplied;
A monarch's smiles, a never-dying name,
The historian's subject, and the soldier's pride;
Your native land with splendid trophies hung;
Joy sparkling in the eye, and praise from every tongue.

Deceived how much! a name alone remains,
Not yet complete in fame, nor ripe in years;—
What is the applause such thirst of glory gains,
Which not the grave regards or valor hears:
In war's wild tumult, for a name he died,
He fell, the victim of a monarch's pride.

A country's rights, or freedom to defend
May sooth the anguish of a dying hour,
A ravaged land to succor or befriend,
To brave the efforts of a tyrant's power:
These may console, when mad ambition's train
Fade from the view, or sooth the soul in vain.

[208] General Robert Ross, who with Sir George Cockburn had burned Washington, was killed at North Point, Md., Sept. 12, 1814.

ON THE NAVAL ATTACK NEAR BALTIMORE[209]

September 14, 1814

The sons of old ocean advanced from the bay
To achieve an exploit of renown;
And Cochrane and Cockburn commanded, that day,
And meant to exhibit a tragical play,
Call'd, The plunder and burning of Baltimore town.

The scenes to be acted were not very new,
And when they approach'd, with their rat-tat-too,
As merry as times would allow,
We ran up the colors to liberty true,
And gave them a shot, with a tow-row-dow.

By land and by water how many have fail'd
In attacking an enemy's town,
But britons they tell us, have always prevail'd
Wherever they march'd, or wherever they sail'd,
To honor his majesty's sceptre and crown:
Wherever they went, with the trumpet and drum,
And the dregs of the world, and the dirt, and the scum,
As soon as the music begun,
The colors were struck, and surrender'd the town
When the summons was given of down, down, down!

But fortune, so fickle, is turning her tide,
And safe is old Baltimore town,
Though Cockburn and Cochrane, with Ross at their side,
The sons of Columbia despised and defy'd,
And determined to batter it down;
Rebuff'd and repulsed in disgrace they withdrew,
With their down, down, down, and their rat-tat-too,
As well as the times would allow:
And the sight, we expect, will be not very new
When they meet us again, with our tow-row-dow.

[209] After the burning of Washington the British fleet and army concentrated upon Baltimore. Here they met a stubborn resistance and were at length beaten off. It was during the bombardment of Fort McHenry near the city that Francis Scott Key composed the patriotic song "The Star Spangled Banner."

ON THE BRITISH BLOCKADE

And Expected Attack on New York, 1814

Old Neversink,[A] with bonnet blue,
The present times may surely rue
When told what England means to do:

[A] The highlands, a little southward of Sandy Hook; being a tract of bold high country, several thousand acres in extent; to the southward of which there is no land that may be termed mountainous, on the whole coast of the United States to Cape Florida. The real aboriginal name of this remarkable promontory was Navesink, since corrupted into Neversink.—Freneau's note.

Where from the deep his head he rears
The din of war salutes his ears,
That teazed him not for thirty years.

He eastward looks toward the main
To see a noisy naval train
Invest his bay, our fleets detain.

What can be done in such a case?—
His rugged heights the blast must face,
The storm that menaces the place.

With tents I see his mountain spread,
The soldier to the summit led,
And cannon planted on his head:

From Shrewsbury beach to Sandy Hook
The country has a martial look,
And quakers skulk in every nook.—

What shall be done in such a case?—
We ask again with woful face
To save the trade and guard the place?

Where mounted guns the porte secure,
The cannon at the embrasure,
Will british fleets attempt to moor?

Perhaps they may—and make a dash,
To fill their pockets with our cash—
Their dealings now are rather harsh.

They menace to assail the coast
With such a fleet and such a host
As may devour us—boil'd or roast.

Their feelings are alive and sore
For what they got at Baltimore,
When, with disgrace, they left the shore,

And will revenge it, if they can,
On town and country, maid and man—
And all they fear is Fulton's plan;

Torpedoes planted in the deep,
Whose blast may put them all to sleep,
Or ghostify them at a sweep.

Another scheme, entirely new,
Is hammering on his anvil too,
That frightens christian, turk, and jew.

A frigate,[B] mounting thirty six!—
Who'er with her a quarrel picks
Will little get but cuffs and kicks:

[B] The steam frigate Fulton the First: Qui me percellit morti debetur—who strikes at me to death is doomed!—Freneau's note.

A frigate meant to sail by steam!—
How can she else but torture them,
Be proof to all their fire and flame.

A feast she cooks for England's sons
Of scalded heads and broken bones
Discharged from iron hearted guns.

Black Sam[C] himself, before he died,
Such suppers never did provide;—
Such dinners roasted, boil'd, and fry'd.

[C] A character well known in New York several years since, remarkable for elegance and luxurious refinements in the art of cookery.—idem.

To make a brief of all I said—
If to attack they change blockade
Their godships will be well repaid

With water, scalding from the pot,
With melted lead and flaming shot,
With vollies of—I know not what,

The british lads will be so treated:
Their wooden walls will be so heated,
Their ruin will be soon completed.

Our citizens shall stare and wonder—
The Neversink repel their thunder
And Cockburn miss a handsome plunder.

ROYAL CONSULTATIONS

Relative to the Disposal of Lord Wellington's Army

Said the goth to the vandal, the prince to the king,
Let us do a mad action, to make the world ring:
With Wellington's army we now have the means
To make a bold stroke and exhibit new scenes.

A stroke at the states is my ardent desire,
To waste, and harass them with famine and fire;
My vengeance to carry through village and town,
And even to batter their capitol down.

The vandal then answer'd, and said to the goth,
Dear George, with yourself I am equally wroth:
Of Wellington's army dispose as you please,
It is best, I presume, they should go beyond seas;
For, should they come home, I can easily show
The hangman will have too much duty to do.

So, away came the bruisers, and when they came here
Some mischief they did, where no army was near:
They came to correct, and they came to chastise
And to do all the evil their heads could devise.

At Washington city, they burnt and destroy'd
Till among the big houses they made a huge void;
Then back to their shipping they flew like the wind,
But left many more than five hundred behind
Of wounded and dead, and others say, double;
And thus was the hangman excused from some trouble.

Alexandria beheld them in battle array;
Alexandria they plunder'd a night and a day.
Then quickly retreated, with moderate loss,
Their forces conducted by Cockburn and Ross.

At Baltimore, next, was their place of attack;
But Baltimore drove them repeatedly back;
There Rodgers they saw, and their terror was such,
They saw they were damn'd when they saw him approach.

The forts were assail'd by the strength of their fleet,
And the forts, in disorder beheld them retreat
So shatter'd and crippled, so mangled and sore,
That the tide of Patapsco was red with their gore.

Their legions by land no better succeeded—
In vain they manoeuvered, in vain they paraded,
Their hundreds on hundreds were strew'd on the ground,
Each shot from the rifles brought death or a wound.
One shot from a buckskin completed their loss,
And their legions no longer were headed by Ross!

Where they mean to go next, we can hardly devise,
But home they would go if their master was wise.

Yet folly so long has directed their course;
Such madness is seen in the waste of their force,
Such weakness and folly, with malice combined,
Such rancor, revenge, and derangement of mind,
That, all things consider'd, with truth we may say,
Both Cochrane and Cockburn are running away.[A]

[A] About this time, September, 1814, the admirals Cochrane and Cockburn quitted the coast of the United States in their respective flag ships.—Freneau's note.

To their regent, the prince, to their master the king
They are now on the way, they are now on the wing,
To tell them the story of loss and disaster,
One begging a pension, the other a plaister.
Let them speed as they may, to us it is plain
They will patch up their hulks for another campaign,
Their valor to prove, and their havoc to spread
When Wellington's army is missing or dead.

ON THE LOSS OF THE PRIVATEER BRIGANTINE

GENERAL ARMSTRONG

Captain Samuel C. Reid, of New-York, which sailed from Sandy Hook, on a cruise, the ninth of September, 1814, and on the 26th came to
anchor in the road of Fayal, one of the Azores, or Western Islands, a neutral port belonging to the crown of Portugal. She anchored
in that port for the purpose of procuring a supply of fresh water, when she was attacked by the british ship of war
Plantaganet, of 74 guns, capt. Lloyd; the Rota frigate of 36 guns, and the armed national brig Carnation,
of 18 guns, and many barges of considerable force, all of which she repulsed, with an
immense slaughter, and was then scuttled and sunk by order of Captain Reid,
to prevent her falling into the hands of the enemy.

The Armstrong arrived in the port of Fayal,
And her actions of valor we mean to recall;
Brave Reid, her commander, his valorous crew,
The heroes that aided, his officers, too.
Shall it fall to their lot
To be basely forgot?
O no! while a bard has a pen to command
Their fame shall resound through american land.

In the road of Fayal, when their anchors were cast,
The british were watching to give them a blast;
Not far from the port, for destruction sharp set,
Lay the Rota, Carnation, and Plantagenet:
With a ship of the line
Did a frigate combine,
And a brig of great force, with her boats in the rear,
To capture or burn one New-York privateer!

Four boats from the brig were despatch'd in great haste,
And onward they came, of the Armstrong to taste;
To taste of her powder, to taste of her ball,
To taste of the death she must hurl on them all!—
They came in great speed,
And with courage, indeed,
Well mann'd and well arm'd—so they got along side,
Destruction their motto, damnation their guide.

Now the Armstrong, with vengeance, had open'd her fire,
And gave them as much as they well could desire;
A score of them fell—full twenty fell dead—
Then quarters! they cried, and disgracefully fled:—
To their ships they return'd
Half shatter'd and burn'd—
Not quite in good humor, perhaps in a fret,
And waited new orders from Plantagenet.

Then the Armstrong haul'd in, close abreast of the beach,
So near, that a pistol the castle could reach;
And there she awaited the rest of their plan,
And there they determined to die, to a man,
Ere the lords of the waves
With their sorrowful slaves,
The tyrants, who claim the command of the main,
With strength, though superior, their purpose should gain.

And now the full moon had ascended the sky,
Reid saw by her light that the british were nigh:
The bell of Fayal told the hour—it was nine—
When the foe was observed to advance in a line;
They manoeuvred a while
With their brig, in great style,
Till midnight approach'd when they made their attack,
Twelve boats, full of men, and the brig at their back!

They advanced to the conflict as near as they chose,
When the Armstrong her cannon discharged on her foes—
The town of Fayal stood aghast in amaze
The Armstrong appear'd like all hell in a blaze!
At the blast of Long Tom
The foe was struck dumb:
O lord! are the sons of old England alarm'd—
With music like this they were formerly charm'd!

Huzza for old England! three cheers, and a damn!
And up to the conflict they manfully came;
On the bows and the quarters they grappled a hold,
And board! was the word in those barges so bold;
But board they could not—to no devil she strikes,
So the Armstrong repell'd them with pistols and pikes—
From her musquetry fire
They by dozens expire!
And soon was the work of destruction complete,
And soon was determined their total defeat—!

Three hundred brave fellows were wounded and kill'd,
Their boats and their barges with slaughter were fill'd;
With shame they retreated, the few that remain'd,
To tell the event of the battle—not gain'd:
Their commander in chief
Was astounded with grief!—
Dont grieve, my good fellows—he hail'd them—I beg
I too have my wounds—"an ox trod on my leg!"

But to save the stout Armstrong—even Reid could not do—
A ship of the line with a frigate in tow—!
A brig of their navy accoutred for war—!
All this was too much for e'en yankees to dare:
So he scuttled his barque—
Nor need we remark
That she sunk on the sands by the beach of Fayal
With her colors all flying—no colors could fall!

Of neutrals what nonsense some tell us each day!
Exists there a neutral where Britain has sway?
The rights of a neutral!—away with such stuff—
What neutral remains that can England rebuff?—
To be safe from disgrace
The deep seas are our place:
The flag of no neutral our flag can defend,
By ourselves we must fight, on ourselves must depend.

Now in bumpers of reason, success to brave Reid!
Himself and his heroes are heroes indeed!—
In conquests, like this, can an englishman glory,
One traitor among us, one Halifax tory?
If they can—let them brag—
Here's success to our flag!
May it ever be ready, the britons to maul,
As the Armstrong behaved in the road of Fayal.—

ON THE BRIGANTINE PRIVATEER

Prince de Neufchatel[210]

Ordonneaux, commander, which arrived at Boston some time since, from a cruise
of three months, chiefly in the english and irish channels, in which she
captured thirteen or fourteen valuable prizes, to the amount,
it was said, of more than a million of dollars.

Quid petis hic est.—Martial.

What is wealth, that men will roam,
Risque their all, and leave their home,
Face the cannon, beat the drum,
And their lives so cheaply sell!

Let them reason on the fact
Who would rather think than act—
Their brains were not with morals rack'd
Who mann'd the prince of Neufchatel.

Having play'd a lucky game,
Homeward, with her treasure, came
This privateer of gallant fame,
Call'd the prince of Neufchatel.

Are the english cruisers near?
Do they on the coast appear
To molest this privateer?—
—She shall be defended well.

Soon a frigate hove in sight:—
As the wind was rather light,
She, five barges, out of spite,
Sent, to attack, with gun and blade.

On our decks stood rugged men,
Little more than three times ten;
And I tremble, while my pen
Tells the havoc that was made.

Up they came, with colors red,
One a stern, and one a head—
Shall I tell you what they said?—
Yankees! strike the buntin rag!

Three were ranged on either side—
Then the ports were open'd wide,
And the sea with blood was dyed;
Ruin to the english flag!

Now the angry cannons roar,
Now they hurl the storm of war,
Now in floods of human gore
Swam the prince of Neufchatel!

Then the captain, Ordonneaux,
Seconded the seaman's blow,
And the remnant of the foe
Own'd the brig defended well.

For the million she contain'd
He contended, sword in hand,
Follow'd by as brave a band
Of tars, as ever, trod a deck.

In these bloody barges, five,
Scarce a man was left alive,
And about the seas they drive;
Some were sunk, and some a wreck.

Every effort that they made
With boarding pike, or carronade,
Every effort was repaid,
Scarcely with a parallel!

Fortune, thus, upon the wave,
Crown'd the valor of the brave:—
Little lost, and much to save,
Had the prince of Neufchatel.

[210] Of the numerous vessels fitted out during the war by private parties to prey on British commerce the Prince de Neufchatel was doubtless the most successful.

THE PARADE AND SHAM-FIGHT

A Pine Forest Picture—on a Training Day.

——Invictaque bello
Dextera! non illi se quisquam impune tulisset
Obvius armato——                           Virg.

The drum was beat, the flag display'd,
The soldiers met upon parade,
And all for action ready made
With loud huzza!

When forth a stately figure strode,
Of stature such, of such a mode,
As those who lived before the flood,
If stuff'd with straw.

His vigor seem'd by years unbroke;
But then his phiz had such a look,
As if preserved in Etna's smoke
For half an age.

God help us all to look our best!
This man was captain of the rest,
And valor seem'd to fire his breast
With martial rage.

His horse was of an iron grey;
(A prancing steed he rode that day,)
Not of the bold virginian breed,
Nor yet remote from Quixote's steed.

This chief was of the bullet mould;
To meet the conflict, firm and bold,
His coat was patch'd, his boots new soal'd,
Ham stuff'd his maw:

Two pounds of powder fill'd his horn,
His pantaloons were old and worn,
A cap and hat his head adorn—
The chapeau bras.

With vengeance heated, long in store,
He sallied forth, a man of war;
And all that meet him, pray take care
Of rusty pikes.

He had no helmet for the head,
But death and ruin near him tread,
And slaughter, in a suit of red,
That deadly strikes.

A blanket from his shoulders hung,
Three dollars in his pockets rung,
And to his thigh a faulchion clung,
That made us quake:

A veteran in the fighting trade!
The owner of so keen a blade!
Do not provoke him, man or maid,
For mercy's sake.

O could you but one furlong ride
With such a faulchion at your side,
Your bosom would for glory beat
And show Napoleon all complete!

Two pistols, to his girdle tied,
Foreboded vengeance, far and wide,
To all that were not on our side,
With heart and hand.

Accoutred thus, with martial air,
He gave the warning word, "Take care!"
And, in a moment, all was war,
Sublime and grand.

They march'd, and march'd, as thick as bees.
Then march'd towards a clump of trees;
And "blaze away!" the leader says—
"Each take his aim!

"Who wounds a tree can kill a man—
"If you but practise on that plan,
"The britons shall go home again
With grief and shame!"

Not Philip's famed, unrivall'd son,
For Greece subdued, or India won,
Not Cockburn, burning Washington,
Look'd so elate:

Not Bonaparte, on Egypt's sands
With such importance gave commands,
With such discretion train'd his bands,
Assumed such state!

Not Caesar, when he pass'd the Rhine,
Not Marlborough leading up his line,
Not Perry, when he said, "they're mine!"
Put on such airs;—

As now were shown to front and rear
When victory seem'd to hover near.
Indeed not purchased very dear—
No wounds nor scars.

Departing from the norman shore,
Not William such a feature wore
When England hail'd him conqueror,
With loud acclaim:

Not Fulton, when his steam he try'd
And Neptune's car stemm'd Hudson's tide
Felt such a generous glow of pride
For well earn'd fame.

That day Cornwallis met his fate,
Not Washington felt half so great
When tow'rd him flew the gallic fleet
To share his smile:

Not conquest had for Gates such charms
When, yielding to the victor's arms,
He bade Burgoyne resign his arms,
In soldier's style.

Not Ajax' self, with such a grace
Gave orders to attack a place;
Not Hannibal with bolder face
Approach'd old Rome,—

When marching for the Tiber shore,
He yet his alpine jacket wore,
And hoped to sweep the senate floor,
And fix their doom:

Not Parker,[A] when he cross'd the bar
Of Charleston with his men of war,
Was, near fort Moultrie, half so sure
Of victory gain'd:

[A] Sir Peter Parker, it is well remembered, attacked fort Moultrie, on Sullivan's Island, in 1776, and after a sanguinary action, was repulsed with great loss.—Freneau's note.

Not Parker, when departing thence
So shatter'd—at the king's expense—
Was so provoked at the defence,
Felt so chagrined,

As did our chief (no captain Brag)
When he perceiv'd some worthless wag
Had stolen away the brandy keg—
Ah! loss indeed!

For this, he swore he would resign,
All future trust in man decline;
Of whom, at least, there was one swine,
They all agreed—

And cry'd "like hell his heart is black—
Pursue him, boys, and scent his track,
If drunk or dead, we'll have him back,
This man of scum!"

Each took his mark, and hit a tree;
The battle's done!—all sober, we;
Huzza! we have the victory!
Then scamper'd home!

RETALIATION

A Marine Ode—1814

"Ye powers who rule the western gale
Not for the golden fleece we sail,
Nor yet on wild ambition's plan,
But vengeance gathers man with man.

For wrongs which wearied patience bore,
For slighted rules of legal war,
We rear our flag, our sails display,
And east north east explore our way.

Let some assert, ten thousand pounds
Would place our fleet on british grounds,
And urge us onward to saint James
To wrap his palaces in flames.

A motive of so mean a cast
Allures no mind, excites no breast;
From such reward we loathing turn
And would at such a proffer spurn.

No—to retaliate on the foe,
Free-will'd, we independent go,
Our ship well mann'd, in war's attire,
To light the skies with english fire.

November comes! tis time to sail,
The nights are long and brisk the gale,
And England, soon, the odds may prove
Between our hatred and our love."

ON THE LAUNCHING

Of the Seventy-four Gun Ship Independence,[211] at Charlestown, near Boston

Our trade to restore as it stood once before
We have launched a new ship from the stocks,
Her rate is our first, and her force will, we trust,
Be sufficient to humble the hawks;
The hawks of old England we mean, don't mistake,
Some harpies of England our prizes we'll make.

Independence her name, independent our minds,
And prepared for the toils of the sea,
We are ready to combat the waves and the winds,
And fight till the ocean is free:
Then, away to your stations, each man on our list
Who, when danger approaches, will never be miss'd.

In asserting our rights we have rather been slow
And patient till patience was tired;
We were plunder'd and press'd ere we ventur'd a blow
Till the world at our patience admired,
And language was held, of contempt and disgrace,
And Europe mis-call'd us a pitiful race.

Twas time to arise in the strength of our might
When Madison publish'd the war,
And many have thought that he would have been right
Had he published it three years before;
While France was unpester'd with traitors and knaves,
Nor Europe polluted with Wellington's slaves.

To arm for our country is never too late,
No fetters are yet on our feet;
Our hands are more free, and our hearts are as great
As the best in the enemy's fleet:
And look at the list of their navy, and think,
How many are left, to burn, capture, and sink!

Let the nations of Europe surrender the sea,
Or crouch at the foot of a throne;
In liberty's soil we have planted her tree,
And her rights will relinquish to none:
Then stand to your arms,
Then stand to your arms,
Then stand to your arms—half the battle is done!
And bravely accomplish what valor begun.

The day is approaching, a day not remote,
A day with impatience we hail,
When Decatur and Hull shall again be afloat,
And Bainbridge commission'd to sail;
To raise his blockades, will advance on the foe,
And bulwark with Bull to the bottom shall go.

On the waves of Lake Erie we show'd the old brag
We, too, could advance in a line,
And batter their frigates and humble their flag;
"I have met them," said Perry, "they're mine!"
And so, my dear boys, we can meet them again
On the waves of the sea, or the waves of Champlain.

To the new Independence then, pour out a glass,
And drink, with the sense of a man:
She soon will be ready, this pride of her class,
Sir Thomas[A] to meet on his plan:
He hates our torpedoes—then teaze him no more,
Let him venture his luck with our Seventy-four.
Then stand to your arms, you shall ne'er be enslav'd,
Let the battle go on till the nation is saved!

[A] Sir Thomas Hardy, of the Ramillies 74.—Freneau's note.

[211] The Independence was one of the four 74-gun frigates authorized by Congress at the opening of the war. It was launched late in 1814, too late to play any part in the war.

THE BROOK OF THE VALLEY

The world has wrangled half an age,
And we again in war engage,
While this sweet, sequester'd rill
Murmurs through the valley still.

All pacific as you seem:
Such a gay elysian stream;—
Were you always thus at rest
How the valley would be blest.

But, if always thus at rest;
This would not be for the best:
In one summer you would die
And leave the valley parch'd and dry.

Tell me, where your waters go,
Purling as they downward flow?
Stagnant, now, and now a fall?—
To the gulph that swallows all.

Flowing, peaceful, from your urn
Are your waters to return?—
Though the same you may appear,
You're not the same we saw last year.

Not a drop of that remains—
Gone to visit other plains,
Gone, to stray through other woods,
Gone, to join the ocean floods!

Yes—they may return once more
To visit scenes they knew before;—
Yonder sun, to cheer the vale
From the ocean can exhale

Vapors, that your waste supply,
Turn'd to rain from yonder sky;
Moisture, vapors, to revive
And keep your margin all alive.

But, with all your quiet flow,
Do you not some quarrels know!
Lately, angry, how you ran!
All at war—and much like man.

When the shower of waters fell,
How you raged, and what a swell!
All your banks you overflow'd,
Scarcely knew your own abode!

How you battled with the rock!
Gave my willow such a shock
As to menace, by its fall,
Underwood and bushes, all:

Now you are again at peace:
Time will come when that will cease;
Such the human passions are;
—You again will war declare.

Emblem, thou, of restless man;
What a sketch of nature's plan!
Now at peace, and now at war,
Now you murmur, now you roar;

Muddy now, and limpid next,
Now with icy shackles vext—
What a likeness here we find!
What a picture of mankind!

APPENDIX

A. The American Village, &c.
B. List of Omitted Poems.
C. Bibliography of the Poetry of Philip Freneau.

THE AMERICAN VILLAGE.[212]

Where yonder stream divides the fertile plain,
Made fertile by the labours of the swain;
And hills and woods high tow'ring o'er the rest,
Behold a village with fair plenty blest:
Each year tall harvests crown the happy field;
Each year the meads their stores of fragrance yield,
And ev'ry joy and ev'ry bliss is there,
And healthful labour crowns the flowing year.

Though Goldsmith weeps in melancholy strains,
Deserted Auburn and forsaken plains,
And mourns his village with a patriot sigh,
And in that village sees Britannia die:
Yet shall this land with rising pomp divine,
In it's own splendor and Britannia's shine.
O muse, forget to paint her ancient woes,
Her Indian battles, or her Gallic foes;
Resume the pleasures of the rural scene,
Describe the village rising on the green,
It's harmless people, born to small command,
Lost in the bosom of this western land:

So shall my verse run gentle as the floods,
So answer all ye hills, and echo all ye woods;
So glide ye streams in hollow channels pent,
Forever wasting, yet not ever spent.
Ye clust'ring boughs by hoary thickets borne!
Ye fields high waving with eternal corn!
Ye woodland nymphs the tender tale rehearse,
The fabled authors of immortal verse:
Ye Dryads fair, attend the scene I love,
And Heav'n shall centre in yon' blooming grove.
What tho' thy woods, America, contain
The howling forest, and the tiger's den,
The dang'rous serpent, and the beast of prey,
Men are more fierce, more terrible than they.
No monster with it's vile contagious breath,
No flying scorpion darting instant death;
No pois'nous adder, burning to engage,
Has half the venom or has half the rage.
What tho' the Turk protests to heav'n his ire,
With lift up hand amidst his realms of fire;
And Russia's Empress sends her fleets afar,
To aid the havock of the burning war:
Their rage dismays not, and their arms in vain,
In dreadful fury bathe with blood the plain;
Their terrors harmless, tho' their story heard,
How this one conquer'd, or was nobly spar'd:
Vain is their rage, to us their anger vain,
The deep Atlantic raves and roars between.

To yonder village then will I descend,
There spend my days, and there my ev'nings spend;
Sweet haunt of peace whose mud' wall'd sides delight,
The rural mind beyond the city bright:
Their tops with hazles or with alders wove,
Remurmur magic to the neighb'ring grove;
And each one lab'ring in his own employ,
Comes weary home at night, but comes with joy:
The soil which lay for many thousand years
O'er run by woods, by thickets and by bears;
Now reft of trees, admits the chearful light,
And leaves long prospects to the piercing sight;
Where once the lynx nocturnal sallies made,
And the tall chestnut cast a dreadful shade:
No more the panther stalks his bloody rounds,
Nor bird of night her hateful note resounds;
Nor howling wolves roar to the rising moon,
As pale arose she o'er yon eastern down.
Some prune their trees, a larger load to bear
Of fruits nectarine blooming once a year:
See groaning waggons to the village come
Fill'd with the apple, apricot or plumb;
And heavy beams suspended from a tree,
To press their juice against the winter's day:
Or see the plough torn through the new made field,
Ordain'd a harvest, yet unknown to yield.
The rising barn whose spacious floor receives
The welcome thousands of the wheaten sheaves,
And spreads it's arms to take the plenteous store,
Sufficient for its master and the poor:
For as Eumœus us'd his beggar guest
The great Ulysses in his tatters drest:
So here fair Charity puts forth her hand,
And pours her blessings o'er the greatful land:
No needy wretch the rage of winter fears,
Secure he sits and spends his aged years,
With thankful heart to gen'rous souls and kind,
That save him from the winter and the wind.

A lovely island once adorn'd the sea,
Between New-Albion and the Mexic' Bay;
Whose sandy sides washed by the ocean wave,
Scarce heard a murmur but what ocean gave:
Small it's circumference, nor high it's coast,
But shady woods the happy isle could boast;
On ev'ry side new prospects catch'd the eye,
There rose blue mountains to the arched sky:
Here thunder'd ocean in convulsive throws,
And dash'd the island as it's waters rose:
Yet peaceful all within, no tumults there,
But fearless steps of the unhunted hare;
And nightly chauntings of the fearless dove,
Or blackbird's note, the harbinger of love.
So peaceful was this haunt that nature gave,
Still as the stars, and silent as the grave;
No loud applause there rais'd the patriot breast,
No shouting armies their mad joy confest,
For battles gain'd, or trophies nobly won,
Or nations conquer'd near the rising sun;
No clam'rous crews, or wild nocturnal cheer,
Or murd'rous ruffians, for no men were here.
On it's east end a grove of oak was seen,
And shrubby hazels fill'd the space between;
Dry alders too, and aspin leaves that shook
With ev'ry wind, conspired to shade a brook,
Whose gentle stream just bubbling from the ground,
Was quickly in the salter ocean drown'd:
Beyond whose fount, the center of the isle,
Wild plumb trees flourish'd on the shaded soil.
In the dark bosom of this sacred wood,
Secluded from the world, and all it's own,
Of other lands unknowing, and unknown.
Here might the hunter have destroy'd his prey,
Transfix'd the goat before the dawn of day;
And trudging homeward with his welcome load,
The fruit of wand'rings thro' each by-way road:
Thrown down his burthen with the needless sigh,
And gladly feasted his small family.
Small fields had then suffic'd, and grateful they,
The annual labours of his hands to pay;
And free his right to search the briny flood
For fish, or slay the creatures of the wood.

Thus spent his days in labour's pleasant pain,
Had liv'd and dy'd the homely shepherd swain:
Had seen his children and his children's heirs,
The fruit of love and memory of years
To agriculture's first fair service bent,
The work of mortals, and their great intent.
So had the Sire his days of pleasure known,
And wish'd to change no country for his own:
So had he with his fair endearing wife,
Pass'd the slow circle of a harmless life;
With happy ignorance divinely blest,
The path, the centre and the home of rest.
Long might the sun have run his bright career,
And long the moon her mantled visage rear;
And long the stars their nightly vigils kept,
And spheres harmonious either sung or wept:
He had not dream'd of worlds besides his own,
And thought them only stars, beyond the moon;
Enjoy'd himself, nor hear'd of future hell,
Or heav'n, the recompence of doing well;
Had scarcely thought of an eternal state,
And left his being in the hands of fate.—
O had this isle such souls sublime contain'd,
And there for ages future sons remain'd:
But envious time conspiring with the sea,
Wash'd all it's landscapes, and it's groves away.
It's trees declining, stretch'd upon the sand,
No more their shadows throw across the land.
It's vines no more their clust'ring beauty show,
Nor sturdy oaks embrace the mountain's brow.
Bare sands alone now overwhelm the coast,
Lost in it's grandeur, and it's beauty lost.

Thus, tho' my fav'rite isle to ruin gone,
Inspires my sorrow, and demands my moan;
Yet this wide land it's place can well supply
With landscapes, hills and grassy mountains high.
O Hudson! thy fair flood shall be my theme,
Thy winding river, or thy glassy stream;
On whose tall banks tremendous rocks I spy,
Dread nature in primæval majesty.
Rocks, to whose summits clouds eternal cling,
Or clust'ring birds in their wild wood notes sing.
Hills, from whose sides the mountain echo roars,
Rebounding dreadful from the distant shores;
Or vallies, where refreshing breezes blow,
And rustic huts in fair confusion grow,
Safe from the winds, secur'd by mountains high,
That seem to hide the concave of the sky;
To whose top oft' the curious hind ascends,
And wonders where the arch'd horizon bends;
Pleas'd with the distant prospects rising new,
And hills o'er hills, a never ending view.
Through various paths with hasty step he scours,
And breathes the odours of surrounding flow'rs,
Caught from their bosoms by the fragrant breath,
Of western breezes, or the gale of death.[A]
Then low descending, seeks the humble dome,
And centres all his pleasures in his home,
'Till day returning, brings the welcome toil,
To clear the forest, or to tame the soil;
To burn the woods, or catch the tim'rous deer,
To scour the thicket, or contrive the snare.

[A] South wind.—Freneau's note.

Such was the life our great fore-fathers led,
The golden season now from Britain fled,
E'er since dread commerce stretch'd the nimble sail,
And sent her wealth with ev'ry foreign gale.—
Strange fate, but yet to ev'ry country known,
To love all other riches but it's own.
Thus fell the mistress of the conquer'd earth,
Great Rome, who owed to Romulus her birth.
Fell to the monster Luxury, a prey,
Who forc'd a hundred nations to obey.
She whom nor mighty Carthage could withstand,
Nor strong Judea's once thrice holy land:
She all the west, and Britain could subdue,
While vict'ry with the Roman eagles flew;
She, she herself eternal years deny'd,
Like Rome she conquer'd, but by Rome she dy'd:
But if America, by this decay,
The world itself must fall as well as she.
No other regions latent yet remain,
This spacious globe has been research'd in vain.
Round it's whole circle oft' have navies gone,
And found but sea or lands already known.
When she has seen her empires, cities, kings,
Time must begin to flap his weary wings;
The earth itself to brighter days aspire,
And wish to feel the purifying fire.

Nor think this mighty land of old contain'd
The plund'ring wretch, or man of bloody mind:
Renowned Sachems once their empires rais'd
On wholesome laws; and sacrifices blaz'd.
The gen'rous soul inspir'd the honest breast,
And to be free, was doubly to be blest:
'Till the east winds did here Columbus blow,
And wond'ring nations saw his canvas flow.
'Till here Cabot descended on the strand,
And hail'd the beauties of the unknown land;
And rav'nous nations with industrious toil,
Conspir'd to rob them of their native soil:
Then bloody wars, and death and rage arose,
And ev'ry tribe resolv'd to be our foes.
Full many a feat of them I could rehearse,
And actions worthy of immortal verse:
Deeds ever glorious to the Indian name,
And fit to rival Greek or Roman fame,
But one sad story shall my Muse relate,
Full of paternal love, and full of fate;
Which when ev'n yet the northern shepherd hears,
It swells his breast, and bathes his face in tears,
Prompts the deep groan, and lifts the heaving sigh,
Or brings soft torrents from the female eye.

Far in the arctic skies, where Hudson's Bay
Rolls it's cold wave and combats with the sea,
A dreary region lifts it's dismal head,
True sister to the regions of the dead.
Here thund'ring storms continue half the year,
Or deep-laid snows their joyless visage rear:
Eternal rocks, from whose prodigious steep
The angry tiger stuns the neighb'ring deep;
While through the wild wood, or the shrouded plain,
The moose deer seeks his food, but often seeks in vain:
Yet in this land, froze by inclement skies,
The Indian huts in wild succession rise;
And daily hunting, when the short-liv'd spring
Shoots joyous forth, th' industrious people bring
Their beaver spoils beneath another sky,
Port Nelson, and each British factory:
In slender boats from distant lands they sail,
Their small masts bending to the inland gale,
On traffic sent to gain the little store,
Which keeps them plenteous, tho' it keeps them poor.
Hither Caffraro in his flighty boat,
One hapless spring his furry riches brought;
And with him came, for sail'd he not alone,
His consort Colma, and his little son.
While yet from land o'er the deep wave he plough'd,
And tow'rds the shore with manly prowess row'd.
His barque unfaithful to it's trusted freight,
Sprung the large leak, the messenger of fate;
But no lament or female cry was heard,
Each for their fate most manfully prepar'd,
From bubbling waves to send the parting breath
To lands of shadows, and the shade of death.
O Fate! unworthy such a tender train,
O day, lamented by the Indian swain!
Full oft' of it the strippling youth shall hear,
And sadly mourn their fortune with a tear:
The Indian maids full oft' the tale attend,
And mourn their Colma as they'd mourn a friend.

Now while in waves the barque demerg'd, they strive,
Dead with despair, tho' nature yet alive:
Forth from the shore a friendly brother flew,
In one small boat, to save the drowning crew.
He came, but in his barque of trifling freight,
Could save but two, and one must yield to fate.
O dear Caffraro, said the hapless wife,
O save our son, and save thy dearer life:
'Tis thou canst teach him how to hunt the doe,
Transfix the buck, or tread the mountain snow,
Let me the sentence of my fate receive,
And to thy care my tender infant leave.
He sigh'd, nor answer'd, but as firm as death,
Resolv'd to save her with his latest breath:
And as suspended by the barque's low side,
He rais'd the infant from the chilling tide,
And plac'd it safe; he forc'd his Colma too
To save herself, what more could mortal do?
But nobly scorning life, she rais'd her head
From the flush'd wave, and thus divinely said:

Of life regardless, I to fate resign,
But thou, Caffraro, art forever mine.
O let thy arms no future bride embrace,
Remember Colma, and her beauteous face,
Which won thee youthful in thy gayest pride,
With captives, trophies, victors at thy side;
Now I shall quick to blooming regions fly,
A spring eternal, and a nightless sky,
Far to the west, where radiant Sol descends,
And wonders where the arch'd horizon ends:
There shall my soul thy lov'd idea keep,
And 'till thy image comes, unceasing weep.
There, tho' the tiger is but all a shade,
And mighty panthers but the name they had;
And proudest hills, and lofty mountains there,
Light as the wind, and yielding as the air;
Yet shall our souls their ancient feelings have,
More strong, more noble than this side the grave.
There lovely blossoms blow throughout the year,
And airy harvests rise without our care:
And all our sires and mighty ancestors,
Renown'd for battles and successful wars,
Behold their sons in fair succession rise,
And hail them happy to serener skies.
There shall I see thee too, and see with joy
Thy future charge, my much lov'd Indian boy:
The thoughtless infant, whom with tears I see,
Once sought my breast, or hung upon my knee;
Tell him, ah tell him, when in manly years,
His dauntless mind, nor death nor danger fears,
Tell him, ah tell him, how thy Colma dy'd,
His fondest mother, and thy youthful bride:
Point to my tomb thro' yonder furzy glade,
And show where thou thy much lov'd Colma laid.
O may I soon thy blest resemblance see,
And my sweet infant all reviv'd in thee.
'Till then I'll haunt the bow'r or lonely shade,
Or airy hills for contemplation made,
And think I see thee in each ghostly shoal,
And think I clasp thee to my weary soul.
Oft, oft thy form to my expecting eye,
Shall come in dreams with gentle majesty;
Then shall I joy to find my bliss began
To love an angel, whom I lov'd a man!
She said, and downward in the hoary deep
Plung'd her fair form to everlasting sleep;
Her parting soul it's latest struggle gave,
And her last breath came bubbling thro' the wave.

Then sad Caffraro all his grief declares,
And swells the torrent of the gulph with tears;
And senseless stupid to the shore is borne
In death-like slumbers, 'till the rising morn,
Then sorrowing, to the sea his course he bent
Full sad, but knew not for what cause he went,
'Till, sight distressing, from the lonely strand,
He saw dead Colma wafting to the land.
Then in a stupid agony of pray'r,
He rent his mantle, and he tore his hair;
Sigh'd to the stars, and shook his honour'd head,
And only wish'd a place among the dead!
O had the winds been sensible of grief,
Or whisp'ring angels come to his relief;
Then had the rocks not echo'd to his pain,
Nor hollow mountains answer'd him again:
Then had the floods their peaceful courses kept,
Nor the sad pine in all it's murmurs wept;
Nor pensive deer stray'd through the lonely grove,
Nor sadly wept the sympathising dove.—
Thus far'd the sire through his long days of pain,
Or with his offspring rov'd the silent plain;
Till years approaching, bow'd his sacred head
Deep in the dust, and sent him to the dead:
Where now perhaps in some strange fancy'd land,
He grasps the airy bow, and flies across the strand;
Or with his Colma shares the fragrant grove,
It's vernal blessings, and the bliss of love.

Farewell lamented pair, and whate'er state
Now clasps you round, and sinks you deep in fate;
Whether the firey kingdom of the sun,
Or the slow wave of silent Acheron,
Or Christian's heaven, or planetary sphere,
Or the third region of the cloudless air;
Or if return'd to dread nihility,
You'll still be happy, for you will not be.

Now fairest village of the fertile plain,
Made fertile by the labours of the swain;
Who first my drowsy spirit did inspire,
To sing of woods, and strike the rural lyre:
Who last shou'd see me wand'ring from thy cells,
And groves of oak where contemplation dwells,
Wou'd fate but raise me o'er the smaller cares,
Of Life unwelcome and distressful years,
Pedantic labours and a hateful ease,
Which scarce the hoary wrinkled sage cou'd please.
Hence springs each grief, each long reflective sigh,
And not one comfort left but poetry.
Long, long ago with her I could have stray'd,
To woods, to thickets or the mountain shade;
Unfit for cities and the noisy throng,
The drunken revel and the midnight song;
The gilded beau and scenes of empty joy,
Which please a moment and forever die.
Here then shall center ev'ry wish, and all
The tempting beauties of this spacious ball:
No thought ambitious, and no bold design,
But heaven born contemplation shall be mine.
In yonder village shall my fancy stray,
Nor rove beyond the confines of to-day;
The aged volumes of some plain divine,
In broken order round my hut shou'd shine;
Whose solemn lines should soften all my cares,
And sound devotion to th' eternal stars:
And if one sin my rigid breast did stain,
Thou poetry shou'dst be the darling sin;
Which heav'n without repentance might forgive,
And which an angel might commit and live:
And where yon' wave of silent water falls,
O'er the smooth rock or Adamantine walls:
The summer morns and vernal eves should see,
Milton, immortal bard my company;
Or Shakespeare, Dryden, each high sounding name,
The pride of Britain, and one half her fame:
Or him who wak'd the fairy muse of old,
And pleasing tales of lands inchanted told.
Still in my hand, he his soft verse shou'd find
His verse, the picture of the poets mind:
Or heav'nly Pope, who now harmonious mourns,
"Like the rapt seraph that adores and burns."
Then in sharp satire, with a giant's might,
Forbids the blockhead and the fool to write:
And in the centre of the bards be shown
The deathless lines of godlike Addison;
Who, bard thrice glorious, all delightful flows,
And wrapt the soul of poetry in prose.

Now cease, O muse, thy tender tale to chaunt,
The smiling village, or the rural haunt;
New scenes invite me, and no more I rove,
To tell of shepherds, or the vernal grove.

[212] "The American Village," Freneau's first distinct poetical publication, was for many years known only from his description of it in a letter to Madison (see Vol. I, page xxii, supra). It was supposed to have been lost, until a copy was discovered in a volume of miscellaneous pamphlets which had been purchased by the Library of Congress in November, 1902. A second copy, still more recently discovered, is now in the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University. I have reproduced the entire text of this little volume with the original punctuation and spelling, using however the modern form of the "s", and correcting the errata noted by the author.

THE FARMER'S WINTER EVENING

A POEM

To the Nymph I never saw.

Far be the pleasures of the day,
And mirth and festive joy from me,
When cold December nips the plains,
Or frozen January reigns.
Far he the hunts-man's noisy horn,
And coursers fleet thro' thickets borne,
Swift as the wind, and far the sight,
Of snowy mountains, sadly white;
But thou, O night, with sober charms,
Shall clasp me in thy sable arms.
For thee I love the winter eve,
The noisy day for thee I leave.
Beneath some mountain's tow'ring height,
In cottage low I hail the night,
Where jovial swains, with heart sincere,
And timely mirth dishearten care:
Each tells his tale, or chaunts a song
Of her for whom he sigh'd so long;
Of Clara fair, or Flora coy,
Disdaining still her shepherd boy,
While near the hoary headed sage,
Recalls the days of youthful age,
Describes his course of manly years,
His journey thro' this vale of tears;
How champion he with champions met,
And fiercely did they combat it,
'Till envious night in ebon chair,
Urg'd faster on her chariotteer,
And robb'd him, O for shame, of glory
And feats fit for renown in story.—
Thus spent in tales the ev'ning hour,
And quaffing juice of sober pow'r,
Which handsome Kate with malt did steep,
To lead on balmy visag'd sleep,
While her neat hand the milk pail strains,
A sav'ry supper for the swains.
And now the moon exalted high,
Gives lustre to the earth and sky,
And from the mighty ocean's glass,
Reflects the beauty of her face:
About her orb you may behold,
A thousand stars of burnish'd gold,
Which slowly to the west retire,
And lose awhile their glitt'ring fire.

O could I here find my abode,
And live within this fancy'd wood,
With thee the weeks and years to pass,
My pretty rural shepherdess;
With thee the cooling spring to sip,
Or live upon thy damask lip:
Then sacred groves, and shades divine,
And all Arcadia should be mine.
Steep me, steep me some poppies deep
In beechen bowl, to bring on sleep;
Love hath my mind in shackles kept,
Thrice the cock crew, nor once I slept.
O gentle sleep, wrap me in dreams,
Of fields and woods, and running streams;
Of rivers wide, and castles rare,
And be my lovely Flora there:
A larger draught, a larger bowl
To gratify my drowsy soul;
"A larger draught is yet in store,
Perhaps with this you wake no more."
Then I my lovely maid shall see thee
Drinking the deep streams of Lethe,
Where now dame Arethusa scatters
Her soft stream with Alpheus' waters,
To forget her earthly cares,
Lost in Lethe, lost in years!
And I too will quaff the water,
Lest it should be said, O daughter
Of my giddy, wand'ring brain,
I sigh'd for one I've never seen.

THE MISERABLE LIFE
OF A PEDAGOGUE[213]

To form the manners of our youth,
To guide them in the way of truth,
To lead them through the jarring schools,
Arts, sciences, and grammar rules;
Is certainly an arduous work,
Enough to tire out Jew or Turk;
And make a christian bite his nails,
For do his best, he surely fails;
And spite of all that some may say,
His praise is trifling as his pay.

For My part I, tho' vers'd in booking,
Still sav'd my carcase from such cooking;
And always slyly shunn'd a trade,
Too trifling as I thought and said;
But at a certain crazy season,
When men have neither sense or reason;
By some confounded misadventure,
I found myself just in it's centre.

Odd's fish and blood, and noun and neuter,
And tenses present, past and future:
I utter'd with a wicked sigh,
Where are my brains, or where am I?
The dullest creature of the wood,
Knows how to shun the distant flood;
Whales, dolphins, and a hundred more,
Are not the fools to run ashore.

Well, now contented I must be,
Forc'd by the dame Necessity,
Who like the tribunal of Spain,
Let's you speak once, but not again;
And swift to execute the blow,
Ne'er tells you why or whence it's so.

Now I am ask'd a thousand questions,
Of Alexanders and Ephestions;
With sly designs to know if I
Am vers'd in Grecian history;
And then again my time destroy,
With aukward grace to tell of Troy:
From that huge giant Polyphemus,
Quite down to Romulus and Remus.
Then I'm oblig'd to give them lectures,
On quadrants, circles, squares and sectors;
Or in my wretched mem'ry bear,
What weighs a cubic inch of air.

"Sir, here's my son, I beg you'd mind,
The graces have been very kind,
And on him all their blessings shed,
[Except a genius and a head]
Teach him the doctrine of the sphere,
The sliding circle and the square,
And starry worlds, I know not where:
And let him quickly learn to say,
Those learned words Penna, Pennae;
Which late I heard our parson call
As learning, knowledge all in all."

And then a city dame approaches,
Known by her horsemen, chairs and coaches:
"Sir, here's my son, teach him to speak
The Hebrew, Latin, and the Greek:
And this I half forgot, pray teach
My tender boy—the parts of speech—
But never let this son of me,
Learn that vile thing astronomy:
Upon my word it's all a sham,"—
O I'm your humble servant ma'am.
There certainly is something in it—
"Boy, drive the coach off in a minute."
And thus I'm left in street or road,
A laughing stock to half the crowd,
To argue with myself the case,
And prove its being to my face.

A plague I say on such employment,
Where's neither pleasure nor enjoyment:
Whoe'er to such a life is ty'd,
Was born the day he should have dy'd;
Born in an hour when angry spheres
Were tearing caps, or pulling ears:
And Saturn slow 'gainst swift Mercurius,
Was meditating battles furious;
Or comets with their blazing train,
Decreed their life, a life of pain.

[213] This poem was undoubtedly written while Freneau was conducting his school at Flatbush early in 1772. See Vol. I, page xxi.

UPON A VERY ANCIENT DUTCH HOUSE
ON LONG ISLAND.[214]

Behold this antique dome by envious time,
Grown crazy, and in ev'ry part decay'd;
Full well, alas, it claims my humble rhyme,
For such lone haunts and contemplation made.

Ah see the hearth, where once the chearful fire
Blaz'd high, and warm'd the winter trav'lers toes;
And see the walls, which once did high aspire,
Admit the storms, and ev'ry wind that blows.

In yonder corner, now to ruin gone,
The ancient housewife's curtain'd bed appear'd,
Where she and her man John did sleep alone,
Nor nightly robber, nor the screech owl fear'd.

There did they snore full oft' the whole night out,
Smoking the sable pipe, 'till that did fall,
Reft from their jaws by Somnus' sleepy rout,
And on their faces pour'd its scorched gall.

And in the compass of yon' smaller gang,
The swain Batavian once his courtship made,
To some Dutch lass, as thick as she was long;
"Come then, my angel, come," the shepherd said,

"And let us for the bridal bed prepare;
For you alone shall ease my future life,
And you alone shall soften all my care,
My strong, my hearty, and industrious wife."

Thus they—but eating ruin now hath spread
Its wings destructive o'er the antique dome;
The mighty fabrick now is all a shed,
Scarce fit to be the wand'ring beggar's home.

And none but me it's piteous fate lament,
None, none but me o'er it's sad ashes mourn,
Sent by the fates, and by Apollo sent,
To shed their latest tears upon it's silent urn.

[214] This is the germ of the poem, "The Deserted Farm-House," Vol. I, p. 40, supra. A comparison of the two versions will illustrate the thorough way in which Freneau often revised his poems.

B. LIST OF OMITTED POEMS.

It has been found necessary for various reasons to omit some of the poems that appear in the various editions of Freneau. For the most part this omitted material has no historic or poetic significance. Nothing would be gained by resurrecting it. It is only just to the poet, however, to state that aside from a single piece, nothing has been omitted on account of coarseness alone. In each case the earliest known title is given in the list that follows. When a title was significantly changed in later editions, the variation has been given in a foot note, with date of edition.

From the 1786 Edition.

Epitaph Intended for the Tombstone of Patrick Bay, an Irish Soldier and Innholder, Killed by an Ignorant Physician.—1769.[215]

Epitaph on Peter Abelard. From the Latin.

The Distrest Orator. [Occasioned by R—— A——'s memory failing him in the midst of a public discourse he had got by rote.][216]

The Retort.[217]

The Flagellators.

Humanity and Ingratitude; A Common Case. [From the French.] December 1784.[218]

Elegaic Verses on the Death of a favorite Dog, 1785.[219]

The Five Ages.

New Year's Verses, Addressed to the Customers of the Pennsylvania Evening Post, by the Printer's Lad who carries it. January 4, 1783.

The Literary Plunderers.[220]

From the 1788 Edition.

The Scornful Lady.

The Prisoner.

Few Honest Coblers; A Poem. In Imitation of Dr. Watts's Indian Philosopher.

The Almanac Maker.

Female Caprice; or, the Student's Complaint.

The Drunken Soldier. A Parody.

St. Preux to Eloisa.

The Fiddler's Farewell.[221]

The Modern Miracle.[222]

The Dull Moralist.[223]

The Misfortune of March. [Written in the pastoral style of the old British Poets.][224]

Elegaic Lines.

Highland Sawney.[225]

From the 1795 Edition.

Epistolary Lines on the Death of a Fiddler.

Farmer Dobbins's Complaint.

The Debtor's Soliloquy.

The Fair Buckle-Thief.

Advice to the Ladies, Not to Neglect the Dentist.

Lines to the memory of a young American Lady; who died soon after her Arrival in London.

The Market Girl.

Elegaic Stanzas on a Young Gentleman Drowned in a Mill-Pond.

The Drunkard's Apology.[226]

On a Painter who was Endeavouring to Recover, from Memory, the Features of a Deceased Young Lady.

Marriage A-la Mode; (Or the Run-a-way Match.)

The Bridge of Delaware.

Minerva's Advice.

Mars and Venus.

Charity A-la-Mode.[227]

The Invalid.

Under the Portraiture of Martha Ray.

Epistle to a Gay Young Lady that was Married to a Doating old Deacon.[228]

The Menace.[229]

The Prudent Philosopher.

The Origin of Wars.

Lines Written in a Severe February on a Shad, &c., caught in a Mild January.

Epitaph on Frederick the Second, late King of Prussia. [From the French.]

A Dialogue between Shadrach and Whiffle.

To the memory of a Lady.[230]

To Clarissa: a handsome Shop-Keeper.

To Cynthia.

To a Very Little Man, Fond of Walking with a Very Long Cane.

The Rural Bachelor.

To Messieurs Fungus, Froth, and Co.

Shadrach and Pomposo: A Tale.

On Pest-Eli-Hali, the Traveling Speculator.[231]

Elegiac lines on a Theological Script-Monger.

On the Approaching Dissolution of Transatlantic Jurisdiction in America.

From the 1809 Edition.

Translation of the Third Elegy of the First Book of Ovid's Tristia.

Description of the Plague which Happened at Athens ... From the Sixth Book of Lucretius on the Nature of Things.

Love's Suicide. Stanzas Intended for the Tomb Stone of a Person who Killed Himself in Consequence of his Suit being Rejected by a Young Lady.

Translation, from Ovid's Tristia. Book 3d, Elegy 3d.

Stanzas Written near a Certain Clergyman's Garden.

On a Nocturnal View of the Planet Jupiter, and several of his Satellites, through a Telescope.

The Fading Rose.

A College Story.

On a Man Killed by a Buffaloe (or wild Cow.)

To the Dog Sancho, on his being Wounded in the Head with a Sabre, in a Midnight Assault and Robbery, near the Neversink Hills, 1778.

Science, Favourable to Virtue.

Reflections on the Constitution, or Frame of Nature.

On the Powers of the Human Understanding.

Lines Written in a very Small Garden.

Nereus and Thetis.

A Usurer's Prayer.

Suicide: the Weakness of the Human Mind. A Marine Anecdote.

The Gougers: on Seeing a Traveller Gouged, and otherwise ill treated by some Citizens of Logtown, near a Pine Barren.

Lines written for Mr. Ricketts, on the Exhibitions at his Equestrian Circus.

Monumental Lines, Addressed to a Disconsolate Person, that was Successively Enamoured of Two Sisters, who Died of a Consumption within about Two Years of Each other, in the Prime of Youth and Beauty.

Esperanza's March: being Stanzas, Addressed to a Person who Complained "He was always unfortunate."

From the 1815 edition.

The New Age; or Truth Triumphant.

On Superstition.

The Royal Apprentice, A London Story.

The Modern Jehu; or, Nobility on Four Wheels.

On a Lady, Now Deceased, that had been both Deaf and Blind Many Years.

The Mistake; a Modern Short Story.

Lines written in a french novel, Adelaide and Durval.

Human Frailty.

On Happiness, as proceeding from the practice of Virtue.

Ode to Good Fortune.

Reflections on doctor Perkins' metallic points, or tractors.

Publius to Pollia. Supposed to have been written during a cruising expedition.

On the Uniformity and Perfection of Nature.

Translation of Gray's Ode, Written at the grand Chartreuse.

On the Universality and Other Attributes of the God of Nature.

On the Religion of Nature.

The Reward of Innocence.

On the Evils of Human Life.

The Scurrilous Scribe.

Belief and Unbelief: humbly recommended to the serious consideration of creed makers.

Susanna's Tomb.

Stanzas on a Political Projector, who was making interest, to be employed on an embassy to Constantinople.

Nature's Debt.

New Year's Eve.

The Order of the Day: to readers of the history of wars ancient and modern.

The Bethlehemite; or, fair solitary.

The Hermit and the Traveller.

Lines on the Establishment of the New Theatre, and the management of the house being placed in the hands of Mr. Cooper.

The Musical Savage. Supposed to express, to the musician, the extatic emotions of a missouri indian, on his first hearing the violin played, or band of music, that accompanied captain Lewis on his expedition to the Columbia-River.

Epitaph on a worthy person, whose decease closed a series of fortune and misfortune in his 50th year.

Written at Poplar-Hill,—Pennsylvania.

The Blast of November. Occasioned by a fatal accident on the Hudson.

The Duelists.

On Seeing a Beautiful Print of a Shipwrecked Sailor sitting on a Rock.

Heaving the Lead: a Marine Story, Founded on Fact.

Translated from the Third Book of Lucretius de natura rerum, or, On the nature of Things.

The Two Genii: Addressed to a young Lady, of a consumptive habit, departing from New-York, by sea, for South-Carolina, in 1805.

The Hypochondriac.

On Finding a Terrapin in the Woods, which had A. D. 1756 Marked on the Back of his Shell.

Pythona: or the Prophetess of En-Dor.

To Ismenia.

[215] Epitaph Intended for the Tombstone of Patrick Bay, Innholder, Killed by an Ignorant Physician.—1809.

[216] Lines on a Distrest Orator, at a Public Exhibition.—1809. This was an undergraduate skit by Freneau on his college mate Robert Archibald, of the Class of 1772.

[217] To My Lord Snake, [A Title Hunter.]—1795. The Impertinent.—1809.

[218] Humanity and Ingratitude, A Common Case. [Translated from the French.]—1795.

[219] To a Deceased Dog.—1795.

[220] Devastations in a Library.—1795. On Devastations Committed in a Bookseller's Library, by Rats, Mice, &c.—1809.

[221] The Minstrel's Complaint.—1795.

[222] Susanna's Revival.—1795.

[223] To the Grand Mufti.—1795.

[224] Palaemon: or, the Skaiter.—1795.

[225] Highland Sawney, or the Emigrant Beau.—1795.

[226] An Apology for Intemperance.—1809.

[227] Merchantile Charity.—1809.

[228] The Preposterous Nuptials: or, January and June.—1809.

[229] The Nova Scotia Menace.—1809.

[230] To the Memory of Mrs. Burnet of Elizabeth-town, N. J. By Request.—1809.

[231] On a Travelling Speculator.—1809.

C. BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE POETRY OF PHILIP FRENEAU

The following is a list of the individual and collected poetical publications of Freneau. For a more complete view of the poet's literary activities the reader is referred to the painstaking and admirable "Bibliography of the separate and collected works of Philip Freneau," by Mr. Victor Hugo Paltsits (N. Y., Dodd, Mead & Co., 1903). Opportunity has been taken here to bring the list up to date, to correct a few omissions and errors in Mr. Paltsits' volume, and to locate copies whose existence he overlooked. To avoid confusion the abbreviations used by him have been retained, viz: AAS = American Antiquarian Society, Worcester, Mass.; BA = Boston Athenæum, Boston, Mass.; BM = British Museum, London, England; BPL = Boston Public Library, Boston, Mass.; BU = Brown University Library, Providence, R. I.; C = Library of Congress, Washington, D. C.; GSMT = General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen, N. Y. City; HC = Harvard University Library, Cambridge, Mass.; HSP = Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pa.; LCP = Library Company of Philadelphia, Pa.; MHS = Massachusetts Historical Society, Boston, Mass.; NA = New York Public Library, Astor Foundation, N. Y. City; NJSL = New Jersey State Library, Trenton, N. J.; NkPL = Newark Free Public Library, Newark, N. J.; NL = New York Public Library, Lenox Foundation, N. Y. City; NYHS = New York Historical Society, N. Y. City; NYSL = New York State Library, Albany, N. Y.; PU = Princeton University Library, Princeton, N. J.; SPL = Springfield Public Library, Springfield, Mass.

1772

The | American Village,| a Poem.| To which are added,| Several other original Pieces in Verse.| By Philip Freneau, A. B.| [Quotation of two lines from Horace.]

New York:| Printed by S. Inslee and A. Car, on Moor's Wharf.| M, DCC, LXXII.| 12mo; pp. [1]-27, [1].

See Vol. I, xxii, and Vol. III, Appendix A, supra. Copies: BU, C.

1772

A | Poem, | on the | Rising Glory | of | America;| being an | Exercise | Delivered at the Public Commencement at | Nassau-Hall, September 25, 1771. |[Quotation of six lines from Seneca.]|

Philadelphia:| Printed by Joseph Crukshank, for R. Aitken,| bookseller, opposite the London-coffee-|house, in Front-Street.| M, DCC, LXXII.| 12mo; pp. [3]-27.

See Vol. I, xxi, and 49, supra. Copies: BU, C, HSP, MHS, NYHS, PU.

1775

American Liberty,| a | Poem.| [Quotations one line from Virgil and two lines from Pope].|

New-York:| Printed by J. Anderson, at Beekman-Slip.| MDCCLXXV.| 12mo; pp. 3-12.

See Vol. I, 142, supra. Copies: C, LCP.

1775

General Gage's Soliloquy. New York: Printed by Hugh Gaine, 1775.

No printed copy of this has thus far been discovered. A manuscript copy of unknown origin is in the Du Simitière collection of the Library Company of Philadelphia. Endorsed upon it are the words "Printed in New York August. 1775. By Gaine." See Vol. I, 152 supra.

1775

A | Voyage | to | Boston. | A | Poem.| [Quotation of five lines from Shakespeare.] By the Author of American Liberty, a Poem: General | Gage's Soliloquy, &c.|

New-York: Printed by John Anderson,| at Beekman's Slip.| 12mo; pp. [III]-IV, [5]-24.

See Vol. I, 158, supra. Copies: C, LCP, NYHS.

1775

A | Voyage | to | Boston. | A | Poem.| [Quotation of five lines from Shakespeare.]| By the Author of American Liberty, a Poem: General | Gage's Soliloquy, &c.|

Philadelphia: | Sold by | William Woodhouse, | in Front street.| M, DCC, LXXV.| 12mo; pp. [III]-iv, [5]-24.

A reprint of the Anderson edition. Copies: AAS, HSP, NYHS, PU.

1775

General Gage's | Confession,| Being the Substance of | His Excellency's last Conference,| With his Ghostly Father, Friar Francis.| [Quotation of one line from Virgil.]| By the Author of the Voyage to Boston. | A Poem, &c.|

Printed in the Year, 1775.| Small 8vo; pp. [3]-8.

The copy in the possession of the Library Company of Philadelphia is at present believed to be unique. Written on the title page by a contemporary hand are the words "By Gaine. Published October 25: 1775."

1778

The | Travels | of the | Imagination;| a true Journey from | New Castle to London.| To which are added,| American Independence,| an | everlasting deliverance | from | British Tyranny: | a Poem.|

Philadelphia: | Printed, by Robert Bell, in Third-Street.| M DCC LXXVIII.| 12mo.

The main work is by James Murray. Freneau's poem, pp. [113]-126 of the volume, has the title page:

American | Independence,| an everlasting | Deliverance | from | British Tyranny.| A Poem.| By Philip F——, Author of the American Village,| Voyage to Boston, &c.| [Quotation of six lines from Shakespeare.]|

Philadelphia: Printed, by Robert Bell, in Third-Street.| M DCC LXXVIII.|

The same sheets were used to form part VI of "Miscellanies | for | Sentimentalists," published the same year by Bell.

See Vol. I, 271, supra. Copy: HSP.

1779

Sir Henry Clinton's Invitation to the Refugees.

The only evidence at present of the separate publication of this piece is the entry in Frank Moore's Songs and Ballads of the American Revolution (N. Y. 1856, p. 259): "We have it in a ballad sheet, dated 1779."

See Vol. II, p. 7, supra.

1781

The British Prison-Ship:|A | Poem,| in four Cantoes.|

Viz. Canto      
1. The Capture,

2. The Prison-Ship,

3. The Prison-Ship, continued,

4. The Hospital-Prison-Ship.

To which is added,| A Poem on the Death of Capt. N. Biddle,| who was blown up, in an Engagement with the | Yarmouth, near Barbadoes.| [Quotation of thirteen lines from Milton.]|

Philadelphia:| Printed by F. Bailey, in Market-Street.| M. DCC. LXXXI.| 12mo; pp. [3]-23.

See Vol. II, p. 18, supra. Copies: BU, LCP, NYHS.

1783

New Year Verses,| Addressed to those Gentlemen who have been | pleased to favour Francis Wrigley, News Car-|rier, with their Custom.| January 1, 1783.| Folio, broadside.

See Vol. II, p. 197, supra. Copy: C.

1783

New Year's Verses, addressed to The Customers of the Pennsylvania Evening Post, by the Printer's Lad who carries it. January 4, 1783.

This is known only through the version in the 1786 edition of Freneau's poems, pp. 383-385. It was undoubtedly first issued as a broadside.

1783

New Year's | Verses | Addressed to the Customers of | The Freeman's Journal,| By the Lad who carries it.| January 8th, 1783.| Folio, broadside.

See Vol. II, p. 198, supra. Copy: C.

1784

New-Year | Verses, | For those who Carry the | Pennsylvania Gazette | to the | Customers.| January 1, 1784.| Small folio, broadside.

Reprinted in the 1786 edition, pp. 387-388; in the 1795 edition, p. 265; and in the 1809 edition, Vol. II, pp. 161-162. In the two latter versions, with the title changed to "A News-man's Address," the original first line:

"How things are chang'd since last New Year"

was altered to read:

"What tempests gloomed the by-past year—"

See Vol. II, p. 238, supra. Copy: HSP.

1784

New Year's Verses, Addressed To the Customers of the Freeman's Journal, by the Lad who carries it. January 7, 1784.

The original broadside has not been found. The only version at present known is in the 1786 edition, pp. 389-390. See Vol. II, p. 240, supra.

1785

New Year's Verses, addressed to the Customers of the Freeman's Journal, by the Lad who Carries it. January 1, 1785.

The first trace of this is to be found in the 1786 edition, pp. 391-393. It was doubtless first issued as a broadside. See Vol. II, p. 284, supra.

1786

New Year's Verses, for 1786. [Written for the Carriers of the Columbian Herald.]

The first trace to be found of this is in the 1788 edition, pp. 142-144. This is signed "Charleston (S. C.) Jan. 1786." It doubtless appeared as a broadside. See Vol. II, p. 301, supra.

1786

The | Poems | of | Philip Freneau.| Written chiefly during the late War.|

Philadelphia:| Printed by Francis Bailey, at | Yorick's Head, in Market street. | M DCC LXXXVI.|

Small 8vo; pp. [v]-vii, [1]-407.

This is the first collected edition of Freneau's poems. See Vol. I, p. xxxix-xli, supra. Copies: BM, BPL, BU, C, HSP, LCP, MHS, NA, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU.

1787

A | Journey | from | Philadelphia | to | New-York, | by Way of Burlington and South-Amboy.| By | Robert Slender, Stocking Weaver.| Extracted from the Author's Journals.| [Quotation of two lines from Horace.]

Philadelphia; Printed by Francis Bailey, at Yorick's Head, in | Market-street.| M DCC LXXXVII.| 12mo; pp. vi, [7]-28.

See Vol. II, p. 388, supra. Copies: BU, C, NYHS, PU.

1788

New Year's Verses for 1788. [Supposed to be written by the Printer's lad, who supplies the customers with his weekly paper.]

The first trace of this is in the 1788 edition, pp. 393-395. It was doubtless first issued as a broadside for some newspaper. See Vol. II, p. 383, supra.

1788

The | Miscellaneous | Works | of | Mr. Philip Freneau | containing his | Essays,| and | additional Poems.|

Philadelphia:| Printed by Francis Bailey, at Yorick's | Head, in Market Street.| M DCC LXXXVIII.| Small 12mo; pp. xii [1]-429.

The second collected edition of Freneau's poems. It contained no poems that had been published in the first collection. See Vol. I, p. xliii, supra. Copies: BM, BPL, BU, C, HSP, LCP, MHS, NA, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU.

1794

The | Village Merchant: | A | Poem. To which is added the | Country Printer. | [Four lines from section five of The Village Merchant.]|

Philadelphia: | Printed by Hoff and Derrick,| M, DCC, XCIV.| Small 8vo; pp. [3]-16.

See Vol. II, p. 14, supra. Copies: BU, HSP.

1795

Poems | Written between the Years 1768 & 1794,| by | Philip Freneau,| of | New Jersey: | A New Edition, Revised and Corrected by the | Author; Including a considerable number of | Pieces never before published.| [Pyramid of fifteen stars, followed by two lines of Latin from Page 435.]|

Monmouth | [N. J.] | Printed | At the Press of the Author, at Mount-Pleasant, near | Middletown-Point; M, DCC, XCV: and, of |—American Independence—| XIX.| 8vo; pp. xv, [1]-455, [1].

The third collected edition of Freneau. See Vol. I, pp. lxvi-lxviii, supra. Copies: AAS, BA, BM, BPL, BU, C, HC, HSP, LCP, MHS, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, SPL, GSMT, NkPL.

1797

Means | for the | Preservation | of | Public Liberty. | An | Oration | delivered in the New Dutch Church, | on the | Fourth of July, 1797.| Being the twenty-first | Anniversary of our Independence.| By G. J. Warner.| [Ten lines from Freneau's poem To a Republican with Mr. Paine's Rights of Man.]|

New York: | Printed at the Argus Office,| for | Thomas Greenleaf and Naphtali Judah.| 1797.| 8vo; pp. [7]-22.

On pp. 20-21 Ode | (Composed for the Occasion, by P. Freneau.) The Musick performed | by the Uranian Musical Society.| See Vol. III, p. 152, supra. Copy: NL.

1797

Megara and Altavola. To a female satirist (an English actress) on receiving from her no. 1 of a very satirical and biting attack.

Six copies only were printed, of which none is at present known to exist. See the 1809 edition, Vol. II, p. 30; and Vol. III, p. 146, supra.

1798

New Year's Verses.

Issued as a broadside for the Time Piece and dated "January 1, 1798." The only copy that is known at present is bound with the file Time Piece in the library of the New York Historical Society. See Vol. III, p. 194, supra.

1809

Poems | written and published during the | American Revolutionary War,| and now | republished from the original Manuscripts;| interspersed | with Translations from the Ancients,| and other Pieces not heretofore in | Print.| By Philip Freneau.| [Four lines of poetry.]| The Third Edition, in two Volumes.| Vol. I. [II.]|

Philadelphia: From the Press of Lydia R. Bailey, No. 10.| North-Alley.| 1809.| 2 vols.; 12mo; Vol. I, pp. 280, iv; Vol. II, pp. 302, XII.

This is generally known as the fourth collected edition. See Vol. I, p. lxxxiv-lxxxvi, supra. Copies: BM, BPL, BU, C, HSP, LCP, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, NJSL.

1809

A Laughable Poem;| or | Robert Slender's | Journey | from | Philadelphia to New York, | by | Way of Burlington and South Amboy.| By Philip Freneau, |Author of Poems written during the American Revo-|lutionary War, and lately published in this City | by Lydia R. Bailey, in two Volumes, Duodecimo.| Persons of the Poem.| [Nine lines for nine characters.]|

Philadelphia: | Printed for Thomas Neversink.| December 20, 1809.| 12mo; pp. [3]-24.

A reprint with few variations of the 1787 edition. See Vol. II, p. 338, supra. Copies: BU, HSP, LCP.

1815

A | Collection of | Poems,| on | American Affairs, and a variety of other Subjects,| chiefly moral and political;| written between the Year 1797 and the pre-|sent Time.| By Philip Freneau,| Author of Poems written during the Revolutionary | War, Miscellanies, &c. &c.| In two Volumes.| [Four lines from Freneau's poem On the British Commercial Depredations.]| Vol. I. [II.]|

New York: Published by David Longworth,| At the Dramatic Repository,| Shakespeare-Gallery.| 1815.| 2 vols.; small 12mo; Vol. I, pp. viii, [13]-188; Vol. II, pp. 176.

See Vol. I, pp. xc-xci, supra. Copies: BA, BM, BPL, BU, C, LCP, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, GSMT, NkPL.

1861

Poems on various Subjects, | but chiefly illustrative of the | Events and Actors in the American | War of Independence.| By Philip Freneau. | Reprinted from the rare edition printed at | Philadelphia in 1786.| With a Preface.

London:| John Russell Smith,| Soho Square.| 1861.|

Small 8vo; pp. xxii, [1]-362. Printed at the Chiswick Press.

Copies: BPL, BU, C, HSP, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, NkPL.

1865

Poems | relating to the | American Revolution | By Philip Freneau.| With an introductory memoir and notes.| By | Evert A. Duyckinck.|

New York:| W. J. Widdleton, Publisher.| M.DCCC. LXV. 12mo; pp. xxxviii, [1]-288. por. and facsim.

Copies: AAS, BM, BPL, C, HSP, LCP, NA, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, SPL, NkPL. One hundred copies also on large paper, royal 8vo.

1891

Poems | relating to the | American Revolution | by | Philip Freneau | With an introductory memoir and notes | By | Evert A. Duyckinck | New York | Thomas Y. Crowell Co. | 46 East Fourteenth Street. | 12mo. pp. xxxviii, 288.

This is a reissue of the 1865 edition printed with red line borders for Crowell's "Red Line Series of the Poets." Cover title misprinted "Frenau's Poems," Also issued without red line border.

1902

The | Poems of Philip Freneau | Poet of the American Revolution | Edited for | the Princeton Historical Association | By | Fred Lewis Pattee | Princeton N.J. | the University Library | 1902 |.

8º; 3 vols. pp. CXII, 294; X, 407; XIV, 430 (Vol. II, 1903, Vol. III, 1907).

1906

The American Village | A Poem by | Philip Freneau | Reprinted in facsimile from the original| edition published at New York | in 1772, with an introduction | by | Harry Lyman Roopman | and | Bibliographical Data | by | Victor Hugo Paltsits | [Device] | Providence, Rhode Island | 1906. Square 8vo. pp. XXI, [1]-69.

Edition of 100 copies. The third publication of the Club for Colonial Reprints, of Providence, R. I. See Vol. III, Appendix A, supra.

INDEX

Adams, John, i. liv; iii. 207, 210

Adams, Samuel, i. 193

Aitken, R., i. 49

Albertson, Captain, ii. 346

Algiers, pirates of, ii. 302, 344, 381

Amanda poems, ii. 318, 319, 321, 326, 328, 392

"American Crisis, The," ii. 16

American Museum, i. lxvii; ii. 313

Americus Vespucius, ii. 268

Amherst, Sir Jeffrey, i. 156; ii. 117

Analectic Magazine, i. xci

Anderson, Alexander, i. xcii

Anderson, publisher, i. 142, 158, 185

André, Major John, ii. 39

Annapolis, Md., iii. 15

Arbuthnot, Admiral Marriot, ii. 90

Argus, i. lxxii

Arnold, Benedict, ii. 39ff., 103, 336

Asgill, Capt. Charles, ii. 193, 291

Auchmuty, Rev. Samuel, ii. 209

Bache, Benjamin F., i. lviii

Bailey, Commander of packet, ii. 346

Bailey, Francis, i. xxxiv, xxxvi, xl, xliiiff., lxiii, lxiv, lxxx; ii. 18, 75, 338

Bailey, Lydia H., i. lxxxviii

Bainbridge, Commodore Joseph, iii. 311

Balfour, Nesbit, ii. 155

Balloons, ii. 265, 276; iii. 142

Barlow, Joel, i. c, ci, 279

Barney, Capt. Joshua, ii. 142, 147, 149

Bastille, Fall of, iii. 72, 102

Bauman, Col., i. lxxx

Beckley, Mr., i. lxix

Bell, Capt. Archibald, i. xlv

Bell, Robert, publisher, i. xxviii, 271; ii. 260

Bellamont, Richard, Earl of, iii. 40

Bermuda, i. xxviii, 266, 283; ii. 318, 319, 393

Bernard, Sir Francis, i. 80

Biddle, Capt. Nicholas, i. cvi, 288

Blackbeard, pirate, iii. 229

Blanchard, balloonist, iii. 142

Bolingbroke, Lord, iii. 47

Bompard, Captain of Ambuscade, iii. 106

Bon Homme Richard and Serapis, ii. 75

Bonaparte, Napoleon, iii. 135, 333, 334

Boston, Mass., i. 84, 152, 158, 171, 185, 193; ii. 196

Bradford, William, Papers, i. xvii

Brackenridge, H. H., i. xvi, xx, xxii, xxviii, xxix

Brown, Gen. Jacob, iii. 329

Burgoyne, General, i. 164, 165, 171; ii. 96, 140

Burke, Aedanus, i. xlix, lxxix; iii. 243

Burke, Edmund, ii. 13; iii. 84, 164

Burns, Robert, iii. 337

Burr, Aaron, i. xvi;
Theodosia, iii. 312

Campbell, Thomas, ii. 370

Cannon, Capt. William, i. xliv

Carey, John, iii. 82;
Matthew, i. lxvii; ii. 313;
Thomas, i. xc

Carleton, Sir Guy, i. 79; ii. 153, 156, 169, 172, 173, 190, 194

Catharine of Russia, ii. 17; iii. 97, 136

Chandler, Bishop Samuel, ii. 303

Charles V of Spain, ii. 15

Charleston, S. C., i. xiv, xxxix, xliii, xlviii, lxxv, lxxxi; ii. 214, 399, 401, 402, 404; iii. 3, 199, 201

Chatham, Capt. Brig Rebecca, i. xxx

Childs, Francis, i. lii

Churchill, Charles, ii. 175

Churchman, John, ii. 398, 406

Clarkson, Matthew, i. lvi

Clinton, Sir Henry, ii. 7, 41, 57, 89, 153

Cobbett, William, iii. 167. See "Peter Porcupine"

Cochrane, Sir Alexander, iii. 362

Cockburn, Sir George, iii. 343, 356, 362

Cockneys in America, iii. 185

Colden, Cadwallader, ii. 203

Colles, Christopher, ii. 214

Columbia, S. C., ii. 399, 401, 402

Columbus, Christopher, i. ci, 46, 89

Commerce, the hope of America, iii. 220

Concord and Lexington, i. 168

Connecticut, iii. 8

Cooper, President Miles, ii. 209

Corcoran, Dr., poetaster, ii. 184

Cornwallis, Captain, ii. 143;
Earl of, ii. 84, 86, 88, 89, 92, 93, 97, 117, 140

Cosins, John, ii. 126

Courtney, Captain of the Boston, iii. 106

Crukshank, Joseph, publisher, i. 49

Currie, Dr. William, iii. 159

Dacres, Capt., of Guerrière, iii. 310

Dartmouth College, iii. 33

Dartmouth, Lord, i. 189

Dauphin of France, birth, ii. 167

Davis, Matthew L., i. lxxv

Dayton, Jonathan, iii. 151

Dickinson, John, ii. 380

Digby, Admiral, ii. 112

Dodd, Dr. William, ii. 16

Dornin, Bernard, ii. 139

Downie, Capt. George, iii. 349

Dunmore, Gov., of Virginia, i. 140; ii. 87, 114, 115; iii. 17

Duponceau, iii. 92

Dwight, Timothy, i. lxi, xcvii, c, ci; iii. 9

Edgeworth, Maria, ii. 313

Ellsworth, Oliver, iii. 226;
Mrs. Oliver, i. lix

Emigration, ii. 280; iii. 228

England, National debt, ii. 134

"Eugenie," Beaumarchais' comedy, ii. 108

Eutaw Springs, Battle of, ii. 101

"Father Bombo's Pilgrimage," i. xvii

Fayal, fight in harbor of, iii. 363

"Features of Mr. Jay's Treaty," iii. 133

Fenno, John, i. li

Fitch, John, and steam navigation, ii. 406

Fontaine, John, traveller, i. xiv

Forman, Eleanor, marries Freneau, i. xlviii.

Fort George, N. Y., destroyed, iii. 24, 40

Fox, Charles James, ii. 9;
George, quaker, iii. 14

France, war with, threatened, iii. 139, 157, 207;
treaty, 226

Francis, John W., i. xciii; ii. 214;
Sam, New York innkeeper, ii. 206; iii. 360

Franklin, Benjamin, iii. 36;
William, i. 131; ii. 115

Freemasons, iii. 281, 282

French Revolution, i. lii, liv; ii. 385; iii. 57, 70, 72, 84, 86, 88ff., 92, 99, 102, 106, 129, 135

Freneau Bible, i. xiii.

Freneau Family:
Agnes, i. lxxv, lxxix;
André, i. xiii;
Andrew, i. xiv;
Catharine L., i. lxxvi;
Eleanor, i. xlix, lxxvi;
Helen, i. lxxiv;
Margaret, i. lxxvi;
Mary, i. lxxvi;
Philip L., i. lxxvi;
Peter, i. xiv, xxxix, xlviii, lxxviii, lxxxi;
Pierre, i. xiv

Freneau Philip,
Birth, xiv;
enters Princeton, xv;
College mates, xvi;
undergraduate verse, xvii, xviii, xxi, ciii, i. 49;
graduated (1771), xx;
teacher at Flatbush, xxi;
publishes "The American Village," xxii;
teacher in Somerset Academy, Md., xxii;
begins poetic career in New York, xxiv, i. 139;
criticized, i. 206;
sails for West Indies, xxvi;
at Bermuda (1778), xxviii, ii. 318;
writes "The House of Night," xxvii, i. 221;
returns (June, 1778), xxviii, i. 293;
contributes to the United States Magazine, xxviii;
visits the Azores (1779), xxx;
sails for the West Indies (1780), xxx;
captured by the British and confined in prison ships, xxxiiff., ii. 18ff.;
the Freeman's Journal, xxxv, ii. 75;
prologue to "Eugenie," ii. 108;
quarrels with Oswald, xxxvii, ii. 174;
and Hugh Gaine, ii. 201, 214;
lampoons Rivington, ii. 229;
hymn at close of war, ii. 242;
at Jamaica (1784), xxxviii, xxxix, ii. 250, 252, 258;
denounces slavery, ii. 258;
master of the Monmouth (1785), xxxix, ii. 295;
first edition of his poems (1786), xxxix, xli;
in Charleston, S. C. (1786), ii. 301;
his second volume (1788), xliii;
at Norfolk (1788), xliv;
at Castle Island, Bermuda (1789), ii. 319;
at Yamacraw, Ga. (1789), xiv;
enters New York with Washington's fleet (1789), xlvii;
farewell to the ocean, iii. 3;
editor of New York Daily Advertiser, xlvii, iii. 3;
marriage (April 15, 1790), xlviii, iii. 3;
plans "The Rising Empire," xlix, iii. 5;
is recommended to Madison by Burke, xlix;
clerkship, l, lii, lxiii;
founds the National Gazette (Oct. 31, 1791), lii;
sympathy with French Revolution, liii, ii. 385;
translates Pichon's Ode, liv, iii. 92;
becomes incendiary in the Gazette, lv;
attacked by Hamilton, lvi;
exasperates Washington, lx;
in Philadelphia during yellow fever epidemic (1793), lxiii;
suspends the Gazette, xi;
valedictory on leaving Philadelphia, iii. 113;
founds the Jersey Chronicle, lxiii;
writes against Jay's treaty, iii. 133;
the third edition of his poems (1795), lxvii;
abandons the Jersey Chronicle, lxxi;
founds the Time Piece (1797), lxxii, iii. 137;
plans biography of Ledyard, lxxiv;
visited by Deborah Gannett, iii. 182;
resigns editorship of the Time Piece (1798), lxxv;
a farmer, lxxv, lxxix, iii. 199;
"Letters on Various Interesting Subjects," lxxvi;
urged for New York postmastership, lxxx;
resumes seafaring life (1802), lxxx, lxxxi;
last voyage to the Azores (1807), lxxxi;
correspondence with Madison and Jefferson, lxxxff., i. lxxxviiff.;
1809 edition of his poems, lxxxivff.;
visits the castle of Blackbeard the pirate, iii. 229;
at Guadeloupe, iii. 242;
the 1815 edition, xc;
last years, xcii;
death, xcv;
character and personality, xcviff.;
poetry, xcviiiff., cvi, cixff.;
mania for revision, lxvii, ii. 253;
miserly care of his poems, viii, lxvii, ii. 313;
services to the Revolution, cv.
See Poems.

Fresneau, André, i. xiii

Funchal, Madeira, iii. 257

Gage, General, i. 152, 158, 185, 189, 193, 194

Gaine, Hugh, i. 152, 189; ii. 201, 205, 214

Gannett, Deborah, iii. 182

Garrick's "Dying Valet," ii. 108

Gaston, Count, ii. 9

Gates, General, iii. 151

Genet, Citizen, iii. 92, 106

Georgia, i. 153; ii. 387, 397

George, III, ii.

3, 9, 16, 117, 126, 217

Germaine, Lord George, ii. 87

Godwin, Abraham, Innkeeper at Passaic, N. J., i. 123

Greene, General, ii. 101

Greenleaf, Thomas, i. lxxii

Guadaloupe, W. I., ii. 314; iii. 242

Hamilton, Alexander, i. liv; iii. 109, 127

Hammill, Mr., marries Freneau's daughter, i. lxxvi

Hancock, John, i. 193

Hanson, Capt., i. xxvi

Hardy, Sir Thomas, iii. 321, 338

Harmony Hall, Charleston, ii. 404

Harvard College, ii. 371

Havana, Siege of, i. 146

Hawkes, Capt. of the Iris, ii. 19

Hay, Lady, iii. 40

Hezekiah, Salem, Freneau's pseudonym, ii. 329; iii. 19

Hatteras, Cape, i. 184; ii. 320, 392, 394

Hessians, i. 185, 269; ii. 35

Hillyer, Capt. James, of the Phoebe, iii. 318

Hispaniola, i. 117

Hoff & Derrick, publish "The Village Merchant," i. 14

Holt, John, printer, ii. 231

Hopkins, John, ii. 181

Hopkinson, Francis, iii. 53

Horace, quoted and imitated, i. 57; ii. 103, 177, 336, 377

Howe, Admiral, ii. 153

Howe, General, placed in command at Boston, 1775, i. 152;
his campaign in New Jersey, ii. 7

Huddy, Capt. of N. J. Militia, ii. 163, 193, 291

Hudson River, iii. 173

Hunter, Mrs. John, and "The Death Song," ii. 313

Hull, Isaac, Capt. of the Constitution, iii. 310

Hyde, Commander of a packet ship, ii. 346

Hyder, Ali, East Indian insurgent, ii. 148

Indians, i. xxxvi, lxvi, cx, cxi; ii. 187, 243, 313, 369, 371; iii. 189, 293, 381

Jamaica, i. 239; ii. 250, 252, 253, 258

Jamestown, Va., ii. 270

Jay's Treaty, i. lxvi; iii. 132, 133

Jefferson, Thomas, i. l, lvii, lxxx, lxxxiii; iii. 151, 216, 293

Jefferies, Judge, i. 163

Jeffrey, the critic, praises Freneau, i. vi

Jemmy, the rover, Pennsylvania sonnetter, ii. 184

Johnson, Guy, i. 179

Johnston, British Commissioner, ii. 14

Johnstone, Commodore George, ii. 117

"Jonah, History of the Prophet," i. 3

Jones, John Paul, i. 290; ii. 75

Katy-did, the, iii. 275

Kempenfelt, Admiral, ii. 218

Key, Francis Scott, iii. 357

King's College, ii. 209

Knapp, John Coghill, ii. 123

Knyphausen, Baron, ii. 38, 39, 122

Kollock, Shepard, ii. 231

Laboyteant, Captain Aurora, i. xxi

Lafayette, iii. 86

Lake Champlain, Battle of, iii. 349

Lake Erie, Battle of, iii. 315

Landais, Capt., of the Alliance, i. 285

Latin and Greek, iii. 121

Laurens, John, ii. 283, 337

Lawrence, James, killed in action with the Shannon, iii. 313

Leadbeater, Edward, i. lxxvi.

Ledyard, John, i. lxxiv.

Lee, Henry, i. lxiii; ii. 101

Leslie, James, Innkeeper at Passaic, N. J., i. 123

"Letters on Various Interesting Subjects," i. lxxvi

Lexington and Concord, i. 168

Liberty Cap, iii. 94, 106, 107

Liberty tree of Boston, i. 159, 172

Library, Circulating, in Philadelphia, ii. 260

"Light Summer Reading," ii. 318, 326

Liquor in jails, iii. 126

Livingston, R. R., i. lxxii

Livingston, Gov. William, i. 124

London Revolution Society, iii. 99

Long Island Dutch, iii. 12

Longworth, publishes the 1815 edition, i. lxxxvii

Loudon, New York printer, ii. 231

Louis XVI., ii. 167, 385

Lunardi, balloonist, ii. 265

Lundy's Lane, Battle of, iii. 329

"Lying Valet," presented in Philadelphia, ii. 108

MacDonough, Capt. Thomas, iii. 349

Madeira Islands, iii. 254, 257

Madison, James, i. xvi, xviii, xxi, xlix, lxii, lxix, lxxxviiff.

Magraw, Dr., New York physician, ii. 202, 304

Manly, Captain of the Hancock, ii. 22

Mansfield, Lord, ii. 87

Marion, General Francis, at Eutaw Springs, ii. 101

Martin, Luther, i. xxiii

Mason, Stephens T., iii. 132

Matthews, David, Mayor of New York, ii. 123

McKean, Thomas, iii. 151

M'Rea, Jenny, i. 279

"Means for the Preservation of Liberty," iii. 152

Menut, Alexander, i. lxxii, lxxv

Mercer, General Hugh, i. 279

Mesnard, Capt. brig Active, i. xxxi

Mirabeau, motto from, translated by Freneau, ii. 113

Miranda, General, iii. 271

Mississippi River, i. 74, 76; ii. 281

Mitchell, cryer of Philadephia, ii. 182

Mitchell, Rev. Alexander, i. xv

"Modern Chivalry" by Brackenridge, i. xvi, xxiv

"Monarchical and Mixed Forms of Government," i. lxvi

Monroe, James, iii. 151

Montagu, George, i. 140

Morin, Pierre, i. xiv;
Mary, i. xiv

Motley, Capt. brig Betsy, i. xlvii

Mount Pleasant, Freneau moves to, i. xv

Moultrie, Fort, iii. 342

Moultrie, General William, iii. 238

Murphy, refugee from Scorpion, i. xxxiii

Nassau Hall, see Princeton

Navy, see Ships

Naval lyrics,
"Capt. Jones' Invitation," i. cvi, 290;
"Death of Capt. Biddle," i. cvi, 288;
"Stanzas on the New Frigate Alliance," i. cvii, 285;
"On the Memorable Victory," i. cvii, ii. 76;
"Barney's Invitation," i. cvii, ii. 147;
"Song on Capt. Barney's Victory," i. cvii, ii. 149;
"On the Memorable Naval Engagement," iii. 106;
"On the Capture of the Guerriere," iii. 310;
"Battle of Lake Erie," iii. 315;
"On the Capture of the Essex," iii. 318;
"The Battle of Stonington," iii. 338;
"Battle of Lake Champlain," iii. 349;
"On the Loss of the General Armstrong," iii. 363;
"On the Privateer Prince de Neufchatel," iii. 366

Nelson, William, i. 123

Neversink, Thomas, prints "A Laughable Poem," ii. 338

New London, iii. 321

Neversink Highlands, iii. 3, 358

Newspapers,—
Aurora, Philadelphia, i. lxxvi, 14, iii. 132;
City Gazette or the Daily Advertiser, Charleston, xlviii, iii. 5;
Columbian Centinel, Boston, iii. 81;
Columbian Herald, Charleston, ii. 301;
Connecticut Courant, iii. 161;
Constitutional Gazette, N. Y., i. xxiv, 158, 185;
Evening Post, Philadelphia, ii. 288;
Fenno's Gazette of the U. S., Philadelphia, i. lvi; iii. 81, 109;
Freeman's Journal, Phila., xxxivff., xl, xliii; ii. 92, 174, 198, 240;
General Advertiser, Phila., iii. 92;
Independent Gazetteer, Phila., i. xxxvii, 41; ii. 174, 176, 177, 179, 181, 185;
Jersey Chronicle, lxv, lxx, lxxi; iii. 3;
London Morning Herald, i. 41;
Monmouth Press, i. xcv;
National Gazette, i. liiff., lx, lxi; iii 56, 60, 76, 78, 81;
New Jersey Journal, Chatham, ii. 231;
New York Daily Advertiser, i. xlviii, ii. 75, 388, iii. 3;
New York Gazetteer, ii. 120, 231;
New York Journal, i. lxxii, 42; ii. 231;
New York Mercury, ii. 203;
New York Mirror, i. xcv;
New York Packet, ii. 231;
North Carolina Gazette, iii. 19;
Porcupine's Gazette, iii. 156, 167, 168;
Rivington's N. Y. Loyal Gazette, ii. 120;
Royal Gazette, ii. 113, 115, 116, 120, 124, 125, 126, 143, 146, 162, 169, 190, 232, 234;
Time-Piece, lxxii, ii. 3, 137;
Weekly Gazette, Charleston, ii. 212, 402

Newspaper tax, iii. 52

"New Travels through North America," translated by Freneau, i. xxxvi

New York City, ii. 7, 112, 162, 205, 223; iii. 24, 26, 42, 49, 53, 116, 123, 173

Nicholson, Capt. James, of the Trumbull, ii. 85

North Carolina, iii. 19

North, Lord, i. 189

Nova Scotia, ii. 219, 293

Nugent, Lord, ii. 13

"Observations on Monarchy," i. lxvi

"Odes on Various Subjects," ii. 73

Ohio, iii. 366

Ordonneaux, Commander of Prince de Neufchatel, iii. 366

Oswald, Eleazer, i. xxxvii; ii. 175, 185

Paine, Thomas, i. lix, lxiv; iii. 90, 286

Paris, Matthew, ii. 274

Parke, Col., Poem to Freneau, i. xli

Parker, New York printer, ii. 203

Parker, Sir Peter, iii. 342, 354

Parr, Governor of Nova Scotia, ii. 293

Passaic Falls, N. J., i. xxv, 123

Paterson, N. J., i. xxv, 123, 131

Peale's Exhibition, ii. 246

Pearson, commander of Serapis, ii. 78

Pennsylvania, iii. 13

Percy, Lord, i. 168; iii. 11

Perry, Commodore, iii. 315

Pewter Platter Alley, Philadelphia, ii. 287

Philadelphia, i. xxxivff., 68, 285; ii. 81, 108, 147, 167, 225, 246, 260, 287; iii. 42, 49. 53, 92, 106, 110, 111, 113, 142, 151, 159, 178

"Philosopher of the Forest," Freneau writes, i. xliii; ii. 159

Pichon, Citizen, "Ode to Liberty," iii. 92

Pico, the peak of, iii. 254

"Pilgrim, The" Freneau's, i. xxxvi, xliii; ii. 159

Pindar, Peter, ii. 394; iii. 28

Pintard, John, i. lviii, xcv

Pocket Almanac, Bailey's, ii. 280, 282, 314

Poems by Freneau

Addressed to a Political Shrimp, iii. 127;
Address to a Learned Pig, iii. 169;
Address to the Commander in Chief, ii. 81;
Address to the Republicans of America, iii. 154;
Adventures of Simon Swangum, i. 14;
Advice to a Friend, i. 184;
Advice to the Ladies, iii. 402;
Alcina's Enchanted Island, ii. 376;
Almanac Maker, iii. 402;
Amanda in a Consumption, ii. 326;
Amanda's Complaint, ii. 392;
America Independent, i. xxviii, 271, ii. 261;
American Demosthenes, iii. 144;
American Independence, i. 271;
American Liberty, a Poem, i. xxiv, 142;
American Siberia, ii. 293;
American Soldier, iii. 51;
American Village, i. xxii, 41; iii. 381;
Answer to a Card of Invitation, iii. 263;
Apology for Intemperance, iii. 403;
Argonaut, ii. 128;
Argonauta, ii. 128;
Ariosto's Description, ii. 376;
Arnold's Departure, ii. 103;
Author's Soliloquy, ii. 332;
Author on Authorship, ii. 332.

Bacchanalian Dialogue, iii. 255;
Banished Man, iii. 47;

Barney's Invitation, i. cvii; ii. 147;
Batavian Picture, iii. 12;
Battle of Lake Champlain, iii. 349;
Battle of Lake Erie, iii. 315;
Battle of Stonington, iii. 338;
Bay Islet, iii. 116;
Beauties of Santa Cruz, i. xxvii, 222, 239, 249;
Belief and Unbelief, iii. 405;
Bergen Planter, iii. 45;
Bermuda Islands, ii. 318;
Bethlehemite, iii. 406;
Bird at Sea, iii. 22;
Blast of November, iii. 406;
Blessings of the Poppy, iii. 114;
Book of Odes, iii. 161;
Bridge of the Delaware, iii. 403;
British Prison Ship, i. xxxiii, cvii, ii. 18;
Brook of the Valley, iii. 376.

Captain Jones's Invitation, i. cvi, 290;
Caribbean, ii. 314;
Charity a-la-Mode, iii. 403;
Citizen's Resolve, i. 42;
College Story, iii. 404;
Columbus to Ferdinand, i. xxix, ci, 46;
Commerce, iii. 220;
Congress Hall, iii. 26;
Constantia, i. xlviii, iii. 38;
Country Printer, i. lxxxvi, 14, iii. 60;
Crispin's Answer, iii. 75;
Crows and the Carrion, iii. 179.

Death Song of a Cherokee Indian, i. cx, ii. 315;
Debtor's Soliloquy, iii. 402;
Departure, ii. 298;
Departure, iii. 49;
Description of Connecticut, iii. 8;
Description of the Plague in Athens, iii. 404;
Deserted Farm-House, i. 40, iii. 399;
Desolate Academy, i. 182;
Devastations in a Library, iii. 402;
Dialogue at Hyde-Park Corner, ii. 140;
Dialogue at Washington's Tomb, iii. 352;
Dialogue between his Britannic Majesty and Mr. Fox, i. xxix, ii. 9;
Dialogue between Shadrach and Whiffle, iii. 403;
Discovery, i. ci, 85;
Dish of Tea, iii. 71;
Distrest Orator, iii. 401;
Distrest Shepherdess, i. 195;
Distrest Theatre, ii. 404;
Drunkard's Apology, iii. 403;
Drunken Soldier, iii. 402;
Duelists, iii. 406;
Dull Moralist, iii. 402;
Dying Elm, i. xxix, 45;
Dying Indian, i. cxi, ii. 243.

Elegiac Lines, i. 222, 253, ii. 328, iii. 402;
Elegiac Lines on a Theological Script-Monger, iii. 404;
Elegaic Stanzas on a Young Gentleman, iii. 403;
Elegaic Verses on a Dog, iii. 401;
Elegy on the Death of a Blacksmith, iii. 112;
Elegy on Mr. Robert Bell, ii. 260;
Englishman's Complaint, ii. 305;
English Quixote, ii. 54;
Epigram, iii. 116;
Epistle from Dr. Franklin, iii. 36;
Epistle to a Desponding Seamen, iii. 57;
Epistle to a Gay Young Lady, iii. 403;
Epistle to a Student of Dead Languages, iii. 121;
Epistle to the Patriotic Farmer, ii. 380;
Epistle to Peter Pindar, iii. 28;
Epistle to Sylvius, i. xxxviii, ii. 295;
Epitaph, ii. 328;
Epitaph on a Worthy Parson, iii. 406;
Epitaph on Frederick the Second, iii. 403;
Epitaph on Peter Abelard, iii. 401;
Epitaph on the Tombstone of Patrick Bay, iii. 401;
Epistolary Lines on the Death of a Fiddler, iii. 402;
Esperanza's March, iii. 405;
Eutaw Springs, i. cvi, ii. 101;
Expedition of Timothy Taurus, i. xxvii, 123.

Fading Rose, iii. 404;
Fair Buckle-Thief, iii. 402;
Fair Solitary, ii. 325;
Fancy's Ramble, i. 34;
Farmer Dobbins's Complaint, iii. 402;
Farmer's Winter Evening, iii. 394;
Federal Hall, iii. 26;
Female Caprice, iii. 402;
Female Frailty, i. lxviii. 197;
Few Honest Coblers, iii. 402;
Fiddler's Farewell, iii. 402;
Five Ages, iii. 401;
Flagelators, iii. 401;
Florio to Amanda, ii. 319;
Forest Bean, iii. 120.

General Gage's Confession, i. xxv, 189, ii. 205;
General Gage's Soliloquy, i. xxv, 152, ii. 205;
George the Third's Soliloquy, i. xxix, ii. 3;
God Save the Rights of Man, i. liv, iii. 99;
Gougers, iii. 404.

Happy Prospect, ii. 243;
Hatteras, ii. 394;
Heaving the Lead, iii. 406;
Hermit and the Traveller, iii. 406;
Hermit of Saba, ii. 359;
Hermit's Valley, iii. 128;
Heroine of the Revolution, iii. 182;
Hessian Embarkation, i. 222;
Highland Sawney, iii. 402;
History of the Prophet Jonah, i. xvi, 3;
Horace, Lib. I. Ode 15, ii. 377;
Horace, Lib. II. Ode 16, Imitated, ii. 336;
House of Night, i. xxvii, lxviii, civ, 212, 253, 269, iii. 122;
Human Frailty, iii. 405;
Humanity and Ingratitude, iii. 401;
Hurricane, ii. 250;
Hypochondriac, iii. 406.

In Memory of James Lawrence, iii. 313;
Impertinent, iii. 401;
Indian Burying Ground, i. cxi, ii. 369;
Indian Convert, iii. 189;
Indian Student, i. cx, ii. 371;
Insolvent's Release, ii. 329;
Invalid, iii. 403;
Invitation, i. 290;
Island Field Hand, ii. 258.

Jamaica Funeral, i. lxviii, xcvii, cv, 239, 253, iii. 122;
Jeffrey, or the Soldier's Progress, iii. 117;
Jewish Lamentation at the Euphrates, i. 270;
Journey from Philadelphia to New York, ii. 338;
Jug of Rum, iii. 66.

Laughable Poem, ii. 338;
Libera Nos, Domine, i. 139;
Lines Addressed to Mr. Jefferson, iii. 293;
Lines by H. Salem, on his Return from Calcutta, iii. 57;
Lines Intended for Mr. Peale's Exhibition, ii. 246;
Lines Occasioned by a Visit to an Old Indian Burying Ground, ii. 369;
Lines Occasioned by Mr. Rivington's new Titular Types, ii. 124;
Lines on a Distrest Orator, iii. 401;
Lines on a February Shad, iii. 403;
Lines on Cutting down Trees in the Streets, ii. 53;
Lines on Mr. Rivington's New Engraved King's Arms, ii. 125;
Lines on Napoleon Bonaparte, iii. 333;
Lines on Seniora Julia, iii. 366;
Lines on the Death of a Lady, ii. 328;
Lines on the New Theatre, iii. 406;
Lines to a Coasting Captain, i. 184;
Lines to the Memory of a Young American Lady, iii. 402;
Lines Written at Port Royal, ii. 253;
Lines Written at Sea, iii. 231;
Lines Written at St. Catharine's Island, ii. 397;
Lines Written for Mr. Ricketts, iii. 405;
Lines Written in a French Novel, iii. 405;
Lines Written in a very Small Garden, iii. 404;
Lines Written on a Puncheon, iii. 66;
Literary Importations, ii. 303;
Literary Plunderers, iii. 402;
Log-Town Cabin, i. cx, iii. 19;
London Dialogue, ii. 87;
Lord Dunmore's Petition, ii. 114;
Lost Sailor, ii. 128;
Love's Suicide, iii. 404;
Lysander's Retreat, ii. 401.

MacSwiggin, i. xviii, xxv, 206, ii. 185;
Manhattan City, ii. 223;
Man of Ninety, ii. 374;
Marcella in a Consumption, ii. 326;
Market Girl, iii. 402;
Marriage a-la-mode, iii. 403;
Mars and Hymen, i. 195, 197, ii. 56, 57;
Mars and Venus, iii. 403;
Maryland, iii. 15;
Matrimonial Dialogue, iii. 104;
May to April, ii. 331;
Megara and Altavola, iii. 146;
Menace, iii. 403;
Mercantile Charity, iii. 403;
Midnight Consultations, i. 158;
Military Recruiting, iii. 308;
Millenium, iii. 176;
Minerva's Advice, iii. 403;
Minstrel's Complaint, iii. 402;
Miserable Life of a Pedagogue, iii. 396;
Misfortune of March, iii. 402;
Misnomer, i. 185;
Mistake, iii. 405;
Modern Devotion, iii. 54;
Modern Idolatry, ii. 54;
Modern Jehu, iii. 405;
Modern Miracle, iii. 402;
Monumental Lines, iii. 405;
Monument of Phaon, i. lxviii, 30;
Moral Thought, ii. 91;
Mourning Nun, ii. 325;
Mr. Jay's Treaty, iii. 132;
Musical Savage, iii. 406.

Nanny to Nabby, iii. 42;
Nabby to Nanny, iii. 44;
Nature's Debt, iii. 406;
Nautical Rendezvous, The, iii. 242;
Nereus and Thetis, iii. 404;
Neversink, i. xlvii, lxxxvi, iii. 3;
New Age, iii. 405;
New England Sabbath-Day Chase, iii. 29;
News-Carrier's Petition, ii. 240;
News-Man's Address, 1784, ii. 238;
News-Man's Address, 1786, ii. 301;
News-Man's Address, 1788, ii. 383;
Newsmonger, ii. 263;
New Year's Eve, iii. 406;
New Year's Verses, 1783, ii. 197;
New Year's Verses, 1783, ii. 198, iii. 129, 401;
New Year's Verses, 1784, ii. 240;
New Year's Verses, 1785, ii. 284;
New Year's Verses, 1788, ii. 383;
New Year's Verses, 1798, iii. 194;
New York Tory, ii. 84;
New York Tory's Epistle, ii. 290;
New York Tory's Epistle to one of His Friends, ii. 219;
Northern March, iii. 329;
Northern Soldier, i. 197, ii. 67;
Nova Scotia Menace, iii. 403.

Occasioned by the Bill Proposing a Taxation on Newspapers, iii. 52;
October's Address, iii. 273;
Ode, iii. 99;
Ode for July 4, 1799, iii. 152;
Ode to Fancy, i. lviii, 34;
Ode to Good Fortune, iii. 405;
Ode to Liberty, i. liii, iii. 92;
Ode to the Americans, iii. 203;
Old Virginia, iii. 17;
On a Book Called Unitarian Theology, ii. 307;
On a Celebrated Performer on the Violin, iii. 192;
On a Hessian Debarkation, i. 222, 269;
On a Honey Bee, iii. 284;
On a Lady Now Deceased, iii. 405;
On a Lady's Singing Bird, i. 283;
On a Legislative Act, iii. 126;
On Amanda's Singing Bird, i. 283;
On a Man Killed by a Buffalo, iii. 404;
On American Antiquity, iii. 5;
On a Nocturnal View of the Planet Jupiter, iii. 404;
On a Painter, iii. 403;
On a Proposed Negotiation, iii. 226;
On Arriving in South Carolina, iii. 199;
On a Rural Nymph, iii. 268;
On a Travelling Speculator, iii. 404;
On Deborah Gannett, iii. 182;
On Dr. Sangrado's Flight, iii. 111;
On False Systems of Government, iii. 221;
On Finding a Terrapin, iii. 406;
On General Miranda's Expedition, iii. 271;
On General Robertson's Proclamation, ii. 162;
On Happiness, iii. 405;
On Hearing a Political Oration, iii. 144;
On Passing by an Old Churchyard, iii. 277;
On Pest-Eli-Hali, iii. 404;
On Political Sermons, iii. 330;
On Prohibiting the Sale of Ramsey's History, ii. 312;
On Retirement, i. 84;
On Seeing a Beautiful Print, iii. 406;
On Seniora Julia Leaving a Dance, iii. 265;
On Sir Henry Clinton's Recall, ii. 153;
On Superstition, iii. 405;
On Swedenborg's Universal Theology, ii. 307;
On the Abuse of Human Power, iii. 272;
On the Approaching Dissolution, iii. 404;
On the Anniversary of the Storming of the Bastile, i. liii, iii. 102;
On the Attempted Launch of a Frigate, iii. 157;
On the Brigantine Privateer Prince de Neufchatel, iii. 366;
On the British Blockade, iii. 358;
On the British Commercial Depredations, iii. 300;
On the British Invasion, iii. 341;
On the British King's Speech, ii. 217;
On the Capture of the Essex, iii. 318;
On the Capture of the Guerriere, iii. 310;
On the City Encroachments on the River Hudson, iii. 173;
On the Conflagrations at Washington, iii. 344;
On the Conqueror of America, i. 185;
On the Crew of a Certain Vessel, ii. 317;
On the Death of a Masonic Grand Sachem, iii. 282;
On the Death of a Master Builder, iii. 281;
On the Death of a Republican Printer, iii. 101;
On the Death of Capt. Nicholas Biddle, i. cvi, 288;
On the Death of Catharine II., iii. 136;
On the Death of Colonel Laurens, ii. 283;
On the Death of Dr. Benjamin Franklin, iii. 36;
On the Death of General Reed, ii. 288;
On the Death of General Ross, iii. 356;
On the Demolition of an Old College, iii. 33;
On the Demolition of Fort George, iii. 24;
On the Demolition of the French Monarchy, i. liii, iii. 84;
On the Departure of the Grand Sanhedrim, iii. 49;
On the Departure of Peter Porcupine, iii. 240;
On the Dismission of Bonaparte, iii. 334;
On the Emigration to America, ii. 280;
On the English Devastations, iii. 343;
On the Evils of Human Life, iii. 405;
On the Fall of an Ancient Oak, iii. 285;
On the Fall of General Earl Cornwallis, ii. 92;
On the Federal City, iii. 171, 184;
On the First American Ship, ii. 261;
On the Fourteenth of July, i. liii, iii. 72;
On the Free Use of the Lancet, iii. 159;
On the French Republicans, i. liii, iii. 88;
On the Frigate Constitution, iii. 174;
On the Invasion of Rome, iii. 135;
On the Lake Expeditions, iii. 314;
On the Late Sloop of War General Monk, ii. 142;
On the Launching of the Frigate Constitution, iii. 158;
On the Launching of the Independence, iii. 374;
On the Loss of the Armstrong, iii. 363;
On the Memorable Naval Engagement, iii. 106;
On the Memorable Victory, i. cvii, ii. 75;
On the Naval Attack Near Baltimore, iii. 357;
On the New American Frigate, Alliance, i. cvii, 285;
On the New Year's Festival, ii. 198;
On the Peak of Pico, iii. 254;
On the Peak of Teneriffe, iii. 261;
On the Proposed System of State Consolidation, iii. 225;
On the Portraits of Louis and Antoinette, iii. 89;

On the Powers of the Human Understanding, iii. 404;
On the Prospect of a Revolution in France, ii. 385;
On the Prospect of War, iii. 296;
On the Religion of Nature, iii. 405;
On the Royal Coalition, iii. 129;
On the Sleep of Plants, iii. 31;
On the Symptoms of Hostilities, iii. 291;
On the Uniformity and Perfection of Nature, iii. 405;
On the Universality of the God of Nature, iii. 405;
On the Vicissitudes of Things, ii. 284;
On the War Patrons, iii. 98;
On the War Projected with the Republic of France, iii. 139;
Orator of the Woods, iii. 41;
Order of the Day, iii. 406;
Origin of Wars, iii. 403;
Orland's Flight, iii. 111.

Palæmon: or, the Skaiter, iii. 402;
Palemon to Lavinia, ii. 381;
Pamphleteer and the Critic, ii. 309;
Parade and Sham-fight, iii. 368;
Parody on the Attempt to Force the British Treaty, iii. 133;
Parting Glass, iii. 68;
Patrick Mulponi, ii. 379;
Pestilence, iii. 110;
Pettifogger, iii. 191;
Pewter Platter Alley, ii. 287;
Philander: or the Emigrant, ii. 321;
Philosophical Reflections, ii. 165;
Pictures of Columbus, i. lxviii, ci, 89;
Picture of the Times, ii.  165;
Pilgrim's Progress, ii. 401;
Pilot of Hatteras, ii. 394;
Plato, the Philosopher, to Theon, ii. 104;
Political Balance, ii. 130;
Political Biography, ii. 201;
Political Litany, i. 139;
Political Rival Suitors, iii. 130;
Political Weathercock, iii. 216;
Power of Fancy, i. 34;
Prayer of Orpheus, i. 39;
Prefatory Lines, iii. 137;
Preposterous Nuptials, iii. 403;
Prince Regent's Resolve, iii. 336;
Prince William Henry's Soliloquy, ii. 167;
Prisoner, iii. 402;
Prison Ship, i. xxxiii, 288;
Procession to Columbia, ii. 399;
Procession to Sylvania, ii. 399;
Progress of Balloons, ii. 276;
Projectors, ii. 160;
Prologue to a Theatrical Entertainment, ii. 108;
Prophecy, ii. 126;
Prophecy of King Tammany, ii. 187;
Prudent Philosopher, iii. 403;
Psalm CXXXVII Imitated, i. xxix, 270;
Publius to Pollia, iii. 405;
Pyramid of the American States, iii. 82;
Pyramids of Egypt, i. xvi, 25;
Pythona, iii. 406.

Quintilian to Lycidas, iii. 115.

Reflections, iii. 217;
Reflections on Dr. Perkins' Metallic Points, iii. 405;
Reflections on the Constitution of Nature, iii. 404;
Reflections on the Death of a Country Printer, iii. 101;
Reflections on Mutability of Things, iii. 215;
Refugees' Petition to Sir Guy Carleton, ii. 172;
Renegado Epistle, ii. 219;
Renegado Epistle, ii. 290;
Republican Festival, iii. 151;
Republican Genius of Europe, iii. 129;
Retaliation, a Marine Ode, iii. 373;
Retirement, i. 84;
Retort, iii. 401;
Reward of Innocence, iii. 405;
Rising Glory of America, i. xxi, ciii, 49;
Rival Suitors for America, iii. 130;
Rivington's Confessions, i. xl, ii. 229;
Rivington's Last Will, ii. 120;
Rivington's Reflections, ii. 190;
Royal Adventurer, ii. 112;
Royal Apprentice, iii. 405;
Royal Cockneys in America, iii. 185;
Royal Consultations, iii. 361;
Rural Bachelor, iii. 403.

St. Preux to Eloisa, iii. 402;
Sangrado's Expedition to Sylvania, ii. 402;
Santa Cruz, i. 222, 239, 249;
Satan's Remonstrance, ii. 169;
Satire in Answer to a Hostile Attack, i. 206;
Scandinavian War Song, ii. 159;
Science Favorable to Virtue, iii. 404;
Scornful Lady, iii. 402;
Scurrilous Scribe, iii. 405;
Sea-Faring Bachelor, i. 184;
Seasons Moralized, ii. 282;
Sea Voyage, i. 293;
Serious Menace, iii. 213;
Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-one, iii. 65;
Sexton's Sermon, i. 222, 239, iii. 122;
Shadrach and Pomposo, iii. 403;
Silent Academy, i. 182;
Sir Guy Carleton's Address, ii. 156;
Sir Guy's Answer, ii. 173;
Sir Harry's Invitation, ii. 7;
Sir Peter Petrified, iii. 354;
Sketches of American History, ii. 266;
Slender's Journey, i. xliii, lxxxvi, ii. 338;
Song on Captain Barney's Victory, i. cvii, ii. 149;
Speech, ii. 117;
Spy, i. 197, ii. 39;
Stanzas Occasioned by Absurd Panegyrics, iii. 235;
Stanzas Occasioned by the Departure of the British, ii. 214;
Stanzas Occasioned by the Ruins of a Country Inn, ii. 110;
Stanzas on a Political Projector, iii. 406;
Stanzas on an Ancient Dutch House, i. 40;
Stanzas on an old English Tobacco Box, iii. 278;
Stanzas on the Decease of Thomas Paine, iii. 286;
Stanzas on the same Subject as the Preceding, iii. 234;
Stanzas Published at the Procession to the Tombs of the Patriots, iii. 246;
Stanzas on Skeletons Dug up in Fort George, iii. 40;
Stanzas to an Alien, iii. 228;
Stanzas to the Memory of General Washington, iii. 232;
Stanzas to the Memory of two Young Persons, ii. 79;
Stanzas Written at Baltimore, ii. 391;
Stanzas written at the Foot of Monte Souffiere, ii. 314;
Stanzas written at the Island of Madeira, iii. 257;
Stanzas Written in a Clergyman's Garden, iii. 404;
Stanzas Written in a Blank Leaf of Burke's History, ii. 314;
Stanzas Written in Blackbeard's Castle, iii. 229;
St. Catharine's, ii. 397;
Subscription Prayer, ii. 379;
Suicide, iii. 404;
Susanna's Revival, iii. 402;
Susanna's Tomb, iii. 405;
Suttler and the Soldier, iii. 304.

Terra Vulpina, iii. 8;
Terrific Torpedoes, iii. 321;
Theodosia, iii. 312;
Tenth Ode of Horace's Book of Epodes, ii. 103;
Thoughts on the European War System, iii. 103;
Timothy Taurus, i. xxv;
To a Caty-did, iii. 275;
To a Concealed Royalist, ii. 174;
To a Democratic Editor, iii. 166;
To a Deceased Dog, iii. 401;
To a Dog, ii. 387;
To America, iii. 301;
To an Angry Zealot, iii. 81;
To an Author, ii. 332;
To a Night Fly, iii. 189;
To an Old Man, ii. 104;
To a Noisy Politician, iii. 122;
To a Persecuted Philosopher, iii. 81;
To a Republican, iii. 90;
To a Very Little Man, iii. 403;
To a Writer of Panegyric, iii. 119;
Tobacco, iii. 46;
To Clarissa, iii. 403;
To Cracovius Patridas, ii. 336;
To Crispin O'Conner, ii. 74;
To Cynthia, ii. 391, iii. 403;
To Duncan Dolittle, iii. 164;
To Fungus, Froth & Co., iii. 403;
To Harriot, ii. 391;
To His Excellency, General Washington, ii. 81;
To Ismenia, iii. 406;
To Lord Cornwallis, ii. 86;
To Lydia, ii. 387;
To Marcia, ii. 326;
Tomb of the Patriots, iii. 249;
To Memmius, ii. 406;
To Misfortune, ii. 335;
To Mr. Blanchard, iii. 142;
To Mr. Churchman, ii. 398;
To My Book, iii. 78;
To My Book, iii. 129;
To My Lord Snake, iii. 401;
To Myrtalis, iii. 141;
To Pest-Eli-Hali, iii. 166;
To Peter Porcupine, iii. 156;
To Peter Porcupine, iii. 167;
Tormentina's Complaint, ii. 393;
To Sanstone Samuel, iii. 176;
To Sylock Ap Shenkin, i. 206, ii. 185, 177, iii. 76, 119;
To Sylock Ap Shenkin, an Abusive Court Writer, ii. 174;
To Sylock Ap Shenkin in Reply to Big Looks, iii. 109;
To Sir Toby, ii. 258;
To Sylvius, iii. 113;
To the Americans of the United States, i. lxx, iii. 188;
To the Americans on the Rumored Approach of the Hessians, i. 185;
To the Concealed Royalist, ii. 177;
To the Concealed Royalist on his Farewell, ii. 179;
To the Democratic Country Editors, iii. 210;
To the Dog Sancho, iii. 404;
To the Foe to Tyrants, ii. 177;
To the Frigate Constitution, iii. 162;
To the Grand Mufti, iii. 402;
To the Keeper of the King's Water Works, ii. 252;
To the Lake Squadrons, iii. 347;
To the Memory of a Lady, iii. 403;
To the Memory of Edward Rutledge, iii. 238;
To the Memory of Mrs. Burnet, iii. 403;
To the Memory of the Late Aedanus Burke, iii. 243;
To the Memory of the Brave Americans, ii. 101;
To the Philadelphia Doctors, iii. 178;
To the Public, iii. 56;
To the Rev. Samuel Stanhope Smith, iii. 244;
To the Royalist Unveiled, ii. 181;
To the Scribe of Scribes, iii. 187;
To Whom it May Concern, ii. 185;
To Zoilus, ii. 309;
Translated from the Third Book of Lucretius, iii. 406;
Translation from Ovid's Tristia, iii. 404;
Translation of Gray's Ode, iii. 405;
Translation of the Third Elegy of Ovid, iii. 404;
Truth Anticipated, ii. 143;
Two Genii, iii. 406.

Under the Portraiture of Martha Ray, iii. 403;
Upon a very ancient Dutch House, iii. 399;
Usurer's Prayer, iii. 404.

Vanity of Existence, ii. 91;
Vernal Ague, i. 188;
Verses Made at Sea, ii. 250;
Verses occasioned by Washington's Arrival, ii. 225;
View of Colombia, ii. 401;
View of Rhode Island, iii. 7;
Village Merchant, i. xvi, 14, iii. 60;
Vision of the Night, i. 222;
Volunteer's March, iii. 337;
Voyage to Boston, i. xxv, 158.

Wanderer, iii. 22;
Warning to America, iii. 70;
Wild Honey Suckle, i. cix, ii. 306;
Wish of Diogenes, i. 84;
Written at Cape Hatteras, ii. 392;
Written at Poplar Hill, iii. 406;
Written at Port Royal, ii. 253.

Porcupine, Peter, iii. 156, 167, 187, 240

Powers and Willis, printers, i. xxxvi

Princeton, i. xvff., xxv, 49, 50, 208, iii. 244

Printer, A Country, iii. 101, 166

Prison-ships, ii. 18, iii. 246, 249;
The Jersey, ii. 27, iii. 249;
The Hunter, ii. 27, 31, 32;
The Scorpion, ii. 26, 27, 31;
The Strombolo, ii. 27
Privateering, iii. 242, 366

Prophecies, Freneau's;
Rise of the West, i. 76;
America a world-power, ii. 282;
ballooning, ii. 279;
Europe owns America her equal, ii. 386;
science displaces the classics, iii. 121;
America's navy, iii. 158;
era of prose, iii. 188;
Jefferson president, iii. 216

Pyramid of the States, iii. 82

Quesnay, Alexander, ii. 108

Ramsay, David, ii. 312, iii. 245

Randolph, John, i. li, lxiv

Rawdon, Lord, ii. 97

Ray, Hugh, i. xxxii

Read, Col., iii. 354

Reed, Gen. Joseph, ii. 176, 288

Reid, Samuel C., Captain of General Armstrong, iii. 363

Rhode Island, ii. 386, iii. 7

Rights of Man, iii. 65, 90

"Rising Empire, The," i. xlix, iii. 5

Rittenhouse, David, i. xlii, lix

Rivington, James, ii. 116, 120, 124, 125, 143, 162, 169, 190, 229, 232

Robin, Abbé Claude, i. xxxvi, lxxiii

Robertson, General James, ii. 39, 122, 162, 237

Rodney, Admiral, George, ii. 143

Rogers, Captain of the General Monk, ii. 150

Ross, General Robert, iii. 89, 343, 356

Royal George, Loss of, ii. 218

Rozier, balloonist, ii. 276

Rush, Dr. Benjamin, iii. 159, 167, 169, 240

Rutledge, Gov. Edward, iii. 238

Rum, the curse of, iii. 66

Saint Esprit, Church, New York, i. xiii

Sandwich, Lord, ii. 13, 90

St. James Island, i. xxvii

Santa Cruz Island, West Indies, i. xxvi, xxvii, xxxiv, 249

"Satires against the Tories," i. xvii

Schuylkill River, iii. 128

Scott, Sir Walter, i. vi, cvi; ii. 102

Seabury, Bishop Samuel, ii. 303

Sears, Isaac, raids Rivington's office, ii. 205, 236

Sevier, Robert and William, iii. 79

Shelburne, Earl of, settles the quarrel with the Colonies, ii. 191

Shippen, Dr. William, iii. 244

Ships.
Active, Am. brig, i. xxxi;
Alliance, Am. frigate, i. 285, ii. 77;
Ardent, Fr. man of war, ii. 145;
Asia, Br. man of war, ii. 205;
Aurora, Am. ship, i. xxx, ii. 19, 21, 23;
Betsy, Am. brig, i. xlvii;
Betsey, Br. ship, i. xlv;
Boston, Br. frigate, iii. 106;
Carnation, Br. armed brig, iii. 363;
Cerberus, Br. frigate, ii. 153;
Charming Sally, Br. privateer, ii. 150;
Cherub, Br. frigate, iii. 318;

Chesapeake, Am. frigate, iii. 313;
Columbia, Freneau's schooner, i. xliii, xlvii, xlviii;
Confidence, Br. warship, iii. 349;
Constitution, Am. frigate, iii. 157, 158, 162, 174, 310;
Countess of Scarborough, Br. man of war, ii. 75;
Despatch, Br. war brig, iii. 338;
Dromilly, Freneau's brig, i. xxxvii, ii. 252;
Echo, Am. brig, i. lxxix;
Empress of China, Am. merchant ship, ii. 261;
Essex, Am. frigate, iii. 318;
Fair American, Br. privateer, ii. 142;
Formidable, Br. frigate, ii. 143;
Fulton the First, Am. steam frigate, iii. 360;
General Armstrong, Am. privateer brig, iii. 363;
General Greene, Am. privateer, ii. 142, 150;
General Monk, Am. sloop of war, ii. 85, 142, 147, 149;
Good Man Richard, Am. frigate, ii. 77;
Glorieuse, French man of war, ii. 145;
Grange, Br. ship, iii. 106;
Guerriere, Br. frigate, iii. 310;
Hancock, former name of the Iris, ii. 22;
Hector, Fr. man of war, ii. 145;
Hunter (see Prison Ships);
Hyder Ali, Am. privateer, ii. 142, 147, 168;
Independence, iii. 374;
Industry, Freneau's sloop, i. xliii, lxxxi, ii. 388;
Iris, Br. frigate, i. xxxi, xxxii, ii. 19, 22, 23, 85, 90;
Jersey (see Prison Ships);
John, Freneau's schooner, i. lxxx;
Katy, Am. sloop, i. lxxv;
La Hoke, Br. warship, iii. 321;
Le Cesar, Fr. frigate, ii. 145;
Le Diadem, Fr. frigate, ii. 145;
L'Embuscade, Fr. frigate, iii. 92, 106;
Little Sarah, Br. ship, iii. 106;
Maria, Am. ship, iii. 199;
Mars, Am. brig, i. xxxix;
Menelaus, Br. frigate, iii. 354;
Monmouth, Freneau's sloop, i. xxix, ii. 295;
Pactolus, Br. ship of war, iii. 338;
Pallas, Fr. man of war, ii. 77, 79;
Patriot, Am. schooner, iii. 312;
Phœbe, Br. frigate, iii. 318;
Plantagenet, Br. frigate, iii. 363;
Prince de Neufchatel, Am. privateer, iii. 366;
Prince George, Br. frigate, ii. 112;
Queen Charlotte, Br. ship of war, iii. 316;
Queen of France, Fr. ship, iii. 89;
Ramillies, Br. frigate, iii. 321, 338;
Randolph, Am. frigate, i. cvii, 288;
Rebecca, Am. brig, i. xxx;
Rodney, Br. flag ship, ii. 117;
Rose, Br. frigate, i. xlii, 140, 165;
Rota, Br. frigate, iii. 363;
Royal George, Br. frigate, ii. 218;
Saratoga, Am. war ship, iii. 349;
Scorpion, see Prison Ships;
Seraphis, Br. frigate, ii. 75;
Shannon, Br. frigate, iii. 313;
Strombolo, see Prison Ships;
Trumbull, Am. frigate, ii. 85;
Vengeance, Am. man of war, ii. 77;
Ville de Paris, Fr. frigate, ii. 145;
Viper, Br. frigate, ii. 140;
Vulture, Br. man of war, ii. 48;
Washington, former name of the Gen. Monk, ii. 142;
Washington, Freneau's brig, i. lxxxi, lxxxvii;
Yarmouth, Br. frigate, i. 288

Slavery, Freneau's opposition to, i. xcvii, ii. 258

Slender, Robert, i. xliii, lxxvi

Smith, Robert, architect, iii. 244

Smith, Samuel S., iii. 242

Smyth, William, i. 129

Smyth, Mrs. Charles (Anna), i. lxxxix

Somerset Academy, Md., i. xxii

South Carolina, ii. 305, 402, iii. 199, 238

Spring, Samuel, i. xvi

Sproat, David, commissary of prisoners at N. Y., ii. 29

State Consolidation, iii. 225

Steamboats, ii. 406

Steele, Gen., Collector of the port of Philadelphia, i. lxxxviii

Stillwell, Joseph, i. xliv

Stirling, Lord, i. 124

Stuart, General, ii. 101

Suffrein, M. de, ii. 117

Swedenborg, Emanuel, ii. 307

Sweeney, Miss Adele, i. xxx, lxxviii, 19, 39

Tammany, Indian Chieftain, ii. 187

Tea, iii. 71

Teneriffe, iii. 261, 263

Tennessee, iii. 192

Theatre, ii. 108, 404

Tobacco, iii. 46, 278, 308

Tomo Cheeki Papers, i. lxvi, lxxiv

Tories, ii. 84, 162, 172, 219, 290, 293

Towne, Benjamin, printer, ii. 288

"Travels of the Imagination," i. 271

Treaty between Great Britain and America, ii. 246

Trees in Cities, iii. 53

Trumbull, John, i. ci

Tryon, Gov. William, i. 140, ii. 115

Twining, Thomas, iii. 184

United States Magazine, i. xxvii, xxix, xl, 45, 46, 212, 249, 270, 293; ii. 3, 9

Uranian Musical Society, iii. 152

Vanderput, Capt. of the Asia, ii. 205

Venezuela, iii. 271

Verplanck, G. C., reviews Freneau's poems, i. xci

Vincent, Capt., i. 288

Virginia legislature petitioned by Lord Dunmore, ii. 114

Virginia, iii. 17

Vreeland, Mrs. Helen K., i. lxxx

Walcott, Dr. John, poet, iii. 28

Wallace, Captain of the Rose, i. xli

"War and Washington," i. c

War of 1812, iii. 133, 155, 292, 297ff., 305, 310, 313ff., 318, 321, 329, 338, 341, 343, 347, 356, 357, 363

Warner, G. J., iii. 152

Washington Academy, Md., i. xxiii

Washington, City of, iii. 171, 184, 343, 344, 361

Washington, George, i. xlvii, liv, lx, 169, 185, 194, 279, ii. 81, 82, 92, 225, iii. 232, 234, 235, 244, 352

Watson, Agnes, i. xiv;
Richard, i. xiv

Wellington's Army in the War of 1812, iii. 341, 361

West Indies, i. 239, 249, ii. 250, 252, 258, 314, 359, iii. 229, 242

Western emigration, ii. 280

Weyman, Ned, printer, ii. 203

William Henry, Prince, ii. 112, 167

Witherspoon, President John, i. xv, xix

Wheelock, President John, iii. 33

Whitehead, William, poet laureate, ii. 219

Woodhouse, William, i. 158

Wrigley, Francis, newscarrier, ii. 197

Yale College, ii. 346

Yamacraw, Ga., i. xlvi

Yellow Fever, iii. 110, 159, 167, 178

Yorktown, ii. 89, 92

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poems of Philip Freneau, Volume I (of
III), by Philip Freneau

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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

Title: The Poems of Philip Freneau, Volume I (of III)

Author: Philip Freneau

Editor: Fred Lewis Pattee

Release Date: January 2, 2012 [EBook #38475]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU ***

Produced by David Starner, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU

Volume I

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 ENGLISH LITERATURE" ETC.

Volume I

Princeton N. J.
The University Library
1902

Copyright 1902 by
The Princeton University Library

C. S. Robinson & Co. University Press
Princeton N. J.

PREFACE

The present edition of the poetical works of Philip Freneau was begun at the advice of the late lamented Moses Coit Tyler. In his opinion there were few fields in American history that needed exploring more, and few that would require on the part of the explorer more of the Columbus spirit.

It would be almost impossible for a poet to pass more completely into the shadow than has Freneau during the century since his activities closed. His poems are, almost all of them in their earliest editions, exceedingly rare and costly and only to be read by those who can have access to the largest libraries, his letters and papers have almost entirely disappeared, and his biography in almost every book of reference has been so distorted by misstatement and omission as to be really grotesque.

This neglect has resulted not from lack of real worth in the man, but from prejudices born during one of the most bitter and stormy eras of partisan politics that America has ever known. What Sidney Smith said of Scotland at this period was true here: "The principles of the French Revolution were fully afloat and it is impossible to conceive a more violent and agitated state of society." Freneau was a victim of this intense era. New England rejected him with scorn and all admirers of Washington echoed his epithet, "that rascal Freneau." Thus it has become the tradition to belittle his work, to vilify his character, and to sum up his whole career, as a prominent New Englander has recently done, by alluding to him as a "creature of the opposition."

Unprejudiced criticism, however, has always exalted Freneau's work. The great Scotch dictator Jeffrey, with all his scorn for American literature, could say that "the time would arrive when his poetry, like that of Hudibras, would command a commentator like Gray;" and Sir Walter Scott once declared that "Eutaw Springs [was] as fine a thing as there is of the kind in the language." E. A. Duyckinck did not hesitate to group him as one of "four of the most original writers whom the country has produced," and S. G. W. Benjamin could say in 1887: "In all the history of American letters, or of the United States press, there is no figure more interesting or remarkable, no career more versatile and varied than that of Philip Freneau." Such testimony might be multiplied. Surely had the poet been an ordinary man, Jefferson would never have said "his paper has saved our Constitution," Madison would not have pronounced him a man of genius, and Adams would hardly have admitted that he was a leading element in his defeat.

I have endeavored not only to rescue the most significant of Freneau's poems, but to arrange them as far as possible in their order of composition, or at least in the order in which they first appeared in print. It has seemed to me highly important to do this since such an arrangement, especially with a poet like Freneau, who drew his themes almost wholly from the range of his own observation, would be virtually an autobiography, and since it would also furnish a running commentary upon the history of a stirring period in our annals. The task has been no slight one. It has necessitated a search through the files of a large proportion of the early newspapers and periodicals and a minute investigation of every other source of possible information.

Much material has been rescued that, as far as the public was concerned, had practically become extinct. I have introduced the unique fragment of an unpublished drama, "The Spy," which I was the first to explore. I have taken pains to reproduce the poet's early poetical pamphlets dealing with the first year of the Revolution, not one of which has ever been republished. The revisions of many of these used by Freneau in his later collections were so thoroughgoing as to be in reality entirely new poems. "The Voyage to Boston," for instance, published during the siege of Boston, was cut down for the 1786 edition from six hundred and five lines to three hundred and six lines, and of these more than half were entirely changed. From the standpoint of the historian, at least, the original version is much more valuable than that made several years after the war was over. This is true of all the earlier pamphlet poems. Aside from their value as specimens of Freneau's earlier muse they are valuable commentaries on the history of the stormy times that called them forth, and I have not hesitated to reprint them verbatim in connection with the revised versions. The pamphlet poems "American Liberty" and "General Gage's Confession," (until recently supposed to have been lost) exist only in unique copies. Freneau never attempted to revise them. Some of the other early poems, notably "The House of Night," I have annotated with care, showing the evolution of the poem from its first nucleus to its final fragmentary form. In the case of a few of the more important poems, especially those dealing with the Revolution, I have given variorum readings.

Aside from this early material, which has a real historical value, I have introduced very few poems not included in Freneau's collected editions of 1786, 1788, 1795, 1809 and 1815. Previous to 1795 the poet reprinted with miserly care almost all the verses which he had contributed to the press. In his later years he was more prodigal of his creations. I have, however, reprinted from newspapers very few poems not found elsewhere, and these few only on the best evidence that they were genuine, for it has been my experience that when a poem is not to be found in the collected editions of the poet it is almost certain that it is not genuine. In justice to Freneau, who had the welfare of his writings much at heart, and who cut and pruned and remodeled with tireless hand, I have usually given the latest version.

I wish to acknowledge here my great indebtedness to the descendants of Philip Freneau, especially Miss Adele M. Sweeney, Mr. Weymer J. Mills, Mrs. Helen K. Vreeland, and Mrs. Eleanor F. Noël, who have allowed me to consult freely all the papers and literary remains of the poet and have supplied me with all possible information. I would also express my great obligation to many librarians, collectors, and scholars, who have cheerfully aided me, especially to Mr. Wilberforce Eames, of the New York Public Library, the late Paul Leicester Ford, Mr. Robert H. Kelby, of the New York Historical Society, Mr. John W. Jordan, of the Pennsylvania Historical Society, Mr. A. S. Salley, Jr., of Charleston, S. C., Mr. E. M. Barton, of the American Antiquarian Society, and Dr. E. C. Richardson, of Princeton University, who with their courteous helpfulness have made possible the work. I wish also to express my thanks to Professor A. Howry Espenshade, and Mr. John Rogers Williams, to whose careful and patient work upon the proofs the accuracy of the text depends.

F. L. P.

State College, Pa., Sept. 19, 1902.

CONTENTS

VOLUME I

PAGE

Preface
v

Life of Philip Freneau
xiii

PART I
Early Poems.       1768-1775

History of the Prophet Jonah
3

Adventures of Simon Swaugum
14

The Pyramids of Egypt
25

The Monument of Phaon
30

The Power of Fancy
34

The Prayer of Orpheus
39

The Deserted Farm-House
40

The Citizen's Resolve
42

The Dying Elm
45

Columbus to Ferdinand
46

The Rising Glory of America
49

On Retirement
84

Discovery
85

The Pictures of Columbus
89

Expedition of Timothy Taurus, Astrologer
123

PART II
The First Poetic Period.       1775-1781

A Political Litany
139

American Liberty, a Poem
142

General Gage's Soliloquy
152

The Midnight Consultations, or, A Trip to Boston
158

The Silent Academy
182

Lines to a Coasting Captain
184

To the Americans
185

The Vernal Ague
188

General Gage's Confession
189

The Distrest Shepherdess
195

Mars and Hymen
197

MacSwiggen, A Satire
206

The House of Night
212

The Jamaica Funeral
239

The Beauties of Santa Cruz
249

On a Hessian Debarkation, 1776
269

The Jewish Lamentation at Euphrates
270

America Independent
271

On Amanda's Singing Bird
283

On the New American Frigate Alliance
285

On the Death of Captain Nicholas Biddle
288

Captain Jones's Invitation
290

The Sea Voyage
293

LIFE OF PHILIP FRENEAU

1752-1832

LIFE OF PHILIP FRENEAU

I.

In the possession of the Freneau descendants there is an old French Bible, printed in Geneva, Switzerland, in 1587, which preserves an unbroken roll of the heads of the family back to the original owner of the book, Philip Fresneau, who on his death-bed in La Chapelle, France, in 1590, gave it into the hands of his eldest son. For five generations the book remained in the little suburban village, its possessors sturdy, industrious tradesmen, who stood high in the esteem of their community and yet who on account of their Protestant faith were often imposed upon and at times even persecuted. It was doubtless this feeling of insecurity, if not positive persecution, which compelled André Fresneau, like so many of his fellow Huguenots, to leave his native village and to seek a home in a more tolerant land.

He landed in New York in 1707. He was in his thirty-sixth year, an active, handsome man, almost brilliant in certain directions, of pleasing address, and skilled from his youth in the handling of affairs. He became at once a leader in the little Huguenot Colony whose center was the quaint old church "du St. Esprit" on Pine street. He was soon in the midst of a thriving shipping business, dealing largely in imported wines, and in 1710, three years after his arrival, he was able to furnish a beautiful home on Pearl street, near Hanover Square, for his young bride, Mary Morin, a daughter of Pierre Morin, of the French Congregation. Of the comfort and hospitality of this home there are many contemporary references. John Fontaine, the French traveller, was entertained here in 1716 and he speaks highly of his host and his entertainment.[1]

In 1721 Mrs. Fresneau died at the early age of twenty-seven, leaving behind a family of five children, the oldest only nine years of age. Four years later the father followed. But the young family was far from destitute. The business house in New York had grown to be very profitable and there was a large landed estate in eastern New Jersey, a part of which was sold in 1740. Soon the two eldest sons, Andrew, born 1712, and Pierre, born January 22, 1718, were able to continue their father's business. For years their firm name was familiar in New York.

Pierre Freneau (the family seem to have dropped the "s" about 1725) was married in 1748 to Agnes Watson, daughter of Richard Watson, of Freehold, whose property bordered upon the Freneau estate. They made their home in Frankfort street, New York, and here on January 2 (O. S.), 1752, was born their eldest child, Philip Morin Freneau, the subject of our sketch. Four other children came from their union, of whom only one, Peter, born April 5, 1757, who in later years became a prominent figure in Charleston, S. C., need be mentioned.

The home of the Freneau's was one of comfort and even refinement. There was a large and well selected library, the pride of its owner. "There," he would say to his visitors, pointing to his books, "use them freely, for among them you will find your truest friends." He delighted in men of refinement, and his home became a social center for the lovers of books and of culture. He looked carefully after the education of his children; and all of them early became omnivorous readers. In such an environment the young poet passed his first ten years.

In 1762 the family decided to leave New York and to make their home permanently on their estate, "Mount Pleasant," near Middletown Point, N. J. The estate at this time contained nearly a thousand acres, and with its large buildings, its slaves and its broad area under cultivation, was in many respects like a southern plantation. Heretofore the elder Freneau had made it of secondary importance. He had used it as a summer resort, and as a pleasant relief to the monotony of his city business, but now, perhaps on account of failing health, he determined to devote to it all of his energies. Philip was left behind in New York. For the next three years he lived at a boarding school in the city, going home only during the long vacations. At the age of thirteen he was sent to the Latin school at Penolopen, then presided over by the Rev. Alexander Mitchell, to prepare for college.

The father of the family died Oct. 17, 1767. This, however, did not disturb the plans of the eldest son, and on Nov. 7, 1768, he entered the sophomore class at Princeton so well prepared that President Witherspoon is said to have sent a letter of congratulation to his mother.

II.

Of the college life of Philip Freneau we have only fragmentary records. He was in his sixteenth year when he entered, a somewhat dreamy youth who had read very widely, especially in the English poets and the Latin classics, and who already commanded a facile pen, especially in the field of heroic verse. During the year in which he entered Princeton he composed two long poems, "The History of the Prophet Jonah," and "The Village Merchant,"—surely notable work for the pen of a college sophomore. During the following year he wrote "The Pyramids of Egypt," and before his graduation he had completed several other pieces, some of them full of real poetic inspiration.

The period during which Freneau resided at Princeton was a most significant one. In the same class with him were James Madison, H. H. Brackenridge, the author of "Modern Chivalry" and a conspicuous figure in later Pennsylvania history, and Samuel Spring, who was to become widely influential in religious circles. In the class below him were the refined and scholarly William Bradford and the brilliant Aaron Burr. The shadow of the coming struggle with Great Britain was already lengthening over the Colonies and nowhere was its presence more manifest than in the colleges, always the most sensitive areas in times of tyranny and oppression. On August 6, 1770, the senior class at Princeton voted unanimously to appear at commencement dressed in American manufactures.

Another circumstance made the period a notable one. On June 24, 1769, a little band of students, headed by Madison, Brackenridge, Bradford and Freneau, organized an undergraduate fraternity to be called the American Whig Society. One year later The Well Meaning Club, a rival literary organization founded in 1765, became the Cliosophic Society. The act was the signal for a war, the echoes of which have even yet not died away at Princeton. There exists a manuscript book,[2] rescued from the papers of William Bradford, in which are preserved the poetic tirades, called forth in this first onset. Its title page is as follows:

"Satires | against the Tories. | Written in the last War between the Whigs & Cliosophians | in which | the former obtained a compleat Victory.

—Arm'd for virtue now we point the pen
Brand the bold front of shameless, guilty men
Dash the proud Tory in his gilded Car
Bare the mean heart that hides beneath a star."

It opens with ten "pastorals" by Brackenridge, of which the ninth begins thus:

"Spring's Soliloquy that morning before he hung himself.

O World adieu! the doleful time draws nigh
I cannot live and yet I fear to die
Warford is dead! and in his turn Freneau
Will send me headlong to the shades below.
What raging fury or what baleful Star
Did find—ingulph me in the whiggish war
The deeds of darkness which my soul hath done
Are now apparent as the noon-day sun
A Thousand things as yet remain untold
My secret practice and my sins of old."

Then follow several satires by Freneau, full of fire and invective, but like the work of all the others, not always refined or quotable in print. His satire, "McSwiggen," printed in 1775, contains nearly half of the poems,—the only lines indeed which are of any real merit. The three concluding poems of the collection, and these by all means the worst of the lot, are from no less a pen than Madison's. No patriotic citizen will ever venture to resurrect them.

There is a tradition very widely current that Freneau was for a time the room-mate of Madison. However this may be, there is no question as to who was his most intimate friend. With Brackenridge he had much in common. Both had dreams of a literary life, both had read largely in polite literature, both scribbled constantly in prose and verse. In the same manuscript volume with the Clio-Whig satires there is an extensive fragment of a novel written alternately by Brackenridge and Freneau, between September 20th and October 22d, 1770. Its manuscript title page is as follows:

"Father Bombo's | Pilgrimage to Mecca in Arabia. | Vol. II. | Wherein is given a true account of the innumerable and | surprizing adventures which befell him in the course of that | long and tedious Journey, | Till he once more returned safe to his native Land, as related | by his own mouth. | Written By B. H. and P. F.—1770.

Mutato nomine
Fabula de te narratur—Hor.

Change but the name
The story's told of you.
MDVIILXX."

The adventures of the hero read like chapters from the "Arabian Nights." He has been for seven days a close captive on a French man-of-war, but he is rescued by an Irish privateer, only to be taken for a wizard and thrown overboard in a cask which is finally washed ashore on the north coast of Ireland. It would be useless to recount all of his adventures both afloat and ashore. He finally succeeds in reaching Mecca, and in returning safely home to America. The final chapter recounts the details of his death and moralizes on his life and character.

The work is crude and hasty. Whole chapters of it were evidently written at one sitting. The part signed H. B. is unquestionably the best; the prose is vigorous and the movement rapid. The only merit in Freneau's section lies in its lyric lament at the close of one of the chapters. The hero suddenly bursts into minor song, the opening stanzas of which are:

Sweet are the flow'rs that crown the Vale
And sweet the spicy breathing Gale
That murmurs o'er the hills:
See how the distant lowing throng
Thro' verdant pastures move along,
Or drink the Limpid Streams and crystal rills.

Ah see in yonder gloomy Grove
The Shepherd tells his tale of Love
And clasps the wanton fair:
While winds and trees and shades conspire
To fann with Love the Gentle Fire,
And banish every black and boding care.

But what has Love to do with me
Unknown ashore, distress'd by sea,
Now hast'ning to the Tomb:
Whilst here I rove, and pine and weep,
Sav'd from the fury of the deep
To find alas on shore a harder doom.

The nature of the undergraduate work done by Princeton in Freneau's time was thus summed up by President Witherspoon in his "Address to the Inhabitants of Jamaica," published in Philadelphia in 1772:

"In the first year they read Latin and Greek, with the Roman and Grecian antiquities, and Rhetoric. In the second, continuing the study of the languages, they learn a compleat system of Geography, with the use of the globes, the first principles of Philosophy, and the elements of mathematical knowledge. The third, though the languages are not wholly omitted, is chiefly employed in Mathematics and Natural Philosophy. And the senior year is employed in reading the higher classics, proceeding in the Mathematics and Natural Philosophy and going through a course of Moral Philosophy. In addition to these, the President gives lectures to the juniors and seniors, which consequently every Student hears twice over in his course, first, upon Chronology and History, and afterwards upon Composition and Criticism. He has also taught the French language last winter, and it will continue to be taught to all who desire to learn it. * * *

"As we have never yet been obliged to omit or alter it for want of scholars, there is a fixed Annual Commencement on the last Wednesday of September, when, after a variety of public exercises, always attended by a vast concourse of the politest company, from the different parts of this province and the cities of New York and Philadelphia. * * *"

Of Freneau's proficiency as a student we have no record. Of the details of the Commencement of September 25, 1771, when he received his degree, we have but a brief account. Brackenridge opened the exercises with a salutatory, and following came four other exercises which completed the morning's programme.

The audience assembled again at three, and after singing by the students there came:

"6. An English forensic dispute on this question, 'Does ancient poetry excel the modern?' Mr. Freneau, the respondent, his arguments in favor of the ancients were read. Mr. Williamson answered him and Mr. McKnight replied."

"7. A poem on 'The Rising Glory of America,' by Mr. Brackenridge, was received with great applause by the audience."

Madison on account of ill health did not appear.

The "Rising Glory" had been written conjointly by Brackenridge and Freneau. Although the former was given on the Commencement programme full credit for the exercise, it was surely Freneau who conceived the work and who gave it its strength and high literary value. Brackenridge in later years confessed to his son that "on his part it was a task of labor, while the verse of his associate flowed spontaneously." The poem was printed in Philadelphia the following year, and in 1786 Freneau isolated his own portion for publication in the first edition of his works.

This detaching of Freneau's portion from the complete work destroyed at the outset the original unity of the piece. The changes and omissions made necessary by the process of separating the part from the whole, the deliberate readjustment of perspective to bring the poem up to the historical conditions of the later date, and the careful editing which strove to remove blemishes and weaknesses due to inexperience, combine to make the 1786 version practically a new poem.

The first glimpse of Freneau after his graduation from Princeton is furnished by a letter to Madison, dated Somerset County, in Maryland, November 22, 1772:[3]

"If I am not wrongly informed by my memory, I have not seen you since last April, you may recollect I was then undertaking a School at Flatbush on Long Island. I did not enter upon the business it is certain and continued in it thirteen days—but—'Long Island I have bid adieu, With all its bruitish, brainless crew. The youth of that detested place, Are void of reason and of grace. From Flushing hills to Flatbush plains, Deep ignorance unrivalld reigns.' I'm very poetical, but excuse it. 'Si fama non venit ad aures,'—if you have not heard the rumour of this story (which, by the by is told in various taverns and eating houses) you must allow me to be a little prolix with it. Those who employed me were some gentlemen of New York, some of them are bullies, some merchants, and others Scoundrels: They sent me eight children, the eldest of whom was 10 years. Some could read, others spell and a few stammer over a chapter of the Bible—these were my pupils and over these was I to preside. My salary moreover was £40,—there is something else relating to that I shall not at present mention—after I forsook them they proscribed me for four days and swore that if I was caught in New York they would either Trounce or Maim me: but I luckily escaped with my goods to Princetown—where I remained till commencement—so much for this affair.

"I have printed a poem in New York called the American Village, containing about 450 Lines, also a few short pieces added; I would send you one if I had a proper opportunity—the additional poems are—A Poem to the Nymph I never saw—The miserable Life of a Pedagogue—and Stanzas on an ancient Dutch house on Long Island—As to the main poem it is damned by all good and judicious judges—my name is in the title page, this is called vanity by some—but 'who so fond as youthful bards of fame?'

"I arrived at this Somerset Academy the 18th of October, and intend to remain here till next October. I am assistant to Mr. Brakenridge. This is the last time I shall enter into such a business; it worries me to death and by no means suits my 'giddy, wandring brain.' I would go over for the gown this time two years, but the old hag Necessity has got such a prodigious gripe of me that I fear I shall never be able to accomplish it. I believe if I cannot make this out I must turn quack, and indeed I am now reading Physic at my leisure hours, that is, when I am neither sleeping, hearing classes, or writing Poetry—for these three take up all my time.

"It is now late at night, not an hour ago I finished a little poem of about 400 lines, entitled a Journey to Maryland—being the Sum of my adventures—it begins 'From that fam'd town where Hudson's flood—unites with Stream perhaps as good; Muse has your bard begun to roam—& I intend to write a terrible Satire upon certain vicious persons of quality in New York—who have also used me ill—and print it next fall it shall contain 5 or 600 lines. Sometimes I write pastorals to shew my Wit.

'Deep to the woods I sing a Shepherd's care,
Deep to the woods, Cyllenus calls me there,
The last retreat of Love and Verse I go,
Verse made me mad at first and——will keep me so.'

"I should have been glad to have heard from you before now; while I was in college I had but a short participation of your agreeable friendship, and the few persons I converse with and yet fewer, whose conversation I delight in, make me regret the Loss of it. I have met with a variety of rebuffs this year, which I forbear to mention, I look like an unmeaning Teague just turn'd out of the hold of an irish Ship coming down hither I met with a rare adventure at Annapolis. I was destitute even of a brass farthing. I got clear very handsomely.

"Could one expect ever to see you again, if I travel through Virginia I shall stop and talk with you a day or two. I should be very glad to receive a letter from you if it can be conveniently forwarded—in short 'Non sum qualis eram' as Partridge says in Tom Jones—My hair is grown like a mop, and I have a huge tuft of beard directly upon my chin—I want but five weeks of twenty-one years of age and already feel stiff with age—We have about 30 Students in this academy, who prey upon me like Leaches—'When shall I quit this whimpering pack, and hide my head in Acomack?'—Shall I leave them and go 'Where Pokomokes long stream meandering flows—

"Excuse this prodigious scrawl without stile or sense—I send this by Mr. Luther Martin who will forward it to Col. Lee—and he to you I hope. Mr. Martin lives in Acomack in Virginia this side the bay. Farewell and be persuaded I remain your

truly humble Serv't and friend            
Ph. F-r-e-n-e-a-u-"

The scene of Freneau's new labors was the famous old school near Princess Anne, Md., which in 1779 was incorporated as Washington Academy. Brackenridge became Master here shortly after his graduation, and in the words of his son and biographer, received "a handsome salary." "He continued here," says his biographer, "during several years until the breaking out of the American Revolution, in the midst of a wealthy and highly polished society, greatly respected as a man of genius and scholarship. He used to speak with the pride of a Porson, of the Winders, the Murrays, the Parnells and others who afterward became distinguished."[4] For many years the academy drew to it the sons of the best families of Northern Virginia, Maryland and Delaware.

The length of Freneau's stay in Maryland is uncertain. There is evidence that he remained as Second Master of the school for several years. There is a tradition in the family that it was the wish of Freneau's father that he study divinity and that for a time he joined with Brackenridge in preparing for this profession; and there is another, which is very persistent, that he left Maryland to study the law in Philadelphia, but I can find no positive evidence. The period between 1772 and 1775 is at best a vague one in our life of the poet.

III.

In the early summer of 1775, Freneau suddenly appeared in New York as a publicist of remarkable fluency. Before November he had issued no less than eight long poems as separate publications, nearly all of them called forth by the new crisis in American affairs. Beginning with "American Liberty," issued by Anderson, the editor of the new patriotic weekly, The Constitutional Gazette, he published pamphlet after pamphlet in rapid succession, all of them throwing upon Gage and the British cause in Boston all the satire and invective which he had used so mercilessly in the old society war at Princeton. Two of these were published by Hugh Gaine, and another, "The Voyage to Boston," first issued by Anderson, was reprinted at once in Philadelphia. All of them have fared hardly during the years. Several, like "General Gage's Soliloquy," and "Timothy Taurus," which recounts the story of a journey made by Freneau to Passaic Falls, near Paterson, New Jersey, in August, have disappeared entirely, one of them, the "General Gage's Confession," has never been republished in any form, and all the others were cut down and altered by the author for later editions until they were almost in every respect entirely new poems.

That these voluminous and vigorous tirades, which their author evidently poured forth with perfect ease, were criticised and condemned by the fastidious we have no evidence. Certain it is that judging by the contemporary newspaper press they were exceedingly popular. Yet, in November we find Freneau in a sad state of discouragement, ready to give up forever all association with the muses. Some one, envious of his rising fame, has criticised him unmercifully. He seeks out the old Clio-Whig satires and after adapting and reshaping them he hurls them at the head of his enemy whom he designates as McSwiggen.

Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave
And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave,
Hence came those rhymes with truth ascribed to me,
That urge your little soul to jealousy.

    *       *       *       *       *

Devoted mad man what inspired your rage,
Who bade your foolish muse with us engage?
Against a windmill would you try your might,
Against a castle would a pigmy fight?

The young poet had begun to realize how barren was the new world in poetic appreciation; how impossible it was for even a true poet to practice his art where few could appreciate, and none really cared:

Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouthed train
Assisted by no poets of the plain.

He looked longingly across the water where poets were appreciated:

Long have I sat on this disastrous shore,
And sighing sought to gain a passage o'er
To Europe's towns, where as our travellers say
Poets may flourish, or perhaps they may.

The poem was a valedictory.

I to the sea with weary steps descend,
Quit the mean conquest, that such swine must yield
And leave McSwiggen to enjoy the field.
In distant isles some happier scene I'll choose
And court in softer shades the unwilling muse.

Freneau had determined to spend the winter in the West Indies. He had become acquainted during the autumn with a West Indian gentleman by the name of Hanson, who owned large estates in the islands, and who sailed master of his own vessel. Upon his invitation Freneau became a passenger late in November for the Island of Santa Cruz. Early in the voyage the mate died, and the young poet, his education outweighing his inexperience in nautical matters, was chosen to fill his place. The study of navigation, made necessary by this step, doubtless turned the direction of his whole life.

For the next two years Freneau made his home on Captain Hanson's estate on the Island of Santa Cruz. A selection from one of his letters charmingly describes the spot.

"The town at the west end is but mean and ordinary, consisting of a fort and perhaps 80 or 90 wooden houses. The harbor is nothing but an open road, where, however, ships lie in the utmost security at their moorings, the bottom being good for anchorage and the wind always off shore. About two miles to the eastward of this town, along the seashore, is the estate of Capt. Hanson, into which the sea has formed a beautiful little bay, called Buttler's Bay, about 100 yards across; it has a sandy shore and an excellent landing, though all the rest of the shore is sharp craggy rocks. My agreeable residence at this place for above two years, off and on during the wars in America, renders the idea of it all too pleasing, and makes me feel much the same anxiety at a distance from it as Adam did after he was banished from the bowers of Eden."[5]

He seems to have been employed at intervals by Captain Hanson in voyages about the islands. Thus he records of the Island of St. James, that "I went over July 13, 1777, and remained there eight days. We loaded our vessel with coral rock, which is used in these islands for burning lime of a very excellent quality."

It was while at the ideal retreat at Butler's Bay that Freneau wrote three of his most significant poems, "Santa Cruz," "The House of Night," and "The Jamaica Funeral," the first two of which were contributed to the United States Magazine in 1779. Of these the "House of Night" is the most significant, containing as it does evidence of a high creative power and a romantic imagination, rare indeed in English poetry in 1776. There are evidences that Freneau composed the first draught of the poem before leaving for the West Indies, but the point is not an important one. For the edition of 1786 he nearly doubled the original version, but in 1795 he cut it down to a few stanzas, taking from it nearly everything which had made it a notable creation.

On April 1, 1778, Freneau sailed from Santa Cruz for the Bermuda Islands, where for a time he was the guest of the English Governor. In an elaborate letter to Brackenridge, dated Bermuda, May 10, afterward published in the United States Magazine, he describes at length the islands. "These," he says in conclusion, "are a few particulars concerning this little country where I resided upwards of five weeks, and if this slight description gives you any satisfaction, it will amply repay me for the fatigues I underwent in sailing thither."

On June 6th he was again in Santa Cruz; on the 15th he set out on his homeward voyage, after an absence of nearly three years. The run home was destined to be eventful. Off the Delaware capes the vessel was taken by the British, but Freneau, being a passenger, was landed on July 9th and allowed to go his way.

The young poet now retired to Mount Pleasant, where doubtless he quietly remained until the autumn of the following year. In August, 1778, he published with Bell in Philadelphia the pamphlet poem "America Independent." On January 1, 1779, Brackenridge issued in Philadelphia the first number of the United States Magazine,[6] and Freneau at once became an important contributor. His work in prose and verse may be found in nearly every number. There are prose papers on the West Indies, purporting to be extracts from the letters of "a young philosopher and bel esprit just returned from several small voyages amongst these islands." There are several early poems for the first time put into print, like "Columbus to Ferdinand" and "The Dying Elm," and there are several notable long poems, like "Santa Cruz" and "The House of Night." At least three of the poetical contributions were written expressly for the magazine: "George the Third's Soliloquy," "Psalm cxxxvii Imitated,"—signed "Monmouth, Sept. 10,"—and the "Dialogue between George and Fox." It is evident, however, that Freneau, though his work very greatly strengthened the periodical, was only a "valued contributor." The psalm in the September issue, the first of the poems to bear his name, had a foot-note explaining that the author was "a young gentleman to whom in the course of this work we are greatly indebted."

The United States Magazine is a notable landmark in American literary history. Its methods, as we view them to-day, seem singularly modern, and its materials and arrangement are indeed remarkable when we view them against the background of their times. It was a spirited, intensely patriotic, and highly literary periodical; the single fact that "The House of Night" first appeared in its columns is enough to stamp it as no ordinary work. It died with its twelfth issue, owing to the troubled state of the country and the unsettled nature of the currency. Then, too, the audience to which it appealed was found to be a small one. In his valedictory the editor complains bitterly of the unliterary atmosphere in America. A large class, he declares, "inhabit the region of stupidity, and cannot bear to have the tranquility of their repose disturbed by the villanous shock of a book. Reading is to them the worst of all torments, and I remember very well that at the commencement of the work it was their language, 'Art thou come to torment us before the time?' We will now say to them, 'Sleep on and take your rest.'"

Late in September, 1779, Freneau shipped as super-cargo on the brig Rebecca, Captain Chatham, bound for the Azores. After an exciting voyage, during which they were several times chased by British ships, they arrived at Santa Cruz, in the island of Teneriffe, where they remained two months. A part of Freneau's notebook during this voyage has been preserved. It shows him to have been a careful and conscientious student of navigation, making each day an observation of his own and minutely tabulating his results. His cash account with the crew during the stay in the islands is interesting and suggestive.

The early spring of 1780 was spent by the poet at the old home, but his mind was evidently tossing upon the ocean. He longed to visit again his beloved West Indies, and accordingly on the 25th of May he took passage at Philadelphia, in the ship Aurora, for St. Eustatia. Freneau's account of this voyage and its after results is still extant.[7] A few quotations will tell the story.

"On the 25th of May, in beating down the Delaware Bay, we unfortunately retook a small sloop from the refugees loaded with corn, which hindered us from standing out to sea that night, whereby in all probability we should have avoided the enemy which afterwards captured us.

"Friday morning, May 26. The air very smoky and the wind somewhat faintish, though it afterward freshened up. The wind was so that we stood off E.S.E., after putting the pilot on board the small sloop, handcuffing the prisoners, and sending the prize to Cape May. About three o'clock in the afternoon we discovered three sail bearing from us about E.N.E.; they were not more than five leagues from us when we discovered them from the foretop; at the same time we could see them from the quarter-deck. One appeared to be a pretty large ship, the other two brigs. We soon found they were in chase of us; we therefore tacked immediately, set all sail we could crowd, and stood back from the bay. My advice to the officers was to stand for Egg Harbor or any part of the Jersey shore, and run the ship on the flats, rather than be taken; but this was disregarded. We continued to stand in till we saw Cape Henlopen; the frigate, in the meantime, gaining on us apace; sun about half an hour high. We were abreast of the Cape, close in, when the wind took us aback, and immediately after we were becalmed; the ebb of the tide at the same time setting very strong out of the bay, so that we rather drifted out. Our design was, if possible, to get within the road around the point, and then run the ship on shore; but want of wind and the tide being against us, hindered from putting this into execution. We were now within three hundred yards of the shore. The frigate in the meantime ran in the bay to leeward of us about one-quarter of a mile (her distance from the Cape hindering it from becalming her as it did us) and began to bring her cannon to bear on us. Her two prizes hove to; one we knew to be the brig Active, Captain Mesnard; the other, as we afterward learned, was a Salem brig from the West Indies. The frigate was the Iris, returning from Charleston to New York, with the express of the former's being taken. We now began to fire upon each other at the distance of about three hundred yards. The frigate hulled us several times. One shot went betwixt wind and water, which made the ship leak amazingly, making twenty-four inches in thirty minutes. We found our four-pounders were but trifles against the frigate, so we got our nine-pounder, the only one we had, pointed from the cabin windows, with which we played upon the frigate for about half an hour. At last a twelve-pound shot came from the frigate, and, striking a parcel of oars lashed upon the starboard quarter, broke them all in two, and continuing its destructive course, struck Captain Laboyteaut in the right thigh, which it smashed to atoms, tearing part of his belly open at the same time with the splinters from the oars; he fell from the quarter-deck close by me, and for some time seemed very busily engaged in setting his legs to rights. He died about eleven the same night, and next day was sewed up in his hammock and sunk. Every shot seemed now to bring ruin with it. A lad named Steel had his arm broken and some others complained of slight wounds; whereupon, finding the frigate ready and in a position to give us a broadside, we struck, after having held a very unequal contest with her for about an hour.... As soon as we struck, one Squires with some midshipmen came on board and took possession of the vessel."

Freneau at first supposed that, being a passenger, he would be taken with the prize to New York and there released; but despite his protests, he was driven into the barge with the other prisoners and taken to the Iris. All his baggage was left behind, and he was destined never to see it again. Arriving on board, the prisoners were driven between decks, where the air was hot and stifling.

"There were about one hundred prisoners forward, the stench of whom was almost intolerable. So many melancholy sights and dismal countenances made it a pretty just representation of the infernal region. I marched through a torrent of cursing and blasphemy to my station, viz., at the blacksmith's vice, where the miserable prisoners were handcuffed two and two. At last it came my turn. 'Pray,' said I, 'is it your custom to handcuff passengers? The Americans, I am confident, never used the English so.'

"'Are you a passenger?' said the blacksmith. At the same time happening to look up, I saw Hugh Ray looking steadily at me, who immediately seized my hand, and asked me how I did. 'Do you know him?' said Holmes, the master-at-arms. 'Then you are free from irons; come over among the gentlemen.'

"This was an unexpected deliverance from a cursed disgrace which I hardly knew how I should get clear of. After this I was used well by everybody."

On the 29th the Iris reached New York and the common prisoners were sent to the prison ships in the harbor. Freneau, however, was retained with the officers. He had been promised his liberty at the first possible moment, but on Thursday, June 1st, at the Commissioner's office, the charge was brought by the second mate that Freneau had been among those stationed at the guns during the fight. He was refused parole, though he promised security in any amount up to ten thousand pounds, and the same day was placed on board the Scorpion prison ship, "lying off the college in the North River."

Freneau's experiences during his stay upon the Scorpion have been described by him in graphic style in his poem, "The Prison Ship."

"On the night of June 4th, thirty-five of the prisoners formed a design of making their escape, in which they were favored by a large schooner accidentally alongside of us. She was one that was destined for the expedition to Elizabeth Town, and anchored just astern of us. We were then suffered to continue upon deck, if we chose, till nine o'clock. We were all below at that time except the insurgents, who rushed upon the sentries and disarmed them in a moment; one they tied by his neck-stock to the quarter rails, and carried off his musquet with them (they were all Hessians); the rest they drove down with their arms into the cabin and rammed the sentry box down the companion in such a manner that no one could get it up or down. One, Murphy, possessed himself of Gauzoo's silver-hilted sword, and carried it off with him. When the sentries were all silent, they manned the ship's boat and boarded the schooner, though the people on board attempted to keep them off with handspikes. The wind blowing fresh at south and the flood of tide being made, they hoisted sail and were out of sight in a few minutes. Those particulars we learned from some who were on duty, but were unsuccessful in getting into the boat. As soon as the sentries got possession of the vessel again, which they had no difficulty in doing, as there was no resistance made, they posted themselves at each hatchway and most basely and cowardly fired fore and aft among us, pistols and musquets, for a full quarter of an hour without intermission. By the mercy of God they touched but four, one mortally.... After this no usage seemed severe enough for us."

On June 22d, Freneau, who was weak with fever, was taken to the Hunter hospital ship, lying in the East River. Here he languished with an intermittent fever, that threatened constantly to become "putrid" and fatal, until July 12th, when:

"The flag came alongside and cleared the hospital ship. But the miseries we endured in getting to Elizabeth Town were many. Those that were very bad, of which the proportion was great, naturally took possession of the hold. No prisoner was allowed to go to the cabin, so that I, with twenty or thirty others, were obliged to sleep out all night, which was uncommonly cold for the season. About ten next morning we arrived at Elizabeth Town Point, where we were kept in the burning sun several hours, till the Commissary came to discharge us.

"I was afflicted with such pains in my joints, I could scarcely walk, and besides was weakened with a raging fever; nevertheless I walked two miles to Elizabeth Town; here I got a passage in a wagon to within a mile of Crow's Ferry, which I walked; got a passage over the ferry and walked on as far as Molly Budleigh's, where I stayed all night. Next morning, having breakfasted on some bread and milk, I set homeward; when I came to Obadiah Budleigh's corner I turned to the right and came home round about through the woods, for fear of terrifying the neighbors with my ghastly looks had I gone through Mount Pleasant."

Some days later he despatched the following note to his friend at Santa Cruz:

"Sir:—I take this opportunity to inform you that instead of arriving, as I fondly promised myself, at the fragrant groves and delectable plains of Santa Cruz, to enjoy the fruits and flowers of that happy clime, I was unfortunately taken and confined on board a prison ship at New York, and afterwards in a Hospital Ship, where the damnable draughts of a German doctor afforded far different feelings to my stomach than the juice of the orange or more nourishing milk of the cocoa."

IV.

On April 25, 1781, there was established in Philadelphia a new weekly newspaper, the Freeman's Journal or North American Intelligencer, which was to be "open to all parties but influenced by none," and which had for its object "To encourage genius, to deter vice, and disrobe tyranny and misrule of every plumage." The proprietor and printer of this paper was Mr. Francis Bailey, who not long before had removed his office from Lancaster, Pa. The editor and ruling spirit, although his name during three years did not once appear in its columns, was Philip Freneau. The mark of the young poet is upon every page. Its opening editorial, which was from his pen, sounded a note that was not once lowered or weakened while he was in control.

"At no period of time, in no era of important events from the first establishment of social government, have the liberties of man, have the rights even of human nature, been more deeply interested than at the time in which we presume to address you. While Liberty, the noblest ornament of society, and without which no community can be well organized, seemed to pine and sicken under the trammels of despotic restraint in every one of the ancient nations of the earth, it fairly promises to resume its pristine majesty here, and the new world begins to emerge from the fangs and tyranny of the old.... One of the first sources of her decline in those countries where she last resided spring from the wanton and unhallowed restraints which the jealous arm of despotism hath imposed on the freedom of the press....

"That freemen may be made acquainted with the real state of their affairs, and that the characters of their public servants, both individually and collectively, be made manifest, is our object. With this patriotic view, and under the tutelage of law and the constitution, has the subscriber opened a Free Press, universally free to every citizen indiscriminately, whose principles coincide with those of the Revolution, and whose object is confessedly known to point at public or private good."

From this time until June, 1784, Freneau resided principally in Philadelphia, and edited the journal. During all of this time his muse was exceedingly active. He followed carefully the last years of the war, and put into satiric verse every movement of the "insolent foe." He sang the victory of Jones, and mourned in plaintive numbers the dead at Eutaw Springs. He voiced his indignation over the destructive career of Cornwallis, and burst into a Laus Deo at his fall. The ludicrous plight of Rivington and Gaine, the distress of the Tories, and the final departure of the British filled him with glee, which he poured out in song after song. It was his most prolific and spontaneous period.

He wrote, too, an abundance of prose. The series of graceful papers entitled "The Pilgrim" is from his pen, besides many a political study and literary sketch signed with a sounding name. Everywhere are manifest his love of true literature and his desire to lead a merely literary life, but here and there are notes of discouragement. "Barbers cannot possibly exist as such," he writes, "among a people who have neither hair nor beards. How, then, can a poet hope for success in a city where there are not three persons possessed of elegant ideas?"

During the year 1783 Freneau's pen was very busy in various lines of work. It is probable that he assisted Bailey in many ways,—writing introductions to publications issued by the office and performing the various other duties incumbent upon the literary editor of a publishing house. During this year he translated the "New Travels through North America," which had just been issued by the Abbé Robin, one of the chaplains of the French Army in America, and the translation was issued first by Bailey and later by Powers and Willis of Boston. Freneau's introduction is characteristic:

"Most of those accounts of North America, given to the public by British explorators and others, previous to the Revolution, are generally taken up, with the recitals of wonderful adventures, in the woods beyond the Lakes, or with the Histories and records of the wild Indian nations, so that by the time the reader gets through one of those performances, he never fails to be better acquainted with the Ottagnies, Chereokees, Miamees, Nadouwessians, and a hundred others, with their various customs of paw-wawing, or methods of making wampum, than with the most interesting particulars relative to the inhabitants of the then colonies these were but rarely thought worthy mentioning by those gentlemen, and when they are, it is mortifying enough to see them constantly considered as mere beasts of burden, calculated solely for the support of the grandeur, wealth and omnipotence of Great-Britain, than as men and Free-Men.

"Our French Author is more liberal—two years before the present peace he considered the United States as a great independent nation, advancing with hasty strides to the summit of power and sovereignty."

It was during this year that the poet, for the first time, met with positive opposition and abuse. Oswald, the editor of the newly established Gazette, quarrelled with Bailey, and a poetical battle was one phase of the contest. The details of this affair will be found in the proper place, and I need not recount them here, but suffice it to say that Freneau soon found his muse assailed by the meanest of all critics. His extremely sensitive nature could brook no criticism. His Celtic temperament could fight fiercely in the presence of an open foe, but it was easily depressed and discouraged by criticism and covert attack. He lost heart in his work, and at the end of the third volume he quietly withdrew from his editorship.

The three volumes of the Journal which bear his impress are notable for their vigor of policy, their high ideals, their unswerving patriotism, and their real literary merit. It is to be hoped that a selection from Freneau's prose writings during this critical era in our history may sometime be made. Nowhere else can we gain so distinct a picture of the man, with his sanguine, impetuous temperament, his proud spirit, and his intense hatred of every form of tyranny. He wrote vigorously not only on British oppression, but on such topics as the wrongs of negro slavery, cruelty to animals, the wanton destruction of trees, the evils of intemperance, and the rights of woman.

The "Epistle to Sylvius" was his valedictory. In it he deplores the lack of literary taste in America, and the sad fate which has befallen his youthful poetic dreams. The age is grown mercantile, and Sejanus the mighty tradesman,—

"Sejanus has in house declared
'These States, as yet, can boast no bard,
And all the sing-song of our clime
Is merely nonsense fringed with rhyme.'"

A bard with more Teutonic blood, if he knew within himself that he was indeed a poet, and the only real poet of his time, would have staid at his post and made himself heard, despite narrow criticism and mean abuse, but Freneau was too proud to fight for recognition. The people had crowned him, to be sure, but if the critics, those who should be the real judges, rejected him, he would strive no longer. He would leave the field.

"Then, Sylvius, come—let you and I
On Neptune's aid, once more rely:
Perhaps the muse may still impart
The balm to ease the aching heart.
Though cold might chill and storms dismay,
Yet Zoilus will be far away."

On June 24, 1784, Freneau sailed from Middletown Point as master of the brig Dromilly, bound for Jamaica. The voyage was indeed a memorable one. On the night of July 30, while off the end of the island, the ship encountered a violent hurricane. According to contemporary accounts, "No more than eight out of one hundred and fifty sail of vessels in the ports of Kingston and Port Royal were saved." The Dromilly survived the storm, but it was a mere wreck when the next morning it crept into Kingston Harbor.

Freneau remained in Jamaica until September 24, when he left for Philadelphia in the brig Mars, arriving November 4. His experiences in trying to fit out the wrecked Dromilly are not recorded, but the one incident of his poetic reply to the keeper of the King's water works, who had refused him a puncheon of water, is characteristic.

From this time until 1790, Freneau's life is redolent of the ocean. A complete itinerary of this wandering era may be compiled from the shipping news of the various seaport newspapers, but it is useless to go into details. He was master for a time of the sloop Monmouth, plying for freight between Charleston, S. C., New York, and Savannah. His brother Peter, in Charleston, had become a man not only of influence, but of means, and together they owned the vessel and shared its profits. For several years advertisements like this appeared in the Charleston papers:

"For freight to any part of this State or Georgia; for charter in any free port in the West Indies, the sloop Monmouth, Philip Freneau, Master, burden about 40 tons. She is new, stanch, well-formed and draws six feet when loaded. Will carry about one hundred barrels of rice. For further particulars inquire of said master on board at Mrs. Motte's wharf or Peter Freneau."

On the 1st of June, 1786, there was issued from Bailey's press the first collected edition of Freneau's poetry. During the entire year its author was at sea almost continuously. It is evident that he had little to do with the edition. The copy furnished to Bailey consisted of the manuscript of a few early poems, revised copies of the 1775 pamphlets, and corrected and enlarged versions of his contributions to the United States Magazine. The bulk of the book is made up of Freneau's contributions to the Freeman's Journal, printed seriatim and without change. The poem "Rivington's Confessions" is even divided into two parts, with another poem between, as it first appeared in the paper. An index of the poetry in the first four volumes of the Journal is a nearly perfect index of the 1786 edition, after the poem "The Prison Ship."

Bailey wrote for the edition the following introduction:

"The pieces now collected and printed in the following sheets, were left in my hands, by the author, above a year ago, with permission to publish them whenever I thought proper. A considerable number of the performances contained in this volume, as many will recollect, have appeared at different times in Newspapers (particularly the Freeman's Journal) and other periodical publications in the different States of America, during the late war, and since; and from the avidity and pleasure with which they generally appear to have been read by persons of the best taste, the Printer now the more readily gives them to the world in their present form, (without troubling the reader with any affected apologies for their supposed or real imperfections) in hopes they will afford a high degree of satisfaction to the lovers of poetical wit, and elegance of expression."

This edition is the most spontaneous and poetic of the poet's works. In it we see Freneau before he has lost his early poetic dream, before he has become hardened by close contact with the world of affairs and the cold, practical round of political life. This and the 1788 edition contain by far the most valuable part of his poetic work.

In those days before the invention of book reviews, the fate of a book turned largely upon its immediate reception by the reading public. Criticism was by word of mouth: the poems were discussed in polite circles and over the morning coffee. Thus we have nothing to quote to show how America received her bard. We know, however, that the poems were successful even beyond Bailey's expectations. In less than five months he was out with proposals for "an additional collection of entertaining original performances in prose and verse by Philip Freneau." The book was to be published as soon as five hundred subscribers could be secured, and the subscribers' names were to be printed at the beginning of the volume.

"Such persons as are disposed to encourage American authors (particularly at a time when we are surfeited with stale publications retailed to us from British presses) and are not unwilling to be known as promoters of polite literature and the fine arts in these Republican States are requested to deliver in their names."

One bit of contemporary praise, however, has been preserved. On June 8th, one week after the appearance of Freneau's first volume, Col. Parke of Philadelphia composed the following, which was first published in the Journal of June 21st, and afterward included in his volume of "The Lyric Works of Horace, ... to which are added a Number of Original Poems," issued later in the year:

"To Mr. Philip Freneau, on his Volume of excellent Poems,
Printed by Mr. Bailey.

"Difficile est Satiram non Scribere."—Juv.

"Tho' I know not your person, I well know your merit,
Your satires admire—your muse of true spirit;
Who reads them must smile at poetical story
Except the k—g's printer, or some such like tory;
Sir William, sir Harry, and would-be sir John,
Cornwallis, the devil, those bucks of the ton;
Black Dunmore and Wallace with sun-setting nose,
Who steak hogs and sheep, secure—under the Rose.[A]
But a fig for the anger of such petty rogues,
To the devil we pitch them without shoes or brogues!

[A] He commanded the Rose sloop.

"Pythag'ras' choice scheme my belief now controuls,
I sign to his creed—transmigration of souls;
Euphorbas's shield he no doubt did employ,
And bravely let blood on the plains of old Troy:
The souls of great Marlbro' and warlike Eugene
Conspicuous in Washington's glory are seen:
Sage Pluto beams wisdom from Franklin's rich brain,
And sky-taught sir Isaac[B] is seen here again.
But Hugh when he migrates may daily be found
Cracking bones in a kitchen in form of a hound;
When his compeer shall die—while no Christian shall weep him,
Old Pluto, below, for a devil will keep him;
Unless he's sent up on some hasty dispatch,
The whigs to abuse, and more falsehoods to hatch.
Thou red-jerkin'd fops, whom your muse I've heard sing
From Hounslow's bold heroes successively spring;
From Tyburn they tumble as supple as panders,
Then migrate straightway into knights and commanders.
But you, worthy poet, whose soul-cutting pen
In gall paints the crimes of all time-serving men,
The fiend of corruption, the wretch of an hour,
The star-garter'd villain, the scoundrel in pow'r,
From souls far unlike may announce your ascension,
The patriot all-worthy, above bribe or pension,
The martyr who suffered for liberty's sake
Grim dungeons, more horrid than hell's bitter lake:
Your name to bright honor, the spirits shall lift,
That glow'd in the bosoms of Churchill and Swift.

[B] David Rittenhouse, Esq., the Ingenious inventor of the celebrated perpendicular Orrery.

"And when you are number'd, alas! with the dead,
Your works by true wits will forever be read,
Who, pointing the finger, shall pensively shew
The lines that were written, alas! by Freneau."

Philadelphia, June 8, 1786.

The second volume of poems did not appear promptly. One year after the first proposals, Bailey advertised that the book was at last in press. "An unusual hurry of other business (of a nature not to be postponed), has unavoidably delayed the printer in its publication to so late a period." It is notable that of the four hundred and sixty-three subscribers, two hundred and fifty, or over half, were in Charleston, S. C., and one hundred and twenty-six in New York. Philadelphia subscribed for very few of the volumes.

The printer's advertisement was as follows:

"The following Essays and Poems, selected from some printed and manuscript papers of Mr. Freneau, are now presented to the public of the United Slates in hopes they will prove at least equally acceptable with his volume of poems published last year. Some few of the pieces in this volume have heretofore appeared in American newspapers; but through a fatality, not unusually attending publications of that kind, are now, perhaps, forgotten; and, at any time, may possibly never have been seen or attended to but by very few."

Of the forty-nine poems in the volume, one, "Slender's Journey," had been published separately by Bailey early in 1787, and nearly half of the others had first seen the light between April, 1786, and January, 1788, in the columns of the Freeman's Journal. The greater number of the others were doubtless printed from the poet's manuscripts. A few of the prose papers, like "The Philosopher of the Forest," were selected from the columns of the Journal, especially from the series entitled "The Pilgrim," but much of the rest was from the poet's manuscripts now first published.

In the meantime the poet was leading a stormy and adventurous career upon the sea. As master of the sloop Industry, and later of the schooner Columbia, plying irregularly on all kinds of coastwise voyages between Georgia and New York, he experienced every phase of life upon the ocean. As a sample of his adventurous career during this period, note the following letter[8] to Bailey, written from Norfolk, Va., in the summer of 1788:

"Norfolk, Virginia, August 6, 1788.

"Mr. Bailey,

"I have the mortification to inform you that, after leaving New-York on the 21st of July, I had the misfortune to have my vessel dismasted, thrown on her beam ends, shifted and ruined the bulk of her cargo, lost every sail, mast, spar, boat, and almost every article upon deck, on the Wednesday afternoon following, in one of the hardest gales that ever blew upon this coast. Capt. William Cannon, whom I think you know, who was going passenger with me to Charleston, and Mr. Joseph Stillwell, a lad of a reputable family in New-Jersey, were both washed overboard and drowned, notwithstanding every effort to save them. All my people besides, except one, an old man who stuck fast in one of the scuttles, were several times overboard, but had the fortune to regain the wreck, and with considerable difficulty save their lives.—As to myself, I found the vessel no longer under any guidance—I took refuge in the main weather shrouds, where indeed I saved myself from being washed into the sea, but was almost staved to pieces in a violent fall I had upon the main deck, the main-mast having given way six feet above the deck, and gone overboard—I was afterward knocked in the head by a violent stroke of the tiller, which entirely deprived me of sensation for (I was told) near a quarter of an hour.—Our pumps were now so choaked with corn that they would no longer work, upward of four feet of water was in the hold, fortunately our bucket was saved, and with this we went to baling, which alone prevented us from foundering in one of the most dismal nights that ever man witnessed.

"The next morning the weather had cleared away and the wind came round to the N. E. which during the gale had been E. N. E.—the land was then in sight, about 5 miles distant, latitude at noon 36-17, I then rigged out a broken boom, and set the fore top-sail, the only sail remaining, and steered for cape Henry; making however but very little way, the vessel being very much on one side and ready to sink with her heavy cargo of iron, besides other weighty articles. We were towed in next day, Friday, by the friendly assistance of capt. Archibald Bell, of the ship Betsey, from London—I have since arrived at this port by the assistance of a Potowmac pilot.—Nothing could exceed our distress—no fire, no candle, our beds soaked with sea water, the cabbin torn to pieces, a vast quantity of corn damaged and poisoning us to death, &c. &c. &c. As we entered this port, on the 29th of July, the very dogs looked at us with an eye of commiseration—the negros pitied us, and almost every one shewed a disposition to relieve us. In the midst of all this vexation the crew endeavoured to keep up their spirits with a little grog, while I have recourse to my old expedient of philosophy and reflection. I have unloaded my cargo, partly damaged, partly otherwise—This day I also begin to refit my vessel, and mean to proceed back to New-York as soon as refitted, which cannot be sooner than the 25th, perhaps the 30th of this month. It is possible, however, that I may be ordered to sell the vessel here; if so, I shall take a passage to Baltimore, and go to New-York by the way of Philadelphia, to look out for another more fortunate barque than that which I now command.

Your's &c.

Philip Freneau."

I cannot forbear quoting another letter[9] written nearly a year later, since it gives us a charming glimpse of the Freneau of this period:

"Yamacraw, Savanna, March 14th, 1789.

"Sir: Amongst a number of my good natured acquaintance, who have lately sympathized with me, on account of what they term my misfortunes, during great part of last year, I know of no one more entitled to my acknowledgments, on the occasion, than yourself. When an old woman talks of witches, ghosts, or blue devils, we naturally make an allowance for bad education, or the imbicility of intellect, occasioned by age. When one man seriously supposes another unfortunate, for the sake of two or three successive disasters, which no prudence or foresight could have avoided, the same allowance ought to be made, provided the same excuses could be assigned.

"Can you be serious, then in advising me to quit all future intercourse with an element, that has for some years, with all its dangers and losses, afforded to your humble servant attractions, far more powerful than those of Apollo! Formerly, when I wrote poetry, most of those that attended to it, would not allow my verses to be good. I gave credit to what I deemed the popular opinion, and made a safe retreat in due time, to the solitary wastes of Neptune. I am not, however, inclined to believe people so readily now, when they alledge my vessel is not sound, and when several gentlemen, for reasons best known to themselves, and perhaps not over willing to risque the uncertainties of the world to come, effect to doubt of her ability to waft their carcases in safety.

But my ambition is greatly concerned in this matter: a schooner is confided to my care, humble, indeed, when compared to those lofty piles which I have seen you so much admire, but which is, nevertheless, really capable of an European, nay of an India voyage. Read all history, ransack libraries, call tradition to your aid, search all records, examine a million of manuscripts on vellum, on parchment, on paper, on marble, on what you please, and I defy you to find the most distant hint of any poet, in any age or country, from Hesiod down to Peter Pindar, having been trusted with the controul or possession of anything fit to be mentioned or compared with the same barque, which you say, I have the misfortune to command.

"To be serious: misfortune ought to be only the topic of such men as do not think or reason with propriety, upon the nature of things. Some writer says, it is but another name for carelessness or inattention: Though that may not at all times be the case, it is in the power of every man to place himself beyond the supposed baneful influence of this inexorable deity, by assuming a dignity of mind, (if it be not the gift of nature) that will, in the end, get the better of the untoward events, that may frequently cross our best purposes. Indeed, the sea is the best school for philosophy (I mean of the moral kind); in thirteen or fourteen years' acquaintance with this element, I am convinced a man ought to imbibe more of your right genuine stoical stuff, than could be gained in half a century on shore.—I must add that, be our occupations what they may, or our fortunes what they will, there is a certain delectable, inexpressible satisfaction in now and then encountering the rubs and disasters of life, and I am entirely of the opinion which (says Dr. Langhorne)

"Weakness wrote in Petrarch's gentle strain,
When once he own'd at love's unfavouring shrine
A thousand pleasures art not worth one pain!"

"I must now conclude this scrawl, with telling you, that I am receiving on board my vessel a small cargo of lumber, at a place called Yamacraw, a little above Savanna. The weather is extremely warm, I am tired of my letter, and must, of course, conclude. I do not know whether you ever mean to make a voyage to sea—if you should, thrice welcome shall you be to such accommodations as my little embarkation affords. Poets and philosophers, shall ever travel with me at a cheap rate indeed! Not only because they are not generally men of this world, but because, even supposing the barque that bears them, should make an external exit to the bottom of the ocean, the busy world, as things go, will regret the loss of most of them very little, perhaps not at all.

Your's, &c.,

P. Freneau."

On the 24th of April, 1789, when Washington arrived in New York to enter upon the duties of the presidency, in the fleet that accompanied him from Elizabethtown Point was the schooner Columbia, Capt. Freneau, eight days from Charleston. In June the Columbia again entered New York Harbor, and on December 28th she was at Sunbury, Georgia. On February 12th, 1790, Freneau arrived in New York, passenger from Middletown Point in the brig Betsy, Capt. Motley, to become editor of Child and Swaine's New York Daily Advertiser. For several months negotiations had been pending. Every appearance of the poet in New York for a year past had been marked by a small budget of poems in the Advertiser from the pen of "Capt. Freneau," but it was not until February, 1790, that he was induced to leave his beloved Columbia and settle down to a life upon shore. The poem "Neversink," written some months later, is his valedictory to the ocean.

"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 favoring heights,
Retirement's blest abode."

The poem "Constantia" may record the poet's reasons for leaving the ocean, for on the 19th of May, 1790, there appeared in Peter Freneau's Charleston paper, the City Gazette, or the Daily Advertiser, the following:

"Married, on the fifteenth of April, at Middletown Point, East New Jersey, Capt. Philip Freneau to Miss Eleanor Forman, daughter of Mr. Samuel Forman, of that place."

The Forman family with which the poet allied himself was one of great respectability and even prominence in New Jersey. Its record during the Revolution had been a conspicuous one, and its connection included the Ledyards, the Seymours, and many other prominent families. Mrs. Freneau, in the words of her daughter, "was remarkable for her gentle, lady-like manners, amiable disposition and finely informed mind. She was affable and sprightly in her conversation, and there were, even when she had reached the advanced age of eighty-seven, few handsomer women." In her early years she dabbled a little in poetry herself, and there is a tradition in the family that the prenuptial correspondence was for a long time wholly in verse.

Freneau was now fairly settled in life, and for the next seven or eight years he was engaged almost continuously in newspaper work.

V.

During the next year and more Freneau, as editor of the Daily Advertiser, brought to bear upon the paper all the vigor and literary skill which had so marked the Freeman's Journal. The tone of the editorial comment was patriotic and spirited. The note of reform, of opposition to everything that was degrading to high ideals, or that in any way threatened personal liberty, was never absent. Despite the manifold duties incumbent upon the editor of a city daily, he found time to write finished prose sketches and to woo the muses. His poetry of this period is notable both as to quantity and quality. Some of it was drawn from the notebooks of his years of wandering, but the greater part dealt with more timely topics. In June he published the advertisement:

"Mr. Freneau proposes publishing a volume of original poems, to contain about two hundred and fifty pages, 12mo, neatly printed.... As soon as there appears a sufficiency of subscribers to defray the expenses of paper and printing, the collection shall be put to press."

Judging from several poems of this period which were printed as from the author's new volume, "The Rising Empire," this was to be the title of the book. The advertisement was dropped in October, and "The Rising Empire" never appeared, though most of its poems were printed in the edition of 1795.

On September 20, 1791, Freneau's daughter, Eleanor, was born at Mount Pleasant. His salary as editor of the Advertiser was not large; the little family, it appears, was in straightened circumstances. A letter[10] from Aedanus Burke of Charleston to Madison, dated September 13, 1801, throws light upon the period.

"I remember, it was about the last fortnight that we served together in Congress, in 1791, I one day called you aside, and mentioned the name of Mr. Phillip Freneau to you, as one I knew you esteemed, and then lay strugling under difficulties, with his family. My memory brings to my recollection, that you mentioned the matter to the Secretary of State, Mr. Jefferson. Freneau was invited from N. York, and had the place of interpreter, with a mere trifle of Salary. Little did William Smith know, that you were the author or cause of bringing Freneau from New York; or he might have turned against you, his terrible battery of the slanders and invectives which he poured forth against Mr. Jefferson for three or four years afterwards."

Madison acted promptly. On the 28th of February, 1791, Jefferson wrote to Freneau as follows:

"Sir: The clerkship for foreign languages in my office is vacant the salary indeed is very low, being but two hundred & fifty dollars a year; but also it gives so little to do as not to interfere with any other calling the person may chuse, which would not absent him from the seat of government. I was told a few days ago that it might perhaps be convenient to you to accept it—if so, it is at your service. It requires no other qualification than a moderate knowledge of the French. Should anything better turn up within my department that might suit you, I should be very happy to bestow it as well. Should you conclude to accept the present, you may consider it as engaged to you, only be so good as to drop me a line informing me of your resolution. I am with great esteem, Sir, Your very humble serv't,

Th. Jefferson."

Freneau's letter in reply has been lost. On May 1st, however, Madison wrote Jefferson, so that we may gather its import:

"I have seen Freneau also and given him a line to you. He sets out for Philada. today or tomorrow, though it is not improbable that he may halt in N. Jersey. He is in the habit, I find, of translating the Leyden Gazette and consequently must be fully equal to the task you have alloted for him. He had supposed that besides this degree of skill, it might be expected that he should be able to translate with equal propriety into French: and under this idea, his delicacy had taken an insuperable objection to the undertaking. Being now set right as to this particular and being made sensible of the advantages of Philada. over N. Jersey for his private undertaking, his mind is taking another turn; and if the scantiness of his capital should not be a bar, I think he will establish himself in the former. At all events he will give his friends there an opportunity of aiding his decision by their information & counsel. The more I learn of his character, talents and principles, the more I should regret his burying himself in the obscurity he had chosen in N. Jersey. It is certain that there is not to be found in the whole catalogue of American Printers, a single name that can approach towards a rivalship."

Jefferson replied on May 9th:

"Your favor of the 1st came to hand on the 3d. Mr. Freneau has not followed it. I suppose therefore he has changed his mind back again, for which I am really sorry."

That Jefferson had made overtures to Freneau about the establishing of a paper at the seat of government, or at least had discussed the matter with those who had, is evident from the following letter written to his son-in-law, Randolph, six days later:

"I enclose you Bache's as well as Fenno's papers. You will have perceived that the latter is a paper of pure Toryism, disseminating the doctrines of Monarchy, aristocracy, & the exclusion of the people. We have been trying to get another weekly or half weekly set up, excluding advertisements, so that it might go through the states & furnish a whig vehicle of intelligence. We hoped at one time to have persuaded Freneau to set up here, but failed."

It is a testimonial to the energy and the ability of Freneau that leaders like Madison and Jefferson should have sought him so persistently. Notwithstanding Freneau's refusal, Jefferson, on July 21st, wrote to Madison:

"I am sincerely sorry that Freneau has declined coming here. Tho' the printing business be sufficiently full here, yet I think he would have set out on such advantageous ground as to have been sure of success. His own genius in the first place is so superior to that of his competitors. I should have given him the perusal of all my letters of foreign intelligence & all foreign newspapers; the publication of all proclamations & other public notices within my department, & the printing of the laws, which added to his salary would have been a considerable aid. Besides this, Fenno's being the only weekly, or half weekly paper, & under general condemnation for its toryism & its incessant efforts to overturn the government, Freneau would have found that ground as good as unoccupied."

This being brought to Freneau's attention, he determined to hold out no longer. On July 25th he wrote to Madison from Middletown Point:

"Some business detains me here a day or two longer from returning to New York. When I come, which I expect will be on Thursday, if you should not have left the City, I will give you a decisive answer relative to printing my paper at the Seat of Govt. instead of in N. York. If I can get Mr. Childs to be connected with me on a tolerable plan, I believe I shall sacrifice other considerations and transfer myself to Philadelphia."

Mr. Francis Childs, who was one of the proprietors of the Advertiser, as we have already seen, agreed to the enterprise, and the following document was soon signed:

"Department of State of the United States.

"Philip Freneau is hereby appointed Clerk for foreign languages in the office of Secretary of State with a salary of two hundred & fifty dollars a year, to commence from the time he shall take the requisite oaths of qualification. Given under my hand and seal this 16th day of August 1791.

Th. Jefferson."

I have considered this episode somewhat minutely since it throws light upon what follows.

The first number of The National Gazette appeared on Monday, October 31st. It was issued Mondays and Thursdays. Its typography and arrangement were neat and attractive; its news columns were well filled, and its literary department was carefully attended to. Its success was all that had been predicted by Madison. On May 7, 1792, the editor announced that the subscription to the Gazette had succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations.

The period covered by the two years of the National Gazette was one of singular unrest in America. The French Revolution was in progress; everything seemed tottering. America believed that all Europe was soon to cast off its chains of monarch; she believed that the torch of the Rights of Man had been lighted in America, and she looked with almost paternal interest on the progress of the Revolution. In his poetical salutatory in the first number of the Gazette, Freneau writes:

"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."

The columns of the Gazette are full of ringing words on the Rights of Man, the Age of Reason, the final doom of monarchy. In poem after poem the editor pours out his sympathy for republicanism and the cause of the French insurgents. That the French had been largely instrumental in the gaining of our own independence, increased the interest. "On the Fourteenth of July," "On the French Republicans," "On the Anniversary of the Storming of the Bastile," "Ode to Liberty," and "Demolition of the French Monarchy," are a few of the poems that Freneau poured forth during this incendiary period. It is significant that he included none of these verses in his edition of 1809. That he was honest to the core in his belief cannot for a moment be doubted. His impulsive Celtic temperament threw his whole soul into his work.

"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."

The frenzy among the American Republicans culminated with the arrival of Citizen Genet, in 1793. At the Republican dinner given Genet, May 18th, Citizen Freneau was elected by acclamation to translate Pichon's ode. On June 1st, at the civic feast, Freneau's ode, "God Save the Rights of Man," was received with thunderous applause.

One must study carefully this incendiary period of Freneau's life before he can understand fully the much discussed episode of the National Gazette. The wine of French Republicanism was sadly intoxicating. It could make Freneau write such a stanza as this:

"Virtue, Order and Religion,
Haste, and seek some other region;
Your plan is fixed to hunt them down,
Destroy the mitre, rend the gown,
And that vile b-tc-h—Philosophy—restore,
Did ever paper plan so much before?"

And then explain it by saying that "The National Gazette is the vehicle of party spleen and opposition to the great principles of order, virtue and religion."

In view of all this, it is not strange that he should have been impatient with the conservative party, who not only did not grow enthusiastic over the French Revolution, but even looked upon it with actual disapprobation. From the very first, the editor of the Gazette criticised the leading Federalists, especially Adams and Hamilton, and he even mildly rebuked Washington, the hero of his earlier muse. The administration, in his mind, was leaning toward monarchial ideas. Washington, in his opinion, had exceeded his power in the matter of the banks, and the precedent was a dangerous one. The ceremonials with which the President had hedged himself about were greatly at variance with simple democratic ideas; and, to crown all, the ingratitude of the administration (to the extremists it could have no other name) in its attitude toward Genet and the French people hurt him deeply. I believe that Freneau was fundamentally honest in his position. It is almost impossible to believe that a note like this, in the Jersey Chronicle of 1795, is not sincere:

"The conduct of the Federal Executive of this country toward the Republic of France, so far as it may appear inimical, has given great and general disgust to the citizens of the United States.... It would be well if some that might be mentioned would recollect the nation that supported us in the late war when our infant Republic was on the point of annihilation. Enmity to France is treason against Republicanism."

In regard to Adams, who had danced at the King's ball in a scarlet suit, and Hamilton, the father of the Federalists, Freneau had no scruples. The attacks of the Gazette became more and more pointed with every issue, though much of the more incendiary matter was not from Freneau's pen. The "Probationary Odes," for instance, attributed to him by contemporary enemies, and in later years quoted by Buckingham and Duyckinck as from his pen, were written by St. George Tucker. They were published in book form by Tucker in 1796. In the sensitive state of party politics at this time, such frank criticism could not fail to raise a tempest of rebuttal and of counter abuse. It was soon noted that the Gazette, in its attacks upon the administration, spared the State department. Jefferson was never mentioned except for praise. The inference was obvious: either he had "muzzled" the paper by granting it certain favors, or he was making use of it as a weapon against the very administration of which he was a member.

Hamilton naturally inclined toward the latter view, and much bitterness was the result. On July 25, 1792, he inserted this anonymous bit in Fenno's Gazette of the United States, the Federalist organ:

"The Editor of the National Gazette receives a salary from Government:

"Quere—Whether this salary is paid him for translations; or for publications, the design for which is to vilify those to whom the voice of the people has committed the administration of our public affairs—to oppose the measures of Government, and, by false insinuations, to disturb the public peace?

"In common life it is thought ungrateful for a man to bite the hand that puts bread in his mouth; but if the man is hired to do it, the case is altered.

T. L."

This was the beginning of a series of anonymous attacks in the Federalist newspaper, written undoubtedly by Hamilton. A second article, still more definite, appeared on August 4th. In it the writer directly charged Jefferson with being the soul and spirit of the National Gazette. "Mr. Freneau was thought a fit instrument," and so was deliberately engaged; he was simply the "faithful and devoted servant of the head of a party from whose hands he received a boon." The article then proceeds at length to arraign Jefferson and to appeal to the American people, whether they will consent to see the precious legacies which are theirs "frittered away" in so shameless a manner.

This attack called forth (from Freneau) an affidavit which was printed in the Gazette, August 8, 1792:

"Personally appeared before me, Matthew Clarkson, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, Philip Freneau, of the City of Philadelphia, who, being duly sworn, doth depose and say, That no negociation was ever opened with him by Thomas Jefferson, Secretary of State, for the establishment or institution of the National Gazette: that the deponent's coming to the City of Philadelphia, as publisher of a Newspaper, was at no time urged, advised, or influenced by the above officer, but that it was his own voluntary act; and that the said Gazette, nor the Editor thereof, was ever directed, controuled, or attempted to be influenced, in any manner, either by the Secretary of State, or any of his friends; nor was a line ever, directly or indirectly, written, dictated, or composed for it by that officer, but that the Editor has consulted his own judgment alone in the conducting of it—free—unfettered—and uninfluenced.

"Philip Freneau.

"Sworn the 6th August, 1772, before

"Matthew Clarkson, Mayor."

Hamilton followed, August 11th, with another article. He emphatically discredited Freneau's oath, declaring that "facts spoke louder than words, and under certain circumstances louder than oaths;" that "the editor of the National Gazette must not think to swear away their efficacy;" that "if he was truly, as they announced, the pensioned tool of the public character who had been named, no violation of truth in any shape ought to astonish; equivocations and mental reservations were the too common refuge of minds struggling to escape from disgraceful imputations." The article then proceeded to show that Jefferson did really establish the Gazette through a particular friend.

Freneau at once declined to answer further the attacks, on the ground that they were mere "personal charges," and Hamilton promptly branded this as "a mere subterfuge." Thus Freneau found himself in the midst of a perfect hornet's nest of partisan strife that involved the country from end to end. The Federal organ continued its attacks, and Freneau, always restive under criticism, increased in bitterness.

On September 9, 1792, Jefferson put himself on record in a letter to Washington.[11] The letter is extremely long, since it covers the entire contest with Hamilton from the beginning. In it he declared:

"While the Government was at New York I was applied to on behalf of Freneau to know if there was any place within my department to which he could be appointed. I answered there were but four clerkships, all of which I found full, and continued without any change. When we removed to Philadelphia, Mr. Pintard, the translating clerk, did not choose to remove with us. His office then became vacant. I was again applied to there for Freneau, and had no hesitation to promise the clerkship for him. I cannot recollect whether it was at the same time, or afterwards, that I was told he had a thought of setting up a newspaper there. But whether then, or afterwards, I considered it a circumstance of some value, as it might enable me to do, what I had long wished to have done, that is, to have the material parts of the Leyden Gazette brought under your eye, and that of the public, in order to possess yourself and them of a juster view of the affairs of Europe than could be obtained from any other public source. This I had ineffectually attempted through the press of Mr. Fenno, while in New York, selecting and translating passages myself at first, then having it done by Mr. Pintard, the translating clerk, but they found their way too slowly into Mr. Fenno's papers. Mr. Bache essayed it for me in Philadelphia, but his being a daily paper, did not circulate sufficiently in the other States. He even tried, at my request, the plan of a weekly paper of recapitulation from his daily paper, in hopes, that that might go into the other States, but in this too we failed. Freneau, as translating clerk, and the printer of a periodical paper likely to circulate through the States (uniting in one person the parts of Pintard and Fenno) revived my hopes that the thing could at length be effected. On the establishment of his paper, therefore, I furnished him with the Leyden Gazettes, with an expression of my wish that he could always translate and publish the material intelligence they contained, and have continued to furnish them from time to time, as regularly as I received them. But as to any other direction or indication of my wish how his press should be conducted, what sort of intelligence he should give, what essays encourage, I can protest, in the presence of Heaven that I never did by myself, or any other, or indirectly, say a syllable, nor attempt any kind of influence. I can further protest, in the same awful presence, that I never did, by myself, or any other, directly or indirectly, write, dictate or procure any one sentence or sentiment to be inserted in his, or any other gazette, to which my name was not affixed, or that of my office.... Freneau's proposition to publish a paper, having been about the time that the writings of Publicola, and the discourses on Davila, had a good deal excited the public attention, I took for granted from Freneau's character, which had been marked as that of a good Whig, that he would give free place to pieces written against the aristocratical and monarchial principles these papers had inculcated. This having been in my mind, it is likely enough I may have expressed it in conversation with others, though I do not recollect that I did. To Freneau I think I could not, because I had still seen him but once, and that at a public table, at breakfast, at Mrs. Elsworth's, as I passed through New York the last year. And I can safely declare that my expectations looked only to the chastisement of the aristocratical and monarchial writers, and not to any criticisms on the proceedings of Government. Colonel Hamilton can see no motive for any appointment, but that of making a convenient partisan. But you, sir, who have received from me recommendations of a Rittenhouse, Barlow, Paine, will believe that talents and science are sufficient motives with me in appointments to which they are fitted; and that Freneau, as a man of genius, might find a preference in my eye to be a translating clerk, and make good title to the little aids I could give him as the editor of a gazette, by procuring subscriptions to his paper, as I did some before it appeared, and as I have with pleasure done for the labors of other men of genius. I hold it to be one of the distinguishing excellences of elective over hereditary successions, that the talents which nature has provided in sufficient proportion, should be selected by the society for the government of their affairs, rather than this should be transmitted through the loins of knaves and fools, passing from the debauches of the table to those of the bed. Colonel Hamilton, alias 'Plain Facts,' says, that Freneau's salary began before he resided in Philadelphia. I do not know what quibble he may have in reserve on the word 'residence.' He may mean to include under that idea the removal of his family; for I believe he removed himself before his family did, to Philadelphia. But no act of mine gave commencement to his salary before he so far took up his abode in Philadelphia, as to be sufficiently in readiness for the duties of the office. As to the merits or demerits of his paper, they certainly concern me not. He and Fenno are rivals for the public favor. The one courts them by flattery, the other by censure, and I believe it will be admitted that the one has been as servile, as the other severe. But is not the dignity, and even decency of Government committed, when one of its principal ministers enlists himself as an anonymous writer or paragraphist for either the one or the other of them? No government ought to be without censors; and where the press is free, no one ever will. If virtuous, it need not fear the fair operation of attack and defence. Nature has given to man no other means of sifting out the truth either in religion, law, or politics. I think it as honorable to the Government neither to know, nor notice, its sycophants or censors, as it would be undignified and criminal to pamper the former and persecute the latter."[12]

But if the National Gazette concerned Jefferson not at all, as he alleged, it certainly did exasperate Washington. Later on, when the Genet affair had urged Freneau into still greater excesses, Washington, on the 23d of May, 1793, had a conversation with Jefferson, which the latter recorded in his Ana:

"He [the President] adverted to a piece in Freneau's paper of yesterday, he said he despised all their attacks on him personally, but that there never had been an act of the government, not meaning in the Executive line only, but in any line, which that paper had not abused. He had also marked the word republic thus——where it was applied to the French republic [see the original paper]. He was evidently sore & warm, and I took his intention to be that I should interpose in some way with Freneau; perhaps withdraw his appointment of translating clerk to my office. But I will not do it. His paper has saved our constitution, which was galloping fast into monarchy, & has been checked by no one means so powerfully as by that paper. It is well and universally known, that it has been that paper which has checked the career of the monocrats, & the President, not sensible of the designs of the party, has not with his usual good sense and sang froid, looked on the efforts and effects of this free press and seen that, though some bad things have passed through it to the public, yet the good have preponderated immensely."[13]

Washington even brought the affair into a meeting of the Cabinet, declaring, according to Jefferson's Ana, that,

"That rascal, Freneau, sent him three copies of his paper every day as if he thought he (Washington) would become the distributor of them; that he could see in this nothing but an impudent design to insult him; he ended in a high tone."[14]

The National Gazette published its last issue, October 23, 1793. The collapse of the Genet bubble—the revulsion of feeling after the Frenchman had threatened to appeal from Washington to the people, brought on a tidal wave which swept away all the idols of French Republicanism in America, and the National Gazette could not withstand the tide. Subscribers withdrew their subscriptions at a ruinous rate, the notes of the proprietors were protested, and the paper was abandoned. Freneau had no idea, however, of final surrender. His last word was a promise which, however, was never fulfilled.

"With the present number concludes the second volume and second year's publication of the National Gazette. Having just imported on his own account a considerable quantity of new and elegant printing types from Europe, it is the editor's intention to resume the publication of this paper in a short time and previous to the meeting of Congress in December next."

It is upon this episode that the reputation of Freneau among the generality of people chiefly rests. "That rascal Freneau" is the epithet that has clung to his name through all the intervening century. It is this one affair, more than anything else, that has kept him from the recognition he deserves, both as a patriot and a poet. The attitude of New England may be expressed in the words of President Dwight, written during the summer of 1793:

"Freneau, your printer, linguist, &c., is regarded here as a mere incendiary, or rather as a despicable tool of bigger incendiaries, and his paper as a public nuisance."

Letters might be multiplied in showing the same spirit in all of the Federalists.

It must not be forgotten, however, that Freneau acted from pure and honest motives; that the excitement and bitter partisanship of the period were extraordinary, and that the air was heavily charged with the subtle magnetism that in France had created a reign of terror. It cannot be denied that Freneau went to excess in his denunciations; but so did Hamilton, who in reality began the conflict; so did Jefferson; so did many others. As to the extent to which Jefferson went in subsidizing the Gazette for his own use, the reader may judge for himself. Neither side is free from blame; Freneau is certainly no more culpable than the others who held far higher positions than he. It is but justice to say of Freneau, in the words of Jefferson's biographer, Randall—

"He was always a warm, and after the period of which we write, became a violent partisan. It is but justice to his memory, however, to say that his honor and his veracity as a man were never questioned by those who knew him, and that his reputation in these particulars is now as free from all taint of suspicion as is that of any of the distinguished gentlemen whose names were associated with his in the controversy."

The following words of Madison, taken from Mr. Trist's memoranda of a conversation, May 25, 1827, and published in Tucker's Life of Jefferson, probably presents the affair in its true light:

"Mr. Madison said: 'Freneau's paper was another cause of soreness in General Washington. Among its different contributors, some were actuated by over-heated zeal, and some, perhaps, by malignity. Every effort was made in Fenno's paper, and by those immediately around him (Washington) to impress on his mind a belief that this paper had been got up by Mr. Jefferson to injure him and oppose the measures of his administration. Freneau himself was an old College mate of mine, a poet and man of literary and refined tastes, knowing nothing of the world. He was a French scholar, and employed at first as translator. Henry Lee, who was also his College mate, and had also a friendly feeling for him, was the more immediate cause of his establishing a paper. Our main object in encouraging it, was to provide an antidote against Fenno's paper, which was devoted to monarchy, and had begun to publish extracts from Mr. Adams's book. I used occasionally to throw in an article, all of which I have marked, and some of which I have shown you, with a view chiefly to counteract the monarchial spirit and partisanship of the British government which characterized Fenno's paper. I never engaged in the party criminations.'"

It deserves mention that Freneau stuck to his post during the yellow fever epidemic of 1793, and that for weeks he was the only active editor in the city. On October 1st he resigned his position as translator, and soon after removed to his old home at Mount Pleasant. For a time he was without employment. He contemplated several newspaper enterprises. He evidently took steps toward the publication of a paper in Monmouth County, New Jersey, as the following advertisement, published in the Jersey Chronicle, May 30, 1795, would show:

"A number of persons in Freehold and other parts of Monmouth subscribed last year to a paper the editor then proposed to set on foot. As various causes delayed him prosecuting his intended purpose until the present spring, and as he supposes, many of them might in the meantime have engaged with other printers, he hopes they will if possible transfer their subscription to the Chronicle."

On November 2, 1794, he writes Madison, recommending his old friend Bailey for the office of public printer, and on May 6th following, he received a reply:

"I delayed acknowledging your favour long ago received, until I could inform you of the prospects of Mr. Bailey in whose favor it was written. I have now the pleasure to tell you that although his wishes are not to be immediately fulfilled he is looking to obtain under the auspices of Mr. Beckley and Mr. Randolph a share of employment hereafter which may be very valuable to him. I congratulate you on the public intelligence just received from Holland which gives joy to all true Republicans, and wish you all the private happiness which an exchange of your former travelled scenes for the shade and tranquility of your present life can afford. Remember, however, as you have not chosen any longer to labor in the field of politics it will be expected by your friends that you cultivate with the more industry your inheritance on Parnassus."

On May the 20th following, Freneau continued the correspondence:

"My respected friend: By some accident your kind letter of April 6th was a long time in finding its way hither, having not come to hand till the 17th inst. I sincerely thank you for the interest you have taken in Mr. Bailey. He is a good Republican and a worthy honest man, which qualifications, I have thought, entitled him to some notice from the Government, in his line of business—I was heartily laughed at, however, a few weeks ago in N. York, by some Aristocrats, for having in my Letter to you or Mr. Beckley, I forget which, extolled his Military services in the late War—I am sensible he never cut off the heads of Giants or drove hosts before him, as some have done; at the same time it ought to be remembered that he was an officer in the Pennsylvania Militia in the season that tried men's souls (as Paine says) and I believe never acted otherwise than became the character in which he acted.—

I meet you at least half way in your congratulations on the public intelligence received from Holland. It is but another step toward the advancement and completion of that great and philanthropic System which I have been anticipating for many years, and which you as well as myself, I hope, will live to see realized—When I first went to reside in Philada. in 1791 I wished to be one of those who would have the honour and happiness of announcing these great events to the public through the medium of a newspaper: A variety of circumstances however, needless to trouble you with, urged my departure from that city after completing a two years publication—As I mean to pass the remainder of my days on a couple of hundred of acres of an old sandy patrimony, I have, by the way of filling up the vacuities of time set on foot a small weekly Newspaper calculated for the part of the country in which I am. Should you have any curiosity to see it I will forward it to you free of all expence except that of postage. I will not make high promises in regard to what it may contain. It will scarcely be expected that in a rude barbarous part of the country I could calculate it for the polite taste of Philadelphia.—Should your fixed residence be in Philada. I can transmit the papers to you once a week by the Public Post, who stops every Wednesday at my door. A Letter put into the Post Office at Philadelphia on Saturday morning, will be sure to reach me on Wednesday.—The public papers some time ago announced your Marriage.—I wish you all possible happiness with the lady whom you have chosen for your Companion through life—Mrs. Freneau joins me in the same, and desires me to present her best respects to your lady and yourself—and should you ever take an excursion to these parts of Jersey, we will endeavour to give Mrs. Madison and yourself—'if not a costly welcome, yet a kind.'"

The Jersey Chronicle, an eight-paged paper of the size of a sheet of letter paper, issued its initial number from the editor's little office at Mount Pleasant, Saturday, May 2, 1795. It bore the motto, "Inter Sylvas Academi quaerere verum.—Hor.;" and its object, in the words of its editor, was "to present ... a complete history of the foreign and domestic events of the Times, together with such essays, remarks, and observations as shall tend to illustrate the politics, or mark the general character of the age and country in which we live." The editor's salutatory is characteristic of its author:

"Never was there a more interesting period than the present, nor ever was there a time within the reach of history when mankind have been so generally united in attending to the cultivation of the mind, examining into the natural and political rights of nations, and emancipating themselves from those shackles of despotism which have so long impeded the happiness of the human species, and rendered the rights of the many subservient to the interests of the few.

"At this time, when new Republics are forming and new Empires bursting into birth; when the great family of mankind are evidently making their egress from the dark shadows of despotism which have so long enveloped them, & are assuming a character suitable to the dignity of their species, the Editor seizes the opportunity to renew his efforts for contributing, in some small degree, to the general information of his fellow citizens in the present history and politics of the world. No pains shall be spared, on his part, to procure the best, the most authentic, and earliest intelligence from every quarter, and circulating it by every method and means in his power; and to whatever parts his subscription will enable him to do it.

"When it is considered that few Advertisements are reasonably to be expected in these more eastern parts of New-Jersey, the terms of subscription will appear low, and, it may be added, are within the power of almost every man who has the will and inclination to encourage literature, promote the interests, or enlarge the ideas of the rising generation, and contribute to the general diffusion of knowledge among his fellow citizens.

"Should the publication of The Jersey Chronicle be suitably encouraged, the Editor will in due time enlarge the size of the sheet; but that now published on is, in his opinion, every way adequate to an experiment whether the attempt be practicable or not."

Freneau's essays contributed to the Chronicle are among the most notable prose productions from his pen. He began a series of studies "On Monarchial and Mixed Forms of Government;" he wrote "Observations on Monarchy," and discussed at length the leading arguments for and against Jay's Treaty with England. On May 23d he began to publish a series of papers entitled "Tomo Cheeki, the Creek Indian in Philadelphia," in which the manners and absurdities of the Americans are described from the standpoint of an observant savage. In nearly every issue of the paper there was an elaborate essay on some political subject. Of poetry there was very little. The National Gazette had contained little poetry from the editor's pen, save earlier verses reprinted, and a few political satires and republican lyrics. The influence of Peter Pindar was becoming more and more manifest in the poet's style. Politics and party strife had for a time displaced the muse. This is nowhere more evident than in the collected edition of his poems printed on his own press and issued in June, 1795.

In many respects this is the most interesting of Freneau's collections: it brings us into the very presence of the poet. The earlier editions had been published without his supervision, the material for this one passed all of it under the author's critical eye. Scarcely a poem escaped revision. After noting the scrupulous care with which he changed adjectives, improved rhymes, added new stanzas, or cut out old ones, repunctuated sentences, and rearranged material, one cannot join the somewhat large band of hasty and superficial critics who allude flippantly to the poet as a hasty and careless improviser of ephemeral trash. As a matter of fact, Freneau was a miser with his verses. When a newspaper poem suspected to be his, especially in the period previous to 1795, cannot be found in any of his collections, grave doubts at once arise as to whether the poem is his. He was never tired of revising, and cutting, and pruning. The poems so carefully edited in 1795 were again carefully revised in 1809. As an instance of his concern for the fate of his poems let me quote a letter, written August 29, 1781, to Matthew Carey:

"I see by this day's paper that my verses on General Washington's arrival, etc., are to appear in your next Museum. If it is not too late, I would request the favour of you to rectify an error (which was entirely of the press) in the fifth line of the thirteenth stanza, as it materially affects the sense. Instead of 'whom' please to read 'who.'"

The 1795 edition is interesting from another standpoint. The resources of the little country office were taxed to the utmost in the production of the book. At best it is a crude piece of printing. There is manifest everywhere an effort to keep the work within bounds, to economize space. Titles are abbreviated, mottoes dropped, foot notes cut out, and many earlier poems reduced, or omitted entirely. The list of omissions is very suggestive: scenes one and two were cut from the "Pictures of Columbus," the long song of Ismenius was dropped from "The Monument of Phaon," "The Jamaica Funeral," and "The House of Night" were reduced to mere fragments, "Female Frailty" was dropped save for the opening lyric, and there were other notable changes. In every case it will be found that the poet threw overboard the light and imaginative element, the purely poetic.

The reason for these omissions has been often sought. Prof. C. F. Richardson in particular has wondered at the dropping of the intensely original and weirdly strong poem "The House of Night,"—in his opinion the best thing Freneau ever did. It is not difficult to answer the question after a careful study of the evolution of Freneau's poetic ideals. He began to write poetry after a thorough course of reading in the Latin and English classics. His early work is redolent of Virgil's "Eclogues," of Horace, of Shakespeare, of Milton's minor poems, of Gray's "Elegy." If ever there was a sensitive, beauty-loving, poetic soul, the young Freneau was one. In his early inexperience he even dreamed of a poetic career in which he might perhaps win a place beside the great masters of song. His early work like the "Ode to Fancy," and similar pieces, and the strong and original "House of Night" and "Santa Cruz" show what he might have done in another environment.

But Revolutionary America had little encouragement for an imaginative poet. There was something in the air that seemed to put into men the Franklin spirit. It was the era of common-sense, of stern reality, of practical affairs. Madison voiced the age when in 1774 he advised Bradford, the cultured and imaginative young lover of poetry and all art, to turn to sterner things:

"I was afraid you would not easily have loosened your affections from the Belles Lettres. A Delicate Taste and warm imagination like yours must find it hard to give up such refined & exquisite enjoyments for the coarse and dry study of the Law. It is like leaving a pleasant flourishing field for a barren desert; perhaps I should not say barren either because the Law does bear fruit but it is sour fruit that must be gathered and pressed and distilled before it can bring pleasure or profit.... I myself use to have too great a hankering after those amusing studies. Poetry wit and Criticism Romances Plays &c. captivated me much: but I begin to discover that they deserve but a moderate portion of a mortal's Time and that something more substantial more durable more profitable befits our riper age. It would be exceeding improper for a labouring man to have nothing but flowers in his Garden or to determine to eat nothing but sweet-meats and confections. Equally absurd would it be for a Scholar and man of Business to make up his whole Library with Books of Fancy and feed his mind with nothing but such Luscious performances."[15]

The first half of Freneau's life, as we have seen, was one of disillusion. It took twenty-five years to kill the spark in his breast, but the process though slow was sure. After the fierce period of the National Gazette he thought of himself only as a worker in the tide of practical affairs, a champion of the rights of man, a protestor against tyranny and wrong, and his muse had become a mere drudge, aiding by satire and song what he now conceived to be his life work. He had taken a deliberate though sorrowful leave of his early muse in 1787, one year after the appearance of his first volume of poems:

"On these bleak climes by fortune thrown
Where rigid Reason reigns alone,
Where flowery Fancy holds no sway
Nor golden forms around her play,
Nor Nature takes her magic hue,
Alas what has the muse to do!
An age employed in painting steel
Can no poetic raptures feel;
No fabled Love's enchanting power
No tale of Flora's shady bower.
Nor wood-land haunt, or murmuring grove
Can its prosaic bosom move.
The muse of love in no request,
I'll try my fortune with the rest;
Which of the nine shall I engage
To suit the humor of the age?
On one, alas, my choice must fall,
The least engaging of them all!
Her visage stern, severe her style,
A clouded brow, a cruel smile,
A mind on murdered victims placed,
She, only she, can please the taste."

One cannot read long the columns of the Jersey Chronicle without realizing forcibly the change that had come over Freneau. The poet who emerged from the crucible of the National Gazette was not at all like the poet of "The House of Night" period. He could look upon this product of his early imagination much as Madison would have done, and he could in cold blood cut it down to a mere fragment which would voice his new French Deistic ideas, that he might have room for his Republican songs. The poem "To the Americans of the United States," written in 1797, gives us a true picture of this later Freneau. He would be no courtly singer "beneath some great man's ceiling placed," no solitary dreamer. He would be a man of action travelling over lands and seas, a poet who caught his subjects from the varying scene of human things.

"To seize some features from the faithless past;
Be this our care—before the century close:
The colours strong! for, if we deem aright,
The coming age will be an age of prose:
When sordid cares will break the muses' dream,
And common sense be ranked in seat supreme."

With the fifty-second number of the Chronicle, published April 30, 1796, the paper came to an end. Freneau's final editorial stated that:

"In number one of the Jersey Chronicle the editor announced his intention of extending the publication beyond the first year, provided the attempt should in the meantime be suitably encouraged and found practicable. But the necessary number of subscribers having not yet appeared, scarcely to defray the expenses of the undertaking, notwithstanding the very low rate at which it has been offered, the editor with some regret declines a further prosecution of his plan at this time. He embraces the present opportunity to return his sincere thanks to such persons in this and the neighboring counties as have favored him with their subscriptions; and have also by their punctuality in complying with the terms originally proposed, thus far enabled him to issue a free, independent, and republican paper."

A letter[16] written by Freneau from New York, to Madison, dated December 1, 1796, reveals what was in the poet's mind during the months following the abandonment of the Chronicle:

"Having three or four months since formed a resolution to bid adieu for a few years to some old Trees in Jersey under the shade of which I edited, amongst ditching and grubbing, a small weekly Paper entitled the Jersey Chronicle, I did not know how to employ that interval better than in striking out here with some printer, if such could be found, already engaged in supporting the good old Republican cause. After experiencing one or two disappointments in accomplishing this object, I am now through the kind aid of some friends here nearly completing the project of a copartnership with Thomas Greenleaf in his two Papers, The Argus, a daily publication, and the New York Journal, twice a week; both on a pretty respectable footing, and noted for a steady attachment to Republican principles, though open to all decent speculations from any party if they choose to transmit them. In short, I would wish to revive something in the spirit of the National Gazette, if time and circumstances allow, and with proper assistance hope to succeed—Thus,

A Raven once an acorn took
From Bashan's strongest stoutest tree;
He hid it near a murmuring brook,
And liv'd another oak to see.

As I consider the bargain the same as concluded, my next object is to make all the friends here that I decently can among men of eminence and ability. This I have in some small degree attempted and gained, but for want of certain insinuating qualities, natural enough I suppose to some men, I feel myself sadly at a loss to get acquainted with some characters here to whom I could wish to be known upon motives of public as well as private utility.

"Among these is the chancellor of this State, Robert R. Livingston, with whom, if I recollect right, you are upon terms of intimacy. If I am not mistaken in this point, and you can with propriety accede to my request, you would confer a favor upon me by mentioning me to him in your next Letter, in such manner as you may think best, so that this new connexion may attract some share of his attention, and thereby the countenance of the Livingston family in general, which would operate greatly, through this State at least, in advancing our Subscription and printing Interest in general."

The partnership with Greenleaf, mentioned to Madison, for some reason was never consummated. On March 13, 1797, however, Freneau issued in New York the first number of a new journal, The Time Piece and Literary Companion, to be devoted to "literary amusement and an abridgement of the most interesting intelligence foreign and domestic." He "associated himself," as he expressed it, "as a partner in the typographical line of business with Mr. Alexander Menut of that profession, sometime since from Canada," though, during the first year at least, Freneau had entire control of the editing of the paper. His address to the public is of considerable interest:

"Several months having elapsed since the publication of a periodical paper in this city was first contemplated by the subscriber, he now informs his friends and the public in general that he has at length so far matured his plan as to attempt a paper of this kind to be published three times a week and transmitted to city subscribers early on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings.

"The Time Piece and Literary Companion will on all occasions be open to political, moral, or other interesting discussion from any quarter whatever provided such communications are written with candor, decency, and liberality, their object such as to promote the general good of our great Confederate Commonwealth, or the common interest of man, and conceived in that disinterested spirit which while it carefully avoids as far as possible irritating the feelings of individuals, holds itself obligated under any circumstances whatever to consider truth, the moral and political happiness of our species, social harmony, and good order, the basis of all its exertions, the end of all its aims, views and endeavors."

The paper is a tastily arranged and neatly printed sheet, and its contents show constantly its editor's rare ability to cater to the public needs. Refinement and a fastidious taste are evidenced everywhere in its columns. Duyckinck comments on "the skill of the selection and the general elegance of the material," which were certainly unusual in those early days of American journalism. The paper had a large number of feminine contributors, who gave freely of their sentimental lyrics and sprightly letters. The poet himself contributed many poems, the most of them, as usual, concerned with contemporary affairs. He republished his translation from the Abbé Robin made in 1783 since, as he declared, only a small edition was then printed, and the work was in the hands of a very few. He republished also his "Tomo Cheeki" letters, introducing them thus:

"A number of eccentric writings under the subsequent title and to the amount of a considerable volume are in the hands of the editor of the Time Piece said to be translated from one of the Indian languages of this country. They were transmitted to him more than two years ago and a few numbers published in a gazette edited by him in a neighboring State, but discontinued with that paper. If the contributions of a rude aboriginal of America shall appear to afford any gratification to the generality of our readers the whole will be occasionally offered to the public through the medium of the Time Piece."

His pen was constantly active. He wrote vigorous editorials on all passing political measures, and on September 1, 1897, proposed to edit Ledyard's Journals:

"The subscriber having procured from the hands of his relatives the original MSS. of Mr. Ledyard now offers to the public of the United States an opportunity of gratifying their curiosity and at the same time paying a token of respect to the memory of Ledyard. Ledyard's travels will be compiled by P. Freneau from the original MSS. of the author, consisting of letters, journals, notes, etc., etc., and such documents as have appeared in print, both in America and Europe, particularly a work published by the British African Society, in whose service, with a view of exploring the interior of Africa, his last expedition was undertaken and terminated in his death at Cairo, in Egypt.

"One vol. at least 250 pages.

"A life of the author collected from authentic materials will be prefixed to the work, with some other preliminary matter."

Freneau evidently made some progress with the work, for on August 30, 1798, the following advertisement appeared in the Time Piece, as well as in the Charleston City Gazette:

"The interesting travels of John Ledyard, with a summary of his life, are now in the hands of the printer.

"It shall be printed on fine paper with new type ornamented with a full length portrait of the author in the attitude of taking leave on his departure for Africa. Page octavo, handsomely bound and lettered. Calculated to contain between 400 and 500 pages. $2 per volume."

The volume, whether from a failure to secure subscribers or other reasons, was never published.

The partnership of Freneau and Menut was dissolved September 13, 1797, and shortly after, the imprint of the paper was changed to read "Published by P. Freneau and M. L. Davis, No. 26 Moore Street, near Whitehall." On January 3, 1798, Freneau made a visit to Charleston, taking passage in the sloop Katy, and arriving after a rough voyage of thirty-one days. During the following month he was the guest of his brother, Peter, and in the words of his daughter, of "his many friends there, among whom were Charles Pinckney, Governor of South Carolina, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, General Bull, Edge, and many others where he was as much at home as at his brother's." He embarked from Charleston March 7th and arrived in New York after a week's voyage.

The affairs of the Time Piece were in a critical condition. A part of the subscribers lived at a distance from New York and the expenses were large. Freneau was unwilling to run further risks, and a few days after his return from the South, he withdrew from the firm, having been editor of the paper just one year. He thereupon retired with his family to the little estate at Mount Pleasant, where he made his home for the rest of his life.

VI.

The quiet period after the anxiety and stress of editorship in a great city was for a time grateful to the poet. He managed the farm in a desultory way, but his main occupation was composing verses under his favorite locust tree which had been planted by his father and which had increased in size and numbers until in the words of his daughter, "it was a complete grove of locust trees surrounding a house grown old with its time worn owner, his venerable mother and maiden sister beloved and respected for her many virtues. Her decease, which took place a few years previous to his own, he says in an obituary, he can say no more nor less than that 'she was as good and innocent as an angel.'" This sister, Mary Freneau, a beautiful woman, had been wooed at one time by Madison, but for some reason she had refused him.

Freneau's family consisted of four daughters: Eleanor, born in 1791; Agnes W., born June 22, 1794; Catherine L., born February 25, 1798; and Margaret Alaire, born June 10, 1801. Eleanor married a Mr. Hammill, and the four daughters of this union died unmarried; Agnes married Dr. Edward Leadbeater, and the eldest son of this union, at the earnest request of the poet, was christened Philip Leadbeater Freneau, his grandfather putting into his infant hands the ancestral Bible, which was the family treasure. The descendants of Agnes Freneau and Dr. Leadbeater are very numerous. The two younger daughters of the poet never married.

The active pen of Freneau, so long practiced in discussing the affairs of the day, could not rest idle during his period of retirement. He began a series of letters to the Philadelphia Aurora and other papers, and on December 30, 1799, issued them in a volume entitled "Letters on Various Interesting and Important Subjects, many of which have appeared in the Aurora." It bore his old pen name, Robert Slender, with the added title, O. S. M., interpreted later to mean "One of the Swinish Multitude." The book has surprising merit. The letters are written in a breezy, colloquial style, and the simple-minded old cobbler is well characterized. Freneau has actually succeeded in making him a living creature, and his opinions and "whim whams" are full of hard sense and practical wisdom. The book is by all means the best prose that Freneau ever wrote. So easy is the style and so natural is the characterization that I cannot forbear quoting at some length from a chapter chosen almost at random:

LETTER XXII

Mr. Editor,

Having heard that there was a tavern at about the distance of a mile or so from my favourite country spot, where now and then a few neighbours meet to spit, smoke segars, drink apple whiskey, cider or cider-royal, and read the news—a few evenings ago, I put on my best coat, combed out my wig, put my spectacles in my pocket, and a quarter dollar—This I thought was right; for although Mrs. Slender told me eleven-pence was enough, says I, I'll e'en take the quarter dollar, for a man always feels himself of more consequence when he has got good money in his pocket—so out I walks with a good stout stick in my hand, which I always make a point to carry with me, lest the dogs should make rather freer with my legs than I could wish. But I had not gone more than half the way, when, by making a false step, I splash'd my stocking from knee to the ancle. Odds my heart, said I, see what a hand I have made of my stocking; I'll be bail, added I, I'll hear of this in both sides of my head—but it can't now be helped—this, and a thousand worse accidents, which daily happen, are all occasioned by public neglect, and the misapplication of the public's money—Had I, said I, (talking to myself all the while) the disposal of but half the income of the United States, I could at least so order matters, that a man might walk to his next neighbour's without splashing his stockings or being in danger of breaking his legs in ruts, holes, gutts, and gullies. I do not know, says I to myself, as I moralized on my splash'd stocking, but money might with more profit be laid out in repairing the roads, than in marine establishments, supporting a standing army, useless embassies, exorbitant salaries, given to many flashy fellows that are no honour to us, or to themselves, and chartering whole ships to carry a single man to another nation—Odds my life, continued I, what a number of difficulties a man labours under, who has never read further than Lilly's grammar, and has but a poor brain—had I been favoured with a good education, I could no doubt readily see the great usefulness of all these measures of government, that now appear to me so unaccountable—I could then, said I, still talking to myself, see the reason why the old patriots, whose blood flowed so freely in purchasing our independence, are cast aside, like a broken pitcher, (as the scripture says) and why the old tories and active refugees are advanced to places of power, honour and trust—I could then be able to explain why Robbins, an American citizen, for killing an Englishman who held him a slave, and so gaining his liberty, was delivered to the English to be hanged—and Sterret, who killed a veteran sailor, who had formerly fought and bled in the cause of his country, and then was bravely doing his duty, yet, remains unpunished.... As I said this, by accident I looked up, and perceived to my surprise, that if I had gone but one step further, I would have actually knocked my nose against the sign-post—I declare, said I, here I am, this is a tavern indeed. I then felt in my pocket, if I had my quarter dollar, which to my joy I found—I then unbuttoned my coat, to shew my silk waistcoat, pulled my watch chain a good piece longer out of my pocket, fixed my hat a little better on my head—and then advanced boldly into the tavern—But I see I am got to the end of my page, and therefore must defer the remainder of my adventure to another opportunity."

In the advertisement of the book, the author made the half promise of more letters in the same vein:

"Should these letters meet with a favourable reception in their present form, a second volume will shortly be published, containing besides those that have since appeared separately a variety of original ones upon such interesting subjects as may hereafter claim the public attention."

The volume was never published. The little family at Mount Pleasant could not subsist alone on letters and poems, however brilliant. The outlook was not a bright one, as the following letter[17] to his brother Peter, in Charleston, dated March 1, 1801, would indicate:

"Having been here [New York] a day or two and finding the brig Echo, Capt. Webb, to sail for Charleston, I take the opportunity of dropping you a line by him.

"I left all well at home last Thursday, and the place, etc., as well as could be expected after my poor mother's absence. I have been and shall be for some time busy in repairing old fences and making new ones, and some other small improvements, as far as I personally can with the money you let me have. Helen goes to school here, the other two girls are at home, but Agnes is to come here next month for the same purpose for awhile. There are more cares and vexations coming on, but still they must be got through with at some rate. Probably I shall have to embark on some new expedition or plan before long wherever or to whatever the devil, etc., shall see fit to drive me. But I shall attempt nothing if I can before I see you here, in April or May, as you promised.

"I return this morning to Jersey. Mr. Hunn, Peggy, Mamma and Polly all desire their love to you. My love and respects to Mrs. Freneau and Miss Dora with her mother and family. Remembrances, love, etc., to Mr. Davis, and may I expect to have a line from you by Capt. Peter."

Freneau was at best a half-hearted farmer. A little anecdote told by the family is eloquent. One day the poet and his wife, who had walked together into the field to inspect the work, found a slave asleep in the young corn. Mrs. Freneau seizing his hoe declared that she would show him how to work. At the very first attempt, however, she cut down a hill of corn, whereupon the slave remarked gleefully: "Ho, ho, Missie Freneau, if that's the way you hoe, the corn'll never grow." She threw down the hoe in disgust, declaring that "No wonder the farm doesn't pay when even the slaves talk in rhymes."

The affairs of the poet were soon such as to give real concern to his friends. In a letter dated September 13, 1801, a part of which we have already quoted, Aedanus Burke wrote Madison:

"I am sorry to have it to say that Freneau, with his wife and two children, is still in embarrassed circumstances. He is a virtuous, honest man, and an undeviating Republican; yet utterly incapable of soliciting anything for himself. The best apology I can offer for mentioning it, is that I know you have great regard for him. You were at College together, as I heard you often say."

However this letter may have been received, Freneau obtained no appointment either from Madison or Jefferson, though there is a persistent tradition among his descendants that he was offered a good position under President Jefferson but refused it on the ground that the latter had deserted him in the National Gazette affair. On October 23, 1803, his old-time friend, Francis Bailey, addressed Madison:

"My dear sir: The death of Col. Bauman of New York has left the Post Office without a Master. I know of no man in the United States who would fill the office with more ability, or greater integrity, than Philip Freneau."

As far as we know, there was no response, though the family declare that Madison sent for him and that the poet proudly said, "James Madison knows where I live, let him come to see me."

The "expedition" to mend his fortunes, which he had mentioned to his brother as a disagreeable possibility, became at length inevitable. On Saturday, November 27th, he embarked at New York as Master of the schooner John, bound for Fredericksburg, Virginia, with a cargo of salt. A minute log book of this voyage is still to be seen.[18] After an exceedingly hard experience he returned to New York, January 12, 1803, and the last entry in the log reads "Finished discharging the wheat—1264 bushels at 17 cents a bushel freight—214 dollars and 88 cents."

This was the opening voyage of his last period at sea. His brother Peter had fitted out at Charleston a new brig for the Madeira trade, and until 1807 Freneau was busy plying between Charleston and the Azores. In one of his books of navigation is inscribed the following:

"Sailed from Charleston for Maderia with brig Washington, May 12, 1803. Got there June 23. Arrived back at Charleston Aug. 16.

"Sailed in ditto from Charleston Jan. 25, 1804. Arrived in Maderia March 7th following. A hurricane of wind the whole way. April 12, sailed from Funchal Road for Teneriff. Arrived at Santa Cruz the 15th; at Arasava, 22nd. Sailed May 11th. Arrived in Charleston, June 10."

On June 30, 1806, he was in Savannah, Georgia, as Master of the sloop Industry. He made his last voyage to the Azores in the Washington in 1807. During this last period of sea life we find evidences everywhere that this old enthusiasm for nautical adventure had greatly waned. He was a sailor now from sheer necessity; he was approaching old age and he longed for the quiet of his home and his family. In one of his books of navigation of this period is penned a verse made in mid Atlantic:

"In dreams condemned to roam
He left his native home
O'er land and ocean vast and wide
With oar and sail, with wind and tide,
Proceeding an imaginary way."

In 1809, Freneau now in retirement at Mount Pleasant, began a new edition of his poems. On April 8, he wrote Madison:[19]

"Sir,—I do myself the pleasure to enclose to you a copy of Proposals for the publication of a couple of Volumes of Poems shortly to be put to the Press in this city. Perhaps some of your particular friends in Virginia may be induced from a view of the Proposals in your hands to subscribe their names. If so, please to have them forwarded to this place by Post, addressed to the Publisher at No. 10 North Alley, Philadelphia. "Accept my congratulations on your late Election to the Presidency of the United States, and my hopes that your weight of State Affairs may receive every alleviation in the gratitude and esteem of the Public whom you serve in your truly honourable and exalted Station."

Madison's reply has been lost, but on May 12th, Freneau answered from Philadelphia:[20]

"Sir,—After a month's ramble through the States of New Jersey and New York, I returned to this place on Saturday last, and found your friendly Letter on Mr. Bailey's table, with the contents. There was no occasion of enclosing any Money, as your name was all I wanted to have placed at the head of the Subscription list.—I hope you will credit me when I say that the republication of these Poems, such as they are, was not a business of my own seeking or forwarding. I found last Winter an Edition would soon be going on at all events, and in contradiction to my wishes, as I had left these old scribblings, to float quietly down the stream of oblivion to their destined element the ocean of forgetfulness. However, I have concluded to remain here this Summer, and have them published in a respectable manner, and free as possible from the blemishes imputable to the two former Editions, over which I had no controul, having given my manuscripts away, and left them to the mercy of chance.—I am endeavouring to make the whole work as worthy of the public eye as circumstances will allow. 1500 copies are to be printed, only; but I have a certainty, from the present popular frenzy, that three times that number might soon be disposed of.—I will attend to what you direct on the subject, and will forward the ten you mention by the middle of July or sooner.—I will consider of what you say relative to the insertion of a piece or two in prose, but suspect that anything I have written in that way is so inferior to the Poetry, that the contrast will be injurious to the credit of the Publication.—I feel much in the humour of remaining here about two years, to amuse myself, as well as the Public, with such matter as that of the fat man you refer to, and if the public are in the same humour they shall be gratified.—But I am intruding on your time and will add no more at present.—I had almost said—

"'Cum tot sustineas et tanta negotia solus
Res Italas armis tuteris, moribus ornes
Legibus emendes, in publica commoda peccem
Si longo sermone mores[21] tua tempora, Caesar—'

"My best wishes, Sir, will ever await you, and in particular that your Presidential Career may be equally honourable though less stormy than that of your predecessor."

It is evident that Freneau wrote also to Jefferson, for on May 22, 1809, the latter wrote from Monticello.[22]

"Dear Sir,—I subscribe with pleasure to the publication of your volumes of poems. I anticipate the same pleasure from them which the perusal of those heretofore published has given me. I have not been able to circulate the paper because I have not been from home above once or twice since my return, and because in a country situation like mine, little can be done in that way. The inhabitants of the country are mostly industrious farmers employed in active life and reading little. They rarely buy a book of whose merit they can judge by having it in their hand, and are less disposed to engage for those yet unknown to them. I am becoming like them myself in a preference of the healthy and cheerful employment without doors, to the being immured within four brick walls. But under the shade of a tree one of your volumes will be a pleasant pocket companion.

"Wishing you all possible success and happiness, I salute you with constant esteem and respect."

The reply to Freneau's second letter to Jefferson has also been lost, but Freneau's letter dated Philadelphia, May 27th, has escaped destruction:[23]

"Sir,—Yesterday your Letter, dated May 22d came to hand.—Perhaps you a little misunderstood me, when I wrote to you from this place in April last, inclosing the Proposal Paper, respecting the Poems.—I only wished your name to be placed at the head of the list, and did not wish you to be at the pains of collecting Subscriptions, further than as any of your neighbours might choose to put down their names—Indeed, the whole Subscription plan was Set a going without my knowledge or approbation, last Winter. But as I found the matter had gone too far to be recalled, I thought it best to submit, in the present Edition, to the course and order of things as they are and must be.—Sir, if there be anything like happiness in this our State of existence, it will be such to me, when these two little Volumes reach you in August ensuing, if the sentiments in them under the poetical Veil, amuse you but for a single hour.—This is the first Edition that I have in reality attended to, the other two having been published, in a strange way, while I was wandering over gloomy Seas, until embargoed by the necessity of the times, and now again, I fear, I am reverting to the folly of scribbling Verses.

"That your shades of Monticello may afford you complete happiness is the wish and hope of all the worthy part of Mankind, and my own in particular. In such the philosophers of antiquity preferred to pass life, or if that was not allowed, their declining days.

"Will you be so good as to read the inclosed Verses? They were published early in March last in the Trenton True American Newspaper, and in the Public Advertiser, of New York."

On August 7, 1809, Freneau wrote finally to Madison:[24]

"Sir,—The two Volumes of Poems that in April last I engaged to have published, are finished, and will be ready for delivery in two or three days. The ten Setts you subscribed for I am rather at a loss how to have safely transmitted to you at your residence in Virginia, where I find by the Newspapers, you mean to Continue until the end of September. Will you on receipt of this, send me a line or two, informing me whether you would prefer having the Books put into the hands of some Confidential person here, to be sent or; that they be sent to the Post Office at Washington; or that they be forwarded directly to yourself in Orange County. The precise direction is not in my power."

The 1809 collection is the most elaborate of all the earlier editions of Freneau's works. His statement that it was the only one which received his personal supervision is certainly wrong, for he had carefully supervised the 1795 edition. On the title page he announced that the poems were "now republished from the original manuscripts," and that he had added several "translations from the ancients and other pieces not heretofore in print," but the new poems that had not previously appeared in the Time Piece were very few. On the title page also he placed the stanza:

"Justly to record the deeds of fame,
A muse from heaven should touch the soul with flame;
Some powerful spirit in superior lays
Should tell the conflicts of the stormy days."

The poet's advertisement is as follows:

"The Poems, included in these two volumes, were originally written between the years 1768 and 1793; and were partly published in the transient prints of the times, and afterwards collected into two editions of 1786 and 1795. The present is a revision of the whole, and now published agreeable to the terms of the subscription issued in this city, in April last. Such, perhaps, as are not attracted by mere novelty or amusement, will attend more particularly to the Poems originating from the temporary events of the American war. These Poems were intended, in part to expose to vice and treason, their own hideous deformity; to depict virtue, honour and patriotism in their native beauty. Such (says a most distinguished foreign author) was the intention of poetry from the beginning, and here her purpose should end. Whether the following verses have any real claim to the attention of the citizens of the American United States, who may honour them with a reading, is left for the Public to decide.

"To his Countrymen, the real Patriotic Americans, the Revolutionary Republicans, and the rising generation who are attached to their sentiments and principles, the writer hopes this collection will not prove unacceptable. A more complete edition might have been published, so as to include a great number of miscellaneous Poems and animadversions on public events down to the present year, 1809; but it has been judged most proper, to restrict what is now printed to the date of 1793; with the exception of only a very few pieces of later composition which have been retained, and inserted in the body of the work, but not so as to materially interrupt the general tenor of the Poems that arose from the incidents of the American revolutionary contest.

"The Author will only add, that to this Edition are prefixed two copper-plate engravings: the one representing St. Tammany, observing a hostile fleet approaching his shores; the other a nocturnal view of Captain Jones's engagement with the Seraphis.—These, it is hoped will be considered not inelegant embellishments of the edition now presented to the public.

"Philadelphia, August 2d, 1809."

The work is divided into four parts:

"Book I. Containing translations from the ancients; and other pieces on various subjects, written in America.

"Book II. Containing original pieces, with some relative to the more early events of the American Revolutionary War.

"Book III. Containing original poems, written and published at different periods, during the Revolutionary War.

"Book IV. Consisting of Miscellaneous pieces, on the events of the times, interspersed with others on moral, satirical, and political subjects."

The author made almost no attempt to arrange the material chronologically as to the dates of composition. He resurrected none of the material dropped from the 1795 collection, but cut from the edition some fifty-five other poems, among them nearly all of the material relating to the French Revolution, the greater number of the New Year Odes, and such fine pieces as "Neversink," "The Country Printer," "Slender's Journey," and "The Wintry Prospect."

The text was taken largely from the 1795 version, and a few minor amendments and changes made, but in no case were they so frequent or so careful as those made for the second edition. The poet's editorial work consisted mainly in elaborated titles with Latin quotations, in foot-notes, and in division of the material into books.

The next few years of Freneau's life were spent quietly at Mount Pleasant. He passed his time, as his daughter describes, "in writing poetry, and in answering and receiving letters." Her picture of the man at this period is full of interest. "Although no farmer, he loved to see the work going on. He was very fond of feeding poultry and all the dumb animals, and when the season came for slaughtering the porkers, he generally managed it so as to have some business in New York, and he was usually absent when poultry was wanted for dinner. Mrs. Freneau had to give orders to the blacks to do it privately. He confessed it a weakness and tried to conceal it."

His interest in politics was still keen. He watched carefully all the premonitory signs of the approaching storm of 1812, and when war was found to be inevitable, his harp was in full tune to satirize the foe, which he had never ceased to hate, and to celebrate the heroes and the victories of his country.

On January 12, 1815, we find him again in correspondence with his old friend Madison:[25]

"Sir,—Since my last return from the Canary Islands in 1807 to Charleston and from thence to New York; with my Brigantine Washington, quitting the bustle and distraction of active life, my walks have been confined, with now and then a short excursion, to the neighbourhood of the Never Sink hills, and under some old hereditary trees, and on some fields, which I well recollect for sixty years. During the last Seven Years my pen could not be entirely idle, and for amusement only now and then I had recourse to my old habit of scribbling verses. A Bookseller in New York, Mr. Longworth, by some means discovered this, and has prevailed on me to put my papers into his hands for publication. With some reluctance I consented to gratify his wish, altho' I think after the age of fifty, or thereabouts, the vanity of authorship ought to cease, at least it has been the case with myself. Mr. Longworth informs me the work will be published early in February in two duodecimo volumes. I have directed him, when done, to forward a copy to yourself, of which I beg your acceptance. I do not know that the Verses are of any superior or very unusual merit; but he tells me the Town will have them: and of course, have them they will, and must, it seems. The Work cannot be very tedious, for in two small Volumes there will be upwards of one hundred and thirty Poems on different subjects, moral, political, or merely amusing, and not a few upon the events of the times since May 1812. However, you know a short production may sometimes be tedious, and a long one very lively and captivating. None of my effusions in these Volumes much exceed two hundred lines, and several do not reach more than the fourth part of that number of lines.

"When I left Philadelphia, about the middle of September 1809, the ten copies of the Revolutionary Poems, which you subscribed for, were put into a box well secured, and forwarded according to your direction, under the care of General Steele, then Collector of the Port of Philadelphia: I have not since heard whether they reached you or not.

"That Edition was published by Subscription merely for the benefit of, and to assist Mrs. Bailey, an unfortunate but deserving widowed female, niece to General Steele, and this consideration alone induced me to pay some attention to that third Edition.

"But, in mentioning these matters I fear I am intruding both on your time and patience, constantly, or always perpetually engaged, as you undoubtedly are, in the duties of your station at a stormy period, a tempestuous Presidency indeed: May you weather all the conflicts of these mighty times, and return safe at the proper period to your Virginian Groves, fields and streams: sure I am, different very different indeed from your long intercourse with political Life and the affairs of a 'grumbling Hive.' My best wishes attend Yourself, and Mrs. Madison, to whom, tho' I never had the pleasure of her acquaintance, I beg you to present my best compliments and regards."

On March 3d following, he writes again to Madison:[26]

"Sir,—When I mentioned in my few lines to you, dated from my residence in New Jersey on the 22d of January last, the two Volumes of Poems publishing in this city by Mr. Longworth, I did really think to have had a small box of them at Washington by the middle of February at farthest, with a particular direction of a couple of copies to Yourself bound in an elegant manner. Finding, however, that the business went on slowly here, and a little vexed to be under the necessity of leaving my Solitude and the wild Scenes of nature in New Jersey for the ever execrated streets and company of this Capital, I embarked near Sandy Hook in a snow storm, about the last of January, and shortly after arrived here, fortunately unnoticed and almost unknown—At my time of life, 63!!! abounding however in all the powers of health and vigour, though I consider my poetry and poems as mere trifles, I was seriously out of humour on my arrival here to see my work delayed, as well from the severity of the cold, which has been unremitting for more than a month past, and perhaps to some other causes it would not be prudent here to explain. By my incessant exertions in spurring on the indolence of typography, the work, such as it is, is now finished, in two small Volumes of about 180 pages each.—The moment they are out of the bookbinder's hands, Mr. Longworth will forward you a Copy, and by the first Vessel to Alexandria, Georgetown, or Washington a Box of them to his correspondents in these places. A Copy or two of the Revolutionary poems will be forwarded to your direction—I am sorry the Copies you had were doomed to the flames, but the author had nearly suffered the same fate in the year 1780.—Yesterday I received from New Jersey a Copy of your friendly Letter of the 1st February: a Copy, I say, for my wife, or some one of my four Girls, daughters, would not forward me the original, but keep it until my return for fear of accidents.

"To-morrow morning I embark again for Monmouth, and among other cares, when I arrive at my magical grove, I shall hasten to exert all the poetical energy I possess, on the grand Subject of the Repulse of the British Army from New Orleans. There is a subject indeed! far above my power, I fear. If there be anything in inspiration, it will be needful on such a theme. Eight hundred lines in Heroic Measure I mean to devote to this animating subject.—In due time you shall hear more from me on this business, if I am not anticipated by some one more muse beloved than myself.—Hoping that all health and happiness may attend you, and that your libraries in future may escape the ravages and flames of Goths and Barbarians—I remain, etc."

Madison's reply has been lost. On May 10, 1815, Freneau wrote his last letter, as far as we know, to Madison:[27]

"Sir,—Mrs. Anna Smyth, the Lady of Charles Smyth Esquire, a respectable Citizen of this place, being to set out in a few days on a tour to Virginia, and expecting to be in your neighbourhood, either at Washington, or at Montpelier, does me the favour to take under her particular care, to put, or transmit into your hands, the two little Volumes I mentioned to you in my letter last Winter, and to which I received your friendly and obliging Answer.

"Be pleased to accept them as a mark of my attention, respect, and esteem, in regard to your private as well as public character.

"I have written to Mr. Carey, in Philadelphia, Book-seller there, to forward on to you, if he has them, the two Volumes of the Revolutionary Poems, published in Philadelphia in the Summer of 1809, and which you wished to regain, since the loss of your Copies in the conflagration at Washington last year. I flatter myself, the arrangement I have made with him will replace them in your hands.—I will only add, that any attention paid by you to Mrs. Smyth, I will consider as conferred on myself."

The 1815 edition contains no poems previously published in the poet's earlier collections. The work shows no falling off in vigor from the earlier martial standard set by the poet in his more vigorous years. Some critics have declared that the poet's best work is in this collection. Certain it is that a few of the lyrics of battle have a spirit and swing that make them notable productions.

Freneau placed upon the title-page the ringing challenge:

"Then England come!—a sense of wrong requires
To meet with thirteen stars your thousand fires:
Through these stern times the conflict to maintain,
Or drown them, with your commerce, in the main."

He introduced the work as follows:

"The poetical pieces contained in these volumes were composed at different periods, and on a variety of occasions, between the years 1797 and 1815, and are now presented to the public, printed from the author's original and corrected manuscripts, and, it is hoped, in such a style of typography, as will not be unacceptable to the reader.—Several of the performances, comprised in this collection, and chiefly those on political subjects, and other events of the times, have heretofore appeared in several periodical publications of this and other States of the union. It is presumed, however, that the poems of this description will not be the less acceptable to the friends of the muses, now they are collected in these volumes; with the advantage of having at one view what were before scattered in those bulky vehicles of information, whose principal object can be little more than to record the common events and business of the day, and soon descend into comparative oblivion.—Whatever may be the fate of the work, they are respectfully offered to the world, in hopes it may obtain a share of their attention, and particularly, from the friends of poetical composition; and in a country where it may be expected, the fine arts in general will, with the return of peace, find that share of encouragement, which they seem entitled to demand, in every nation that makes any pretensions to refinement and civilization.—It is only necessary to add, that care has been taken to execute the typographical part as correctly as possible."

The poems were reviewed for the Analectic Magazine by Mr. Gulian C. Verplanck, who said in part:

"He depicts land battles and naval fights with much animation and gay coloring; and being himself a son of old Neptune, he is never at a loss ... when the scene lies at sea. His martial and political ballads are free from bombast and affectation, and often have an arch simplicity in their manner that renders them very poignant and striking. If the ballads and songs of Dibdin have cheered the spirits and incited the valor of the British tars, the strains of Freneau, in like manner, are calculated to impart patriotic impulses to the hearts of his countrymen, and their effect in this way should be taken as the test of their merit, without entering into a very nice examination of the rhyme or the reason. For our own part, we have no inclination to dwell on his defects; we had much rather—

"'With full applause, in honor to his age,
Dismiss the veteran poet from the stage,
Crown his last exit with distinguished praise,
And kindly hide his baldness with the bays.'"

The last lines used by Verplanck are from "American Bards," a poem published in Philadelphia in 1820. The reference to Freneau is not without interest:

"Let Freneau live, though Flattery's baleful tongue,
Too early tuned his youthful lyre to song,
And ripe old age, in ill directed zeal,
Has made an enervated last appeal;
His song could fire the sailor on the wave,
Raise up the coward,—animate the brave,
While wit and satire cast their darts around,
And fools and cowards tremble at the sound.
Although ambition never soared to claim
The meed of polished verse, or classic fame,
And caustic critics honor but condemn,
A strain of feeling, but a style too tame.
Let the old bard whose patient voice has fanned
The fire of freedom that redeemed our land,
Live on the scroll with kindred names that swell
The page of history, where their honors dwell;
With full applause, in honor to his age,
Dismiss the veteran poet from the stage,
Crown his last exit with distinguished praise,
And kindly hide his baldness with the bays."

The last years of Freneau's life were eventless, passed quietly at Mount Pleasant, and varied only with frequent visits to New York. Shortly after the issue of the 1815 edition of his poems, the ancestral home was completely destroyed by fire, together with most of the poet's papers, manuscript poems, valuable letters and books—the collection of a lifetime. During his last years he contemplated a complete and final edition of his poetical works. He wrote Dr. Mease of Philadelphia whether there was "enough of the old spirit of patriotism abroad to insure the safety of such an adventure;" and it was the testimony of Alexander Anderson, the once celebrated engraver on wood, that Freneau once consulted with him as to the cost of an illustrated volume of his poems, and departed sadly remarking that his purse was not equal to the venture.

The best picture of the poet in his old age is from the pen of the genial Dr. John W. Francis of New York, who knew him well during his last years:[28]

"I had, when very young, read the poetry of Freneau, and as we instinctively become attached to the writers who first captivate our imaginations, it was with much zest that I formed a personal acquaintance with the revolutionary bard. He was at that time about seventy-six years old, when he first introduced himself to me in my library. I gave him an earnest welcome. He was somewhat below the ordinary height; in person thin yet muscular, with a firm step, though a little inclined to stoop; his countenance wore traces of care, yet lightened with intelligence as he spoke; he was mild in enunciation, neither rapid nor slow, but clear, distinct, and emphatic. His forehead was rather beyond the medium elevation, his eyes a dark grey, occupying a socket deeper than common; his hair must have once been beautiful, it was now thinned and of an iron grey. He was free of all ambitious displays; his habitual expression was pensive. His dress might have passed for that of a farmer. New York, the city of his birth, was his most interesting theme; his collegiate career with Madison, next. His story of many of his occasional poems was quite romantic. As he had at command types and a printing press, when an incident of moment in the Revolution occurred, he would retire for composition, or find shelter under the shade of some tree, indite his lyrics, repair to the press, set up his types, and issue his productions. There was no difficulty in versification with him. I told him what I had heard Jeffrey, the Scotch Reviewer, say of his writings, that the time would arrive when his poetry, like that of Hudibras, would command a commentator like Gray. On some of the occasions when Freneau honored me with a visit, we had within our circle one of my earliest friends, that rare Knickerbocker, Gulian C. Verplanck. I need not add that the charm of my interview with the bard was heightened by the rich funds of antiquarian lore possessed by the latter.

"It is remarkable how tenaciously Freneau preserved the acquisitions of his early classical studies, notwithstanding he had for many years, in the after portion of his life, been occupied in pursuits so entirely alien to books. There is no portrait of the patriot Freneau; he always firmly declined the painter's art, and would brook no 'counterfeit presentiment.'"

Freneau's frequent visits to New York were the chief solace of his last years. Says Dr. Francis:

"Freneau was widely known to a large circle of our most prominent and patriotic New Yorkers. His native city, with all his wanderings, was ever uppermost in his mind and in his affections. While in the employment of Jefferson, as a translator in the department of state, upon the organization of Congress, with Washington at its head, he had the gratification of witnessing the progress of improvement, and might have enjoyed increased facilities had he not enlisted with an indiscreet zeal as an advocate of the radical doctrines of the day. Freneau was, nevertheless, esteemed a true patriot; and his private worth, his courteous manner, and his general bearing won admiration with all parties. His pen was more acrimonious than his heart. He was tolerant, frank in expression, and not deficient in geniality. He was highly cultivated in classical knowledge, abounding in anecdotes of the revolutionary crisis, and extensively acquainted with prominent characters.

"It were easy to record a long list of eminent citizens who ever gave him a cordial welcome. He was received with the warmest greetings by the old soldier, Governor George Clinton. He, also, in the intimacy of kindred feeling, found an agreeable pastime with the learned Provoost, the first regularly consecrated Bishop of the American Protestant Episcopate, who himself had shouldered a musket in the Revolution, and hence was sometimes called the fighting bishop. They were allied by classical tastes, a love of natural science, and ardor in the cause of liberty. With Gates he compared the achievements of Monmouth with those at Saratoga. With Col. Fish he reviewed the capture of Yorktown; with Dr. Mitchell he rehearsed, from his own sad experience, the physical sufferings and various diseases of the incarcerated patriots of the Jersey prison-ship; and descanted on Italian poetry and the piscatory eclogues of Sannazarius. He, doubtless, furnished Dr. Benjamin Dewitt with data for his funeral discourse on the remains of the 11,500 American martyrs. With Pintard he could laud Horace and talk largely of Paul Jones. With Major Fairlie he discussed the tactics and chivalry of Baron Steuben. With Sylvanus Miller he compared notes on the political clubs of 1795-1810. With Dewitt Clinton and Cadwallader D. Colden he debated the projects of internal improvement and artificial navigation, based on the famous precedent of the Languedoc canal."

The death of Freneau was a sad one. On the evening of the 18th of December, 1832, he had gone on an errand to Freehold, some two miles distant. When he set out to return, late in the evening, a fierce and blinding storm was in progress. His friends sought to dissuade him, but he insisted on returning. Instead of taking the long way round by the road, he took the usual short way through the fields, and was soon lost in the roaring "blizzard." He circled into a swamp, and doubtless, after hours of wandering, sank down benumbed and hopeless, to be found by his friends a few hours later, still breathing but nearly lifeless. For the whispered tradition that he was intoxicated when he left the town, there is no foundation.

The next issue of the Monmouth Press contained a notice of his death:

"Mr. Freneau was in the village and started, towards evening, to go home, about two miles. In attempting to go across he appears to have got lost and mired in a bog where his lifeless corpse was discovered yesterday morning. Captain Freneau was a stanch Whig in the time of the Revolution, a good soldier, and a warm patriot. The productions of his pen animated his countrymen in the darkest days of '76 and the effusions of his muse cheered the desponding soldier as he fought the battles of freedom."

His old friend, John Pintard, wrote a biographical notice of the poet in the New York Mirror for January 12, 1833, in which he dwelt largely upon his mental endowments and accomplishments:

"He was a man of great reading and extensive acquirements; few were more thoroughly versed in classical literature, and fewer still who knew as much about the early history of our country, the organization of the government, and the use and progress of parties."

The house which Freneau occupied during his last years is still standing. His remains rest in the little cemetery at Mount Pleasant, which recently, in honor of the poet, has been rechristened Freneau.

VII.

The personality of Philip Freneau, if we judge from contemporary testimony and the effect which his personal presence invariably exerted, was a singularly winning one. The bluff, hearty old sailor breathed out good-will and honesty with every breath. He was the soul of honor, and, despite his caustic pen, the kindest hearted creature in the world. All that one of his grand-daughters can remember of him is that once he took her upon his knee and chided her for having killed a fly. "Surely," he said, "it was not made without some wise end, and its little life was as dear to him as is yours to you." It reminds one of "My Uncle Toby." There is a cheery optimism in many of his poems. A stanza like this might have been written by Browning:

"All nature must decay, 'tis true,
But nature shall her face renew,
Her travels in a circle make,
Freeze but to thaw, sleep but to wake,
Die but to live and live to die."

His temperament was Celtic. He inherited with his French blood a passionate love for beauty, a sensuous, dreamy delight in the merely poetic, in the weird and romantic. He had not the Teutonic stability; he was easily exalted, easily depressed; he went often to extremes; he was sensitive to a degree that made criticism a torture, and he was proud beyond all reason. He had been deeply touched by the principles of the Revolution; he had suffered personally at the hands of the enemy; he had followed Paine in his democratic doctrines even to the extremes, and he tried to live consistently with these exalted ideals. His honesty and his ignorance of the world prevented him from seeing how greatly these principles must be modified to become of really practical value.

His kindly heart made him a fierce foe to all kinds of tyranny and oppression. He saw sights in the West Indies that made him a bitter opponent of human slavery. Again and again in his poems and prose sketches does he condemn the evil. His message is almost as intense as Whittier's:

"O come the time and haste the day
When man shall man no longer crush,
When reason shall enforce her sway,
Nor these fair regions raise the blush
Where still the African complains
And mourns his yet unbroken chains."

Not only slavery, but every other form of oppression and wrong received his condemnation. He wrote boldly against intemperance in a day when the use of intoxicating liquors was well-nigh universal and wholly uncriticised; he spoke eloquently on cruelty to animals; and he was one of the earliest to demand equal rights for man and woman.

Freneau's religious inclinations have been sometimes harshly criticised by those of puritanic creed. The school of Dr. Dwight could speak of him only in contempt, yet it is true that the poet was a deeply religious man. His love of freedom and his perfect sincerity affected his creed. He had an intense dislike for hollow formalism. In his "Jamaica Funeral" he has pictured a hypocritical priest in colors as vivid almost as Chaucer's. He detested

"The holy man by Bishops holy made."

He loved sincerity, and the creed that came not from dry formalism, but from reason and from an honest heart.

It has often been overlooked by his critics that Freneau was a widely read and thoroughly cultured man; that he was a linguist of more than ordinary powers; and that he knew intimately the chief writings in Latin, Italian, French, and English. He was no ignorant, careless scribbler, tossing into the ephemeral columns of the press hasty rhymes of which he never thought again. He revised and corrected with patient care, and he took a deep interest in the children of his pen, rescuing at one time or another almost every one of them from the oblivion of the newspaper.

VIII.

As to the absolute literary value of Freneau's literary remains, there is room for honest difference of opinion. He is certainly not, if we judge him from what he actually produced, a great poet. But he must in fairness be viewed against the background of his age and his environment. Nature had equipped him as she has equipped few other men. He had the poet's creative imagination; he had an exquisite sense of the beautiful; and he had a realization of his own poetic endowments that kept him during a long life constantly true to the muse. Scarcely a month went by in all his life, from his early boyhood, that was not marked by poetic composition. Few poets, even in later and more auspicious days, have devoted their lives more assiduously to song.

Freneau was the first to catch what may be called the new poetic impulse in America—the new epic note. Previous to the Revolutionary era, America was destitute even of the germs of an original literature. Before she could produce anything really strong and individual, there was necessary some great primal impulse that should stir mightily the whole people; that should strike from their hands the old books and the old models; that should arouse them to a true realization of themselves; and that should clear the atmosphere for a new and broader view of human life. Such new forces are always needed by society, but they stalk with long strides over the centuries.

In pre-Revolutionary America such an upheaval was near at hand. It came with appalling suddenness. The colonists had had no gradual preparation for the idea of separation from England. As late as 1775, Franklin declared before the House of Commons that in all of his journeyings up and down the colonies he had not heard expressed one single wish for complete independence. Even after Concord and Bunker Hill, Freneau, the radical, could write:

"Long may Britannia rule our hearts again,
Rule as she ruled in George the Second's reign."

The idea of independence came all in a moment; but once it had come, it went with leaps and bounds to its extreme. Never in all history has a whole people been lifted by such rapid stages into a region of such vast outlook. We can trace the growth of the new spirit, not decade by decade, but month by month: Justice, Freedom, Independence, and then the radiant vision of perfect Liberty and the Rights of Man, and then like a torrent the sense of boundless possibilities and glorious destiny:

"No pent-up Utica contracts our powers,
But the whole boundless continent is ours."

The soul of man stirred by such ideals, and successful in realizing them beyond all dreams, struggled for utterance. It is such upheavals in human society that make poets and bring outbursts of song and periods in the history of literature. But there was no burst of song in America; instead there followed one of the most pathetic spectacles in all literary history—a people with a vision that transported them into the clouds, yet powerless through environment and early education to transmute that vision into song. The South, thrilled by the new spirit, turned it at once into action, and took the leadership in war and statesmanship. New England lifted up her voice, but she could speak only through the medium of old spiritual conceptions and worn-out poetic forms. A young Connecticut parson, thrilled through and through, pours his enthusiasm into an epic of the wars of Joshua done in the heroics of Pope; a brilliant Boston lad would sing of "War and Washington," but he must set it to the tune of Dryden; and a gifted Connecticut satirist, overflowing with the true poetic spirit, is content simply to add new American stanzas to "Hudibras." With all her rhymers and all her inspiration, New England gave forth not a single original note. It was the repeating of the old spectacle of a heavenly anthem sung unto shepherds,—unto those utterly unable to give it utterance.

We see them, however, struggling heroically with the burden. From 1774, when Dwight completed his "Conquest of Canaan," "the first piece of this kind ever attempted in this country," as he observed in his preface, until 1808, which ends the period with Barlow's "Columbiad"—the "Polyolbion" of American poetry—the years are strewn thick with the wrecks of epics. Every poet of the era felt his soul burn with the epic fire. Charles Brockden Brown, when only sixteen, had started no less than three of these Homeric efforts: one on the discovery of America, and one each on the conquests of Mexico and Peru. It was our heroic era, but it yielded almost nothing of value. Mere exaltation availeth little unless it be grounded either upon genius or long-continued culture.

America, however, was not without her genius. Before Dwight and Barlow and Trumbull had written a line, Freneau at Princeton was planning epics American in scene and spirit. He had dreamed, over his Virgil, of a greater Aeneas who had sailed into the pathless West to discover a new world, and to plant there the seeds of a greater than Rome; he had translated with beating heart the words of Seneca:

"The time shall come, when numerous years are past,
When ocean shall unloose the bands of things,
And an extended region rise at last;

"And Typhis shall disclose the mighty land
Far, far away, where none have rov'd before;
Nor shall the world's remotest region be
Gibraltar's rock, or Thule's savage shore."

"Fired at the theme," he had mapped out the epic of a new world; but his work of this era, like all schoolboy epics, had resulted only in fragments which were to strew his earlier volumes. How strong and original was this youthful dream one can judge from the ringing lines of "Columbus to Ferdinand," "Discovery," and the "Pictures of Columbus," which are mere epic fragments. There is an originality and a fire in them utterly new in American poetry. There is poetry of a high order in such a climax as that recording the soliloquy of the dying Columbus, beginning:

"The winds blow high; one other world remains,
Once more without a guide I find the way."

But Commencement was at hand. Here was a chance, indeed; here was a theme commensurate with the occasion. The two young dreamers would outline an epic poem; they would essay "Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme":

"Now shall the adventurous Muse attempt a theme
More new, more noble, and more flush of fame
Than all that went before."

Never was graduating exercise based on broader foundations. The young graduates bewail at every step their limitations of space. The plan they suggest is the plan of a "Columbiad." They would begin with all the tale of Columbus; they would rehearse the story of Cortez and Pizarro; they would discuss at learned length the origin and the characteristics of the Indians; they would tell the story of the early colonies; and would trace the course of settlement and review the progress and the promise of agriculture and commerce; they would peer into the future and mark the time

"When we shall spread
Dominion from the North and South and West,
Far from the Atlantic to Pacific shores,
And shackle half the convex of the main."

But, alas, the time! An epic cannot be condensed into a graduation exercise. Suddenly the poet bursts into true prophetic rapture:

"I see, I see
A thousand kingdoms rais'd, cities, and men
Num'rous as sand upon the ocean shore;
Th' Ohio then shall glide by many a town
Of note: and where the Mississippi stream,
By forests shaded now runs weeping on,
Nations shall grow and States not less in fame
Than Greece and Rome of old: we too shall boast
Our Alexanders, Pompeys, heroes, kings
That in the womb of time yet dormant lye
Waiting the joyful hour of life and light.
O snatch us hence, ye muses! to those days
When, through the veil of dark antiquity,
Our sons shall hear of us as things remote,
That blossom'd in the morn of days, alas!
How could I weep that we were born so soon,
In the beginning of more happy times!

It is not a great poem when we measure it by absolute standards, but "The Rising Glory of America" is a very great poem if we view it in connection with the conditions and the environment that produced it. Full as it is of Latin influence and Commencement day zeal, it is the first real poem that America ever made—the first poem that was impelled hot from a man's soul. It is more than this, it is the first real fruit of a new influence in the world of letters—the first literary product of that mighty force that was to set in motion the American and French Revolutions, with all that they mean in human history.

America should have recognized this new and original voice, and should have encouraged it to sing the new message which it had to proclaim to the world, but she was not yet ready.

How the young dreamer, who had seen life from his earliest years only through the medium of his books, was gradually disillusioned, we have endeavored to show. His first book, put forth in the enthusiasm of inexperience, with his name on the title-page, was "damned by all good and judicious judges." So was Wordsworth's; so have been the earliest ventures of every innovator in the field of song. Gradually the young poet awoke to a realization of his position: America was unprepared for her prophet; she would not listen. The discovery disheartened him; his Celtic temperament would not patiently wait for recognition, as did Wordsworth; he was too proud to force his poetry upon an unwilling public. He would leave the scene, for three years to dwell in the dreamy seclusion of the tropic islands.

This was his period of pure invention, where he showed the possibilities of his genius. With the "House of Night" he became one of the earliest pioneers in that dimly-lighted region which was soon to be exploited by Coleridge and Poe. The poem is the first distinctly romantic note heard in America. Moreover, one may search in vain in the English poetry of the early romantic movement for anything that can equal it in strength of conception, in mastery of weird epithet, and in sustained command over the vaguely terrible. The page that recounts the poet's departure from the house of night, quaking with fear,—

"Beneath my feet substantial darkness lay,
And screams were heard from the distempered ground,"

his timid look behind him to find the windows of the infernal dome a "flaming hell-red," the fearful shrieks of the dying monster within the walls, the "hell-red wandering light" that led him to the graves, the sudden peal of the iron bell above him in the darkness, and then the troop of spectres galloping fiercely on Death's horses, while "their busy eyes shot terror to my soul,"—all this is worthy of Poe. As a product of pure imagination, the poem is most remarkable, especially when we view it in connection with the English literature of its day. In its weird supernaturalism it anticipated Scott, and in its unearthly atmosphere it clearly anticipated Coleridge.

In the "Jamaica Funeral" the poet outlined his early philosophy of life. He was fast breaking from the influence of Gray, his early master. It is a Gallic philosophy that he outlines; he is becoming infected with Deism; he is a true bacchanalian. Is there not a ring of the "Rubaiyat" in a stanza like this:

"Count all the trees that crown Jamaica's hills,
Count all the stars that through the heavens you see,
Count every drop that the wide ocean fills,
Then count the pleasures Bacchus yields to me?"

Freneau's early dream of a purely poetic career was rudely broken by the sudden clash of war and by the sternly practical nature of the American people. Circumstances decided for him his career. There was needed a poetic voice to arouse the common people to action. There was no demand for an imaginative creator, for a sensuous singer of love and wine,—America needed a popular voice, one that could be understood by the unlettered, one that with satire and patriotic appeal could arouse and fire the land. Freneau laid aside for a time the harp and the lyre and took up the trumpet and the bagpipes, and of his influence on the stormy period of the Revolution there can be no two opinions. His ballads and satires were scattered far and wide; they were sold in broadsides in every port and city and camp. Even in the war of 1812 his poems flew like leaves everywhere that men were gathered together. To be the lyrist of a righteous revolution, and above all to be the people's poet, is in itself no small distinction.

His poems of the war are in themselves a running history of the struggle, especially of its last years. His heart was in his work; the prison ship had blotted for a time all memories of the old criticisms of his early work, all his early dreams, everything save "the insulting foe" who was making desolate his dear mother land. He lampooned without mercy Clinton, Cornwallis, Carleton, and the royalist printers, Rivington and Gaine. He sang tender lyrics of the patriot dead at Eutaw Springs, who

"Saw their injured Country's woe;
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear,—but left the shield."

He sang peans of victory over the downfall at Yorktown; he exalted the fame of Washington; he called down maledictions on the ship that bore the "worthless Arnold" from American shores. These are more than the fleeting voices of a newspaper muse; they are true poems, and they are American to the core. Scott declared that "Eutaw Springs [was] as fine a thing as there is of the kind in the language."

With a few fiery songs he placed himself at the head of the small group of naval lyrists, a position which even to-day he has not wholly lost. In dash and fire, in ability to catch and reproduce the odors and the atmosphere of the ocean, in enthusiasm and excitement that is contagious and that plunges the reader at once into the heart of the action, and in glowing patriotism that makes the poems national hymns, no American poet has excelled this earliest singer of the American ocean. No true patriot can read without a thrill of pride such songs as "Captain Jones's Invitation" and "The Death of Captain Biddle," a song of the intrepid seaman who from the Randolph poured death into the British ship:

"Tremendous flash! and hark, the ball
Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all,"

and then in a fatal moment was blown up by his own magazine, and "Stanzas on the New Frigate Alliance," the gallant ship "who walks the ocean like its queen," and "Barney's Victory over the General Monk," that rollicking song of battle and of triumph, and best of all, perhaps, "The Sailor's Invitation," which is full of the very salt and vigor of the western seas. "The Memorable Victory of Paul Jones," written when America was ringing with the first news of the battle, is one of the glories of American literature. Longfellow or Whittier never wrote a more stirring ballad. It moves with leaps and bounds; it is full of the very spirit of battle.

"She felt the fury of her ball,
Down, prostrate down, the Britons fall;
The decks are strew'd with slain:
Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd;
And while the black artillery flash'd
Loud thunders shook the main."

It is not impertinent to observe that Thomas Campbell was but four years of age when this appeared. It was not Scott or Cooper who added the domain of the ocean to literature; it was Freneau. His books are full of the roar and the sweep of the open sea, which he knew as the farmer knows his ancestral acres. There is no more true and vigorous picture of an ocean voyage and a naval combat than that contained in Canto I of "The British Prison Ship." The episode of the boatswain's fiery prayer, just before the conflict, is unique in literature.

The war over, Freneau would return to his dream; he would pour forth the poetic message that was in him; but his countrymen, delighting in his hard blows and biting sarcasm, refused to listen to the merely poetic. They demanded jingles and clever hits. The poet turned fiercely upon them. "For men I keep a pen," he cried, "for dogs a cane." The time for using the cane was past; he would use it no more. But who would listen to anything that was not rant and bombast? Fate had thrown him into a "bard-baiting clime." A wave of the old bitterness swept over him:

"Expect not in these times of rude renown
That verse like yours will have the chance to please:
No taste for plaintive elegy is known,
Nor lyric ode,—none care for things like these."

How he at length deliberately turned from the muse of his choice, and how after a long experience with the world of actual affairs he exchanged his old poetic ideals for those of mere reason and common sense, we have attempted to show.

Here was a man equipped by nature for a true poet, a man with a message, yet dwarfed and transformed by his environment. America was not ready for her singer. It took half a century more to make way in the wilderness for the new message that had been whispered to Freneau in his young manhood. Had he been a great world-poet, he would have been heard despite all difficulties; he would have trampled down the barriers about him and have compelled his age to listen, but the task was beyond him. America, to this day, has produced no poet who single-handed and alone could have performed such a labor of Hercules. Sadly Freneau turned to other things.

He has never been adequately recognized. Had the first edition of his poems, published the same year as the Kilmarnock edition of Burns, been an English book, it long ago would have figured largely in the histories of the romantic and naturalistic movement which made possible the great outburst of the nineteenth century. That Freneau was the most conspicuous pioneer in the dim romantic world that was to be explored by Coleridge and Poe, we have already shown; that he was a pioneer in the movement that succeeded in throwing off the chain forged by Pope is evident to any one who will examine his early work. "The Wild Honey Suckle," for instance, which was written in 1786, twelve years before the "Lyrical Ballads," is as spontaneous and as free from Pope as anything written by Wordsworth. It is a nature lyric written with the eye upon the object, without recollection of other poetry, and it draws from the humble flower a lesson for humanity in the true Wordsworthian manner. Before Freneau, American poetry had been full of the eglantine, the yew, the Babylonian willow, the lark—the flora and fauna of the Hebrew and British bards. In our poet we find, for the first time, the actual life of the American forest and field—the wild pink, the elm, the wild honeysuckle, the pumpkin, the blackbird, the squirrel, the partridge, "the loquacious whip-poor-will," and in addition to this the varied life of the American tropic islands. We find for the first time examples of that true poetic spirit that can find inspiration in humble and even vulgar things; that, furthermore, can draw from lowly nature and her commonplaces deep lessons for human life. Freneau sees the reflection of the stars in the bosom of the river,

"But when the tide had ebbed away
The scene fantastic with it fled,
A bank of mud around me lay
And sea-weed on the river's bed,"

and from this he draws the obvious moral for human life. Consider what Pope would have said of mud. Indeed, to appreciate Freneau, one must come to him after a careful reading of the classic poets who preceded him. What a shock to this school would have been the vividly realistic poem on "Logtown." Just how much Freneau influenced the school of poets who in England broke away from the trammels of the eighteenth century, we can never know; yet no one can read long in the American poet and not be convinced that his influence was considerable. His poems were known and read freely in England at the very dawn of the critical period in British poetry, and their echoes can be detected more than once.

In his use of his native land and his familiar surroundings as a background for art, Freneau discovered the poetical side of the Indian, and thus became the literary father of Brockden Brown, Cooper, and the little school of poets which in the early years of the century fondly believed that the aboriginal American was to be the central figure in the poetry of the new world. To the little real poetry that there is in the Indian, Freneau did full justice, but he went to no such absurd lengths as did Eastburn and Whittier. The "Indian Death Song," if it indeed be his, is full of the wild, stoical heroism of the brave who is dying beneath the torture of his enemies. In "The Indian Student" he has covered fully the Indian's love for the pathless forest, and to the untamable wildness of his nature. "The Dying Indian" and "The Indian Burying-Ground" sum up what is essentially poetic in Indian legend and all that is pathetic in the fate of the vanishing race. Poetry, if it is to confine itself to the truth, can do little more for the Indian.

Such was Philip Freneau, a man in every respect worthy to bear the title of "the father of American poetry." He was the first true poet born upon our continent; he realized in his early youth his vocation; he gave himself with vigor and enthusiasm to his calling; he fitted himself by wide reading and classic culture; he received the full inspiration of a great movement in human society; he lifted up his voice to sing, but he was smothered and silenced by his contemporaries. He was all alone; he had about him no circle of "Pleiades" to encourage and assist; he had no traditions, religious or otherwise, that would compel silence. He was out of step with the theology of his generation; he was out of tune with the music of his day; he was beating time a half century ahead of the chorus about him. The people have to be educated to revolution, and America had not yet learned to take the initiative in things intellectual and æsthetic. She must follow the literary fashions beyond the sea. Freneau was for breaking violently away from England and for setting up a new standard of culture and literary art on this side the water.

"Can we never be thought
To have learning or grace
Unless it be brought
From that damnable place?"

he cried. But he reckoned without his countrymen. Not until Emerson's day did it dawn upon America that it was possible for her to think for herself and make poetry that did not echo the English bards. Thus did America reject her earliest prophet; thus did she stop her ears and compel him to lay aside his seven-stringed lyre for the horn and the bagpipes.

Freneau lived to see his discarded harp in full tune in other hands, first in England and then in his own land. There is something truly pathetic in the figure of the old minstrel, who had realized almost nothing of his early dreams, and yet who had been told by the great Jeffries that the time would surely come when his poems would command a commentator like Gray, who had been extravagantly praised by such masters as Scott and Campbell, who had written to Madison as late as 1815, "my publisher tells me the town will have them [his verses] and of course have them they will," it is pathetic to see this poet, in his hoary old age, for he lived until 1832, realizing that he had been utterly forgotten, witnessing the triumph of the very songs that had haunted his youth, and seeing those who had not half his native ability crowned by those who had rejected and forgotten him. Such ever is the penalty of being born out of due time.

The present age has also been unjust to Freneau. It has left his poems in their first editions, which are now extremely rare and costly; it has scattered his letters and papers to the winds; it has garbled and distorted his life in every book of reference; it has left untold the true story of his career; it has judged him from generalizations that have floated from no one knows where. But time works slowly with her verdicts; true merit in the end is sure to receive its deserts; and Freneau may even yet be given the place that is his.

[1] Ann Maury's Memoirs of a Huguenot.

[2] In the possession of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania.

[3] Madison Papers, Vol. XIII. p. 9.

[4] Introduction to the 1846 edition of "Modern Chivalry."

[5] The United States Magazine, February number.

[6] A perfectly preserved copy is in the possession of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania.

[7] In the possession of Miss Adele M. Sweeney, Jersey City.

[8] Published in the Freeman's Journal, August 20, 1788.

[9] Published in the Freeman's Journal, July 8, 1789.

[10] American Historical Review, January, 1898.

[11] Randall's Life of Jefferson, vol. ii, 78.

[12] Randall's Life of Thomas Jefferson, ii, 81.

[13] Writings of Jefferson, i, 231.

[14] Writings of Jefferson, i, 251.

[15] Wallace Papers, vol. i. Pa. Hist. Soc.

[16] Madison Papers, vol. xxi, p. 70.

[17] In the possession of Adele M. Sweeney.

[18] In the possession of Mrs. Helen K. Vreeland.

[19] Madison Papers, xxxiv, p. 77.

[20] Madison Papers, vol. xxxv, p. 17.

[21] Morer. Horace, Epistles, Lib. ii, lines 1-4.

[22] Jefferson Papers, series 2, vol. 34, p. 135.

[23] Jefferson Papers, series 2, vol. 34, p. 134.

[24] Madison Papers, vol. liv, p. 49.

[25] Madison Papers, vol. liv, p. 49.

[26] Madison Papers, vol. lv, p. 5.

[27] Madison Papers, vol. lv, p. 77.

[28] Contributed to Duyckinck's Cyclopædia of American Literature.

PART I

EARLY POEMS

1768—1775

THE

POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU

THE HISTORY OF THE PROPHET JONAH[29]

Versified (or rather paraphrased) from the sacred writings.

Canto I.

In ages past, when smit with warmth sublime,
Their bards foretold the dark events of time,
And piercing forward through the mystic shade,
Kings yet to come, and chiefs unborn survey'd,
Amittai's son perceiv'd, among the rest,
The mighty flame usurp his labouring breast:—
For this, in dreams, the voice unerring came
Of Him, who lives through every age the same:
"Arise! and o'er the intervening waste,
"To Nineveh's imperial turrets haste;
"That mighty town to ruin I decree,
"Proclaim destruction, and proclaim from me:
"Too long it stands, to God and man a foe,
"Without one virtue left to shield the blow;
"Guilt, black as night, their speedy ruin brings,
"And hottest vengeance from the King of Kings."
The prophet heard—but dared to disobey,
(Weak as he was) and fled a different way;
In Joppa's port a trading ship he found
Far o'er the main to distant Tarshish bound:
The price of passage to her chief he paid,
And there conceal'd with wandering sailors stay'd,
His purpose fixt, at once perverse and blind,
To leave his country, and his God behind.
But He who spread the ocean's vast expanse,
And views all nature with a single glance,
Forth from its prison bade the tempest fly—
The tempest swell'd the ocean to the sky;
The trembling barque, as the fierce billow knocks,
Scarce bears the fury of repeated shocks;
Her crew distrest, astonish'd and afraid,
Each to his various god in anguish pray'd,
Nor trust alone to penitence and prayer,
They clear the decks, and for the worst prepare,
The costly lading to the deep they throw,
That lighter o'er the billows she may go,
Nor with regret the wealthy cargo spared,
For wealth is nothing when with life compared.
But to the ship's remotest chambers fled
There pensive Jonah droop'd his languid head,
And, new to all the dangers of the deep,
Had sunk, dejected, in the arms of sleep—
'Twas then the master broke the prophet's rest,
And thus exclaim'd, and smote his frantic breast—
"O sleeper, from thy stupid slumbers rise,
"At such an hour can sleep invade thine eyes?—
"If ever thou to heaven didst send a prayer,
"Now send thy warmest supplications there,
"Perhaps thy God may pity our distress,
"And save us, foundering in this dark abyss."
Thus warn'd, the seer his vows repentant paid—
Meantime, the seamen to their fellows said:
"No common waves our shatter'd vessel rend,
"There must be one for whom these storms impend,
"Some wretch we bear, for whom these billows rise,
"Foe to the gods, and hated by the skies;
"Come, since the billows all our arts defy,
"Come, let the lot decide for whom we die."
Instant the lots amidst the vase they threw,
And the markt lot dejected Jonah drew!
Then thus their chief the guilty man address'd,
"Say, for what crime of thine are we distrest?
"What is thy country, what thy calling, say,
"Whence dost thou come, what potentate obey?
"Unfold it all, nor be the truth deny'd."—
The master spoke, and Jonah thus reply'd:
"A Hebrew I, from neighbouring regions came,
"A Jewish prophet, of no vulgar fame:
"That God I fear who spread this raging sea,
"Who fixt the shores by his supreme decree,
"And reigns throughout immeasurable space,
"His footstool earth, the heaven his dwelling place.
"But I, regardless of his high command,
"His mandate slighting, fled my native land,
"Fool that I was, from Joppa's port to fly,
"Who thought to shun his all-pervading eye!
"For this the tempest rends each tatter'd sail,
"For this your vessel scarce supports the gale!"
The seamen heard, distracted and dismay'd;
When thus again their trembling pilot said:
"How couldst thou thus, ungenerous as thou art,
"Affront thy patron, and with us depart?—
"Lo! for thy crimes, and not our own, we die;
"Mark, how the wild waves threaten from on high,
"Our sails in fragments flit before the blast,
"Scarce to its station we confine the mast;
"What shall we do, unhappy man, declare,
"How shall we act, or how direct our prayer,
"That angry Neptune may his rage restrain,
"And hush once more these tumults of the main?"
The seer reply'd, "The means are in your power
"To still the tempest in this dreadful hour:—
"High on the sea-beat prow will I ascend,
"And let the boldest of your crew attend
"To plunge me headlong from that giddy steep
"Down to the bosom of the unfathom'd deep;
"So shall the ocean from its raging cease,
"And the fierce tempest soon be hush'd to peace:—
"'Tis for my crimes this angry ocean raves,
"'Tis for my sin we plough these fearful waves;
"Dislodge me soon—the storm shall then decay,
"Which still grows louder while on board I stay."
Thus he—but they, to save their vagrant guest,
Refus'd as yet to grant his strange request,
And though aloft on mountain waves they ride,
And the tost galley reels from side to side,
Yet to their breasts they drew the sweepy oar,
And vainly strove to gain the distant shore:
The ruffian winds refuse that wish'd retreat,
And fiercer o'er the decks the billows beat.
Then to the skies the chief his prayer addrest,
"Thou Jove supreme, the greatest and the best!
"Because thy sovereign pleasure doth require
"That death alone must satisfy thine ire,
"O spare us for thy dying prophet's sake,
"Nor let us perish for the life we take;
"If we are wrong, his lot was thy decree,
"And thou hast done as it seem'd best to thee."
Then from the summit of the washy prow,
They plunged the prophet to the depths below,
And straight the winds, and straight the billows cease,
And every threatening surge lay hush'd in peace;
The trembling crew adore the Power Supreme
Who kindly thus from ruin rescued them;
Their vows they send to his imperial throne,
And victims offer to this God unknown.

Canto II.

When from the prow's intimidating height
They plung'd the prophet to the realms of night,
Not long he languished in the briny deep,
In death's cold arms not yet decreed to sleep.—
Jehovah saw him, from the abodes of bliss,
Sunk to the bottom of the vast abyss,
And bade a whale, the mightiest of the kind,
His prophet in these dismal mansions find—
The hostile form, approaching through the wave,
Receiv'd him living to a living grave,
Where three long days in dark distress he lay,
And oft repenting, to his God did pray—
The power benign, propitious to his prayer,
Bade the huge fish to neighbouring shores repair—
Instant the whale obey'd the high command,
And cast him safe on Palestina's strand.
The prophet then his past transgressions mourn'd,
And grateful, thus to heaven his thanks return'd:
"Afflicted from the depths of hell I pray'd,
"The dark abyss of everlasting shade:
"My God in mercy heard the earnest prayer,
"And dying Jonah felt thy presence there.
"Because I dared thy mandate disobey,
"Far didst thou plunge me from the face of day:
"In the vast ocean, where no land is found,
"The mighty waters closed thy prophet round:
"On me the waves their utmost fury spent,
"And all thy billows o'er my body went,
"Yet then, surrounded by the dismal shade,
"Thus to my Maker from the depths I said:
"Though hid beneath the caverns of the main,
"To thy blest temple will I look again,
"Though from thy sight to utter darkness thrown,
"Still will I trust, and trust on thee alone—
"With anguish deep I felt the billows roll,
"Scarce in her mansion stay'd my frighted soul;
"About my head were wrapt the weeds of night,
"And darkness, mingled with no ray of light;
"I reached the caves the briny ocean fills,
"I reached the bases of the infernal hills,
"Earth, with her bars, encompass'd me around,
"Yet, from the bottom of that dark profound
"Where life no more the swelling vein supplies,
"And death reposes, didst thou bid me rise.
"When fainting nature bow'd to thy decree,
"And the lone spirit had prepar'd to flee,
"Then from my prison I remember'd thee.
"My prayer towards thy heavenly temple came,
"The temple sacred to Jehovah's name.—
"Unhappy they, who vanities pursue,
"And lies believing, their own souls undo—
"But to thine ear my grateful song shall rise,
"For thee shall smoke the atoning sacrifice,
"My vows I'll pay at thy imperial throne,
"Since my salvation was from thee alone."

Canto III.

Once more the voice to humbled Jonah came
Of Him, who lives through every age the same:
"Arise! and o'er the intervening waste
"To Nineveh's exalted turrets haste,
"And what to thee my Spirit shall reveal,
"That preach—nor dare the sacred truth conceal—
"To desolation I that town decree;
"Proclaim destruction, and proclaim from me."
Obedient to Jehovah's high command,
The prophet rose, and left Judea's land,
And now he near the spiry city drew,
(Euphrates pass'd, and rapid Tigris too:)
So vast the bulk of this prodigious place,
Three days were scant its lengthy streets to trace;
But as he enter'd, on the first sad day,
Thus he began his tidings of dismay:
"O Nineveh! to heaven's decree attend!
"Yet forty days, and all thy glories end;
"Yet forty days, the skies protract thy fall,
"And desolation then shall bury all,
"Thy proudest towers their utter ruin mourn,
"And domes and temples unextinguished burn!
"O Nineveh! the God of armies dooms
"Thy thousand streets to never-ending glooms:
"Through mouldering fanes the hollow winds shall roar,
"And vultures scream where monarchy lodg'd before!
"Thy guilty sons shall bow beneath the sword,
"Thy captive matrons own a foreign lord.—
"Such is the vengeance that the heavens decree,
"Such is the ruin that must bury thee!"
The people heard, and smit with instant fear,
Believ'd the fatal warnings of the seer:
This sudden ruin so their souls distrest,
That each with sackcloth did his limbs invest,
From him that glitter'd on the regal throne,
To him that did beneath the burden groan.—
Soon to their monarch came this voice of fate.
Who left his throne and costly robes of state,
And o'er his limbs a vest of sackcloth drew,
And sate in ashes, sorrowful to view—
His lords and nobles, now repentant grown,
With equal grief their various sins bemoan,
And through the city sent this loud decree,
With threatening back'd, and dreadful penalty:
"Ye Ninevites! your wonted food refrain,
"Nor touch, ye beasts, the herbage of the plain,
"Let all that live be humbled to the dust,
"Nor taste the waters, though ye die of thirst;
"Let men and beasts the garb of sorrow wear,
"And beg yon' skies these guilty walls to spare:
"Let all repent the evil they pursue,
"And curse the mischief that their hands would do—
"Perhaps that God, who leans to mercy still,
"And sent a prophet to declare his will,
"May yet the vengeance he designs, adjourn,
"And, ere we perish, from his anger turn."
Jehovah heard, and pleas'd beheld at last
Their deep repentance for transgressions past,
With pity moved, he heard the earnest prayer
Of this vast city, humbled in despair;
Though justly due, his anger dies away,
He bids the angel of destruction stay:—
The obedient angel hears the high command,
And sheathes the sword, he drew to smite the land.

Canto IV.

But anger swell'd the haughty prophet's breast,
Rage burn'd within, and robb'd his soul of rest;
Such was his pride, he wish'd they all in flame
Might rather perish than belie his fame,
And God's own bolts the tottering towers assail,
And millions perish, than his word should fail.
Then to the heavens he sent this peevish prayer—
(Vain, impious man, to send such pinings there):
"While yet within my native land, I stay'd,
"This would at last reward my toil, I said,
"Destruction through the Assyrian streets to cry,
"And then the event my mission falsify;
"For this I strove to shun thy sight before,
"And sought repose upon a foreign shore;
"I knew thou wert so gracious and so kind,
"Such mercy sways thy all creating mind,
"Averse thy bolts of vengeance to employ,
"And still relenting when you should'st destroy,
"That when I had declar'd thy sacred will,
"Thou would'st not what I prophesy'd fulfil,
"But leave me thus to scorn, contempt, and shame,
"A lying prophet, blasted in my fame—
"And now, I pray thee, grant my last request,
"O take my life, so wretched and unblest!
"If here I stay, 'tis but to grieve and sigh;
"Then take my life—'tis better far to die!"
"Is it thy place to swell with rage and pride,
"(Thus to his pining prophet, God reply'd)
"Say is it just thy heart should burn with ire
"Because yon' city is not wrapt in fire?
"What if I choose its ruin to delay,
"And send destruction on some future day,
"Must thou, for that, with wasting anguish sigh,
"And, hostile to my pleasure, wish to die?"
Then Jonah parted from the mourning town,
And near its eastern limits sate him down,
A booth he builded with assiduous care,
(Form'd of the cypress boughs that flourish'd there)
And anxious now beneath their shadow lay,
Waiting the issue of the fortieth day—
As yet uncertain if the Power Divine
Or would to mercy, or to wrath incline—
Meantime the leaves that roof'd his arbour o'er,
Shrunk up and faded, sheltered him no more;
But God ordain'd a thrifty gourd to rise,
To screen his prophet from the scorching skies;
High o'er his head aspired the spreading leaf,
Too fondly meant to mitigate his grief.
So close a foliage o'er his head was made,
That not a beam could pierce the happy shade:
The wondering seer perceiv'd the branches grow
And bless'd the shadow that reliev'd his woe;
But when the next bright morn began to shine
(So God ordain'd) a worm attack'd the vine,
Beneath his bite its goodly leaves decay,
And wasting, withering, die before the day!
Then as the lamp of heaven still higher rose
From eastern skies a sultry tempest blows,
The vertic sun as fiercely pour'd his ray,
And beam'd around insufferable day.
How beat those beams on Jonah's fainting head!
How oft he wish'd a place among the dead!
All he could do, was now to grieve and sigh,
His life detest, and beg of God to die.
Again, Jehovah to his prophet said,
"Art thou so angry for thy vanish'd shade—
"For a mere shadow dost thou well to grieve,
"For this poor loss would'st thou thy being leave?"—
"My rage is just, (the frantic prophet cry'd),
"My last, my only comfort is deny'd—
"The spreading vine that form'd my leafy bower;
"Behold it vanish'd in the needful hour!
"To beating winds and sultry suns a prey,
"My fainting spirit droops and dies away—
"Give me a mansion in my native dust,
"For though I die with rage, my rage is just."
Once more the Almighty deign'd to make reply—
"Does this lost gourd thy sorrow swell so high,
"Whose friendly shade not to thy toil was due,
"Alone it sprouted and alone it grew;
"A night beheld its branches waving high,
"And the next sun beheld those branches die;
"And should not pity move the Lord of all
"To spare the vast Assyrian capital,
"Within whose walls uncounted myriads stray,
"Their Father I, my sinful offspring they?—
"Should they not move the creating mind
"With six score thousand of the infant kind,
"And herds untold that graze the spacious field,
"For whom yon' meads their stores of fragrance yield;
"Should I this royal city wrap in flame,
"And slaughter millions to support thy fame,
"When now repentant to their God they turn,
"And their past follies, low in ashes, mourn?—
"Vain, thoughtless wretch, recall thy weak request,
"Death never came to man a welcome guest;—
"Why wish to die—what madness prompts thy mind?
"Too long the days of darkness thou shalt find;
"Life was a blessing by thy Maker meant,
"Dost thou despise the blessings he has lent—
"Enjoy my gifts while yet the seasons run
"True to their months, and social with the sun;
"When to the dust my mandate bids thee fall,
"All these are lost, for death conceals them all—
"No more the sun illumes the sprightly day,
"The seasons vanish, and the stars decay:
"The trees, the flowers, no more thy sense delight,
"Death shades them all in ever-during night.
"Then think not long the little space I lent—
"Of thy own sins, like Nineveh, repent;
"Rejoice at last the mighty change to see,
"And bear with them as I have borne with thee."

[29] Found only in the 1786, 1795, and 1809 editions of the poet. The 1786 edition has the note: "This is rather to be considered as a paraphrase upon than a mere versification of the story of the Bible. Done in the year 1768."

THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON SWAUGUM,
A VILLAGE MERCHANT[30]

Written in 1768.

Preliminary Particulars

Sprung from a race that had long till'd the soil,
And first disrobed it of its native trees,
He wish'd to heir their lands, but not their toil,
And thought the ploughman's life no life of ease;—
"'Tis wrong (said he) these pretty hands to wound
"With felling oaks, or delving in the ground:
"I, who at least have forty pounds in cash
"And in a country store might cut a dash,
"Why should I till these barren fields (he said)
"I who have learnt to cypher, write and read,
"These fields that shrubs, and weeds, and brambles bear,
"That pay me not, and only bring me care!"
Some thoughts had he, long while, to quit the sod,
In sea-port towns to try his luck in trade,
But, then, their ways of living seem'd most odd—
For dusty streets to leave his native shade,
From grassy plats to pebbled walks removed—
The more he thought of them, the less he loved:
The city springs he could not drink, and still
Preferr'd the fountain near some bushy hill:
And yet no splendid objects there were seen,
No distant hills, in gaudy colours clad,
Look where you would, the prospect was but mean,
Scrub oaks, and scatter'd pines, and willows sad—
Banks of a shallow river, stain'd with mud;
A stream, where never swell'd the tide of flood,
Nor lofty ship her topsails did unlose,
Nor sailor sail'd, except in long canoes.
It would have puzzled Faustus, to have told,
What did attach him to this paltry spot;
Where even the house he heir'd was very old,
And all its outworks hardly worth a groat:
Yet so it was, the fancy took his brain
A country shop might here some custom gain:
Whiskey, he knew, would always be in vogue,
While there are country squires to take a cogue,
Laces and lawns would draw each rural maid,
And one must have her shawl, and one her shade.—

The Shop Described and the
Merchant's Outset

Hard by the road a pigmy building stood,
Thatch'd was its roof, and earthen were its floors;
So small its size, that, in a jesting mood,
It might be call'd a house turn'd out of doors—
Yet here, adjacent to an aged oak,
Full fifty years old dad his hams did smoke,
Nor ceas'd the trade, 'till worn with years and spent,
To Pluto's smoke-house he, himself, was sent.
Hither our merchant turn'd his curious eye,
And mused awhile upon this sable shell;
"Here father smoked his hogs (he said) and why
"In truth, may not our garret do as well?"
So, down he took his hams and bacon flitches,
Resolv'd to fill the place with other riches;
From every hole and cranny brush'd the soot,
And fixt up shelves throughout the crazy hut;
A counter, too, most cunningly was plann'd,
Behind whose breast-work none but he might stand,
Excepting now and then, by special grace,
Some brother merchant from some other place.
Now, muster'd up his cash, and said his prayers,
In Sunday suit he rigs himself for town,
Two raw-boned steeds (design'd for great affairs)
Are to the waggon hitch'd, old Bay and Brown;
Who ne'er had been before a league from home,
But now are doom'd full many a mile to roam,
Like merchant-ships, a various freight to bring
Of ribbons, lawns, and many a tawdry thing.
Molasses too, blest sweet, was not forgot,
And island Rum, that every taste delights,
And teas, for maid and matron must be bought,
Rosin and catgut strings for fiddling wights—
But why should I his invoice here repeat?
'Twould be like counting grains in pecks of wheat.
Half Europe's goods were on his invoice found,
And all was to be bought with forty pound!
Soon as the early dawn proclaim'd the day,
He cock'd his hat with pins, and comb'd his hair:
Curious it was, and laughable to see
The village-merchant, mounted in his chair:
Shelves, piled with lawns and linens, in his head,
Coatings and stuffs, and cloths, and scarlets red—
All that would suit man, woman, girl, or boy;
Muslins and muslinets, jeans, grograms, corduroy.
Alack! said I, he little, little dreams
That all the cash he guards with studious care—
His cash! the mother of a thousand schemes,
Will hardly buy a load of earthen ware!
But why should I excite the hidden tear
By whispering truths ungrateful to his ear;
Still let him travel on, with scheming pate,
As disappointment never comes too late.—

His Journey to the Metropolis; and Mercantile
Transactions

Through woods obscure and rough perplexing ways,
Slow and alone, he urged the clumsy wheel;
Now stopping short, to let his horses graze,
Now treating them with straw and Indian meal:
At length a lofty steeple caught his eye,
"Higher (thought he) than ever kite did fly:—
But so it is, these churchmen are so proud
They ever will be climbing to a cloud;
Bound on a sky-blue cruise, they always rig
The longest steeple, and the largest wig."
Now safe arrived upon the pebbled way,
Where well-born steeds the rattling coaches trail,
Where shops on shops are seen—and ladies gay
Walk with their curtains some, and some their veil;
Where sons of art their various labors shew
And one cries fish! and one cries muffins ho!
Amaz'd, alike, the merchant, and his pair
Of scare-crow steeds, did nothing else but stare;
So new was all the scene, that, smit with awe,
They grinn'd, and gaz'd, and gap'd at all they saw,
And often stopp'd, to ask at every door,
"Sirs, can you tell us where's the cheapest store!"
"The cheapest store (a sly retailer said)
"Cheaper than cheap, guid faith, I have to sell;
"Here are some colour'd cloths that never fade:
"No other shop can serve you half so well;
"Wanting some money now, to pay my rent,
"I'll sell them at a loss of ten per cent.—
"Hum-hums are here—and muslins—what you please—
"Bandanas, baftas, pullcats, India teas;
"Improv'd by age, and now grown very old,
"And given away, you may depend—not sold!"
Lured by the bait the wily shopman laid,
He gave his steeds their mess of straw and meal,
Then gazing round the shop, thus, cautious said,
"Well, if you sell so cheap, I think we'll deal;
"But pray remember, 'tis for goods I'm come,
"For, as to polecats, we've enough at home—
"Full forty pounds I have, and that in gold
"(Enough to make a trading man look bold)
"Unrig your shelves, and let me take a peep;
"'Tis odds I leave them bare, you sell so cheap."
The city merchant stood, with lengthen'd jaws;
And stared awhile, then made this short reply—
"You clear my shelves! (he said)—this trunk of gauze
"Is more than all your forty pounds can buy:—
"On yonder board, whose burthen seems so small
"That one man's pocket might contain it all,
"More value lies, than you and all your race
"From Adam down, could purchase or possess."
Convinced, he turn'd him to another street,
Where humbler shopmen from the crowd retreat;
Here caught his eye coarse callicoes and crape,
Pipes and tobacco, ticklenburghs and tape.
Pitchers and pots, of value not so high
But he might sell, and forty pounds would buy.
Some jugs, some pots, some fifty ells of tape,
A keg of wine, a cask of low proof rum,
Bung'd close—for fear the spirit should escape
That many a sot was waiting for at home;
A gross of pipes, a case of home-made gin,
Tea, powder, shot—small parcels he laid in;
Molasses, too, for swichell[A]-loving wights,
(Swichell, that wings Sangrado's boldest flights,
When bursting forth the wild ideas roll,
Flash'd from that farthing-candle, call'd his soul:)
All these he bought, and would have purchased more,
To furnish out his Lilliputian store;
But cash fell short—and they who smiled while yet
The cash remain'd, now took a serious fit:—
No more the shop-girl could his talk endure,
But, like her cat, sat sullen and demure.—
The dull retailer found no more to say,
But shook his head, and wish'd to sneak away,
Leaving his house-dog, now, to make reply,
And watch the counter with a lynx's eye.—
Our merchant took the hint, and off he went,
Resolv'd to sell at twenty-five per cent.

[A] Molasses and water: A beverage much used in the eastern states.—Freneau's note.

The Merchant's Return

Returning far o'er many a hill and stone
And much in dread his earthen ware would break,
Thoughtful he rode, and uttering many a groan
Lest at some worm-hole vent his cask should leak—
His cask, that held the joys of rural squire
Which even, 'twas said, the parson did admire,
And valued more than all the dusty pages
That Calvin penn'd, and fifty other sages—
Once high in fame—beprais'd in verse and prose,
But now unthumb'd, enjoy a sweet repose.
At dusk of eve he reach'd his old abode,
Around him quick his anxious townsmen came,
One ask'd what luck had happ'd him on the road,
And one ungear'd the mud-bespatter'd team.
While on his cask each glanced a loving eye,
Patient, to all he gave a brisk reply—
Told all that had befallen him on his way,
What wonders in the town detain'd his stay—
"Houses as high as yonder white-oak tree
"And boats of monstrous size that go to sea,
"Streets throng'd with busy folk, like swarming hive;
"The Lord knows how they all contrive to live—
"No ploughs I saw, no hoes, no care, no charge,
"In fact, they all are gentlemen at large,
"And goods so thick on every window lie,
"They all seem born to sell—and none to buy."

The Catastrophe, or the
Broken Merchant

Alack-a-day! on life's uncertain road
How many plagues, what evils must befal;—
Jove has on none unmingled bliss bestow'd,
But disappointment is the lot of all:
Thieves rob our stores, in spite of locks and keys,
Cats steal our cream, and rats infest our cheese,
The gayest coat a grease-spot may assail,
Or Susan pin a dish-clout to its tail,—
Our village-merchant (trust me) had his share
Of vile mis-haps—for now, the goods unpackt,
Discover'd, what might make a deacon swear,
Jugs, cream-pots, pipes, and grog-bowls sadly crackt—
A general groan throughout the crowd was heard;
Most pitied him, and some his ruin fear'd;
Poor wight! 'twas sad to see him fret and chafe,
While each enquir'd, "Sir, is the rum-cask safe?"
Alas! even that some mischief had endured;—
One rascal hoop had started near the chine!—
Then curiously the bung-hole they explored,
With stem of pipe, the leakage to define—
Five gallons must be charged to loss and gain!—
"—Five gallons! (cry'd the merchant, writh'd with pain)
"Now may the cooper never see full flask,
"But still be driving at an empty cask—
"Five gallons might have mellowed down the 'squire
"And made the captain strut a full inch higher;
"Five gallons might have prompted many a song,
"And made a frolic more than five days long:
"Five gallons now are lost, and—sad to think,
"That when they leak'd—no soul was there to drink!"
Now, slightly treated with a proof-glass dram,
Each neighbour took his leave, and went to bed,
All but our merchant: he, with grief o'ercome,
Revolv'd strange notions in his scheming head—
"For losses such as these, (thought he) 'tis meant,
"That goods are sold at twenty-five per cent:
"No doubt these trading men know what is just,
"'Tis twenty-five times what they cost at first!"
So rigging off his shelves by light of candle,
The dismal smoke-house walls began to shine:
Here, stood his tea-pots—some without a handle—
A broken jar—and there his keg of wine;
Pipes, many a dozen, ordered in a row;
Jugs, mugs, and grog-bowls—less for sale than show:
The leaky cask, replenish'd from the well,
Roll'd to its birth—but we no tales will tell.—
Catching the eye in elegant display,
All was arranged and snug, by break of day:
The blue dram-bottle, on the counter plac'd,
Stood, all prepared for him that buys to taste;—
Sure bait! by which the man of cash is taken,
As rats are caught by cheese or scraps of bacon.
Now from all parts the rural people ran,
With ready cash, to buy what might be bought:
One went to choose a pot, and one a pan,
And they that had no pence their produce brought,
A hog, a calf, safe halter'd by the neck;
Potatoes (Ireland's glory) many a peck;
Bacon and cheese, of real value more
Than India's gems, or all Potosi's ore.
Some questions ask'd, the folks began to stare—
No soul would purchase, pipe, or pot, or pan:
Each shook his head—hung back—"Your goods so dear!
"In fact (said they) the devil's in the man!
"Rum ne'er shall meet my lips (cry'd honest Sam)
"In shape of toddy, punch, grog, sling, or dram;
"No cash of mine you'll get (said pouting Kate)
"While gauze is valued at so dear a rate."
Thus things dragg'd on for many a tedious day;
No custom came; and nought but discontent
Gloom'd through the shop.—"Well, let them have their way,
(The merchant said) I'll sell at cent per cent,
"By which, 'tis plain, I scarce myself can save,
"For cent per cent is just the price I gave."
"Now! (cry'd the squire who still had kept his pence)
"Now, Sir, you reason like a man of sense!
"Custom will now from every quarter come;
"In joyous streams shall flow the inspiring rum,
"'Till every soul in pleasing dreams be sunk,
"And even our Socrates himself—is drunk!"
Soon were the shelves disburthen'd of their load;
In three short hours the kegs of wine ran dry—
Swift from its tap even dull molasses flow'd;
Each saw the rum cask wasting, with a sigh—
The farce concluded, as it was foreseen—
With empty shelves—long trust—and law suits keen—
The woods resounding with a curse on trade,—
An empty purse—sour looks—and hanging head.—

The Puncheon's Eulogy

"Here lies a worthy corpse (Sangrado said)
"Its debt to Commerce now, no doubt, is paid.—
"Well—'twas a vile disease that kill'd it, sure,
"A quick consumption, that no art could cure!
"Thus shall we all, when life's vain dream is out,
"Be lodg'd in corners dark, or kick'd about!
"Time is the tapster of our race below,
"That turns the key, and bids the juices flow:
"Quitting my books, henceforth be mine the task
"To moralize upon this empty cask—
"Thank heaven we've had the taste—so far 'twas well;
"And still, thro' mercy, may enjoy the smell!"

Epilogue[31]

Well!—strange it is, that men will still apply
Things to themselves, that authors never meant:
Each country merchant asks me, "Is it I
On whom your rhyming ridicule is spent?"
Friends, hold your tongues—such myriads of your race
Adorn Columbia's fertile, favour'd climes,
A man might rove seven years from place to place
Ere he would know the subject of my rhymes.—
Perhaps in Jersey is this creature known,
Perhaps New-England claims him for her own:
And if from Fancy's world this wight I drew,
What is the imagin'd character to you?"

[30] From the 1809 edition of Freneau's poems. This piece does not appear in the editions of 1786 and 1788. It ran as a serial for several weeks in the National Gazette, beginning May 17, 1792, and it was immediately reprinted by Bache in his Aurora. I can find no earlier trace of it. It was printed, together with "The Country Printer," in 1794 by Hoff and Derrick, Philadelphia, as a 16-page pamphlet, under the title, "The Village Merchant," and it was given a place in the 1795 edition, dated "Anno 1768." In the 1809 edition it was first divided into sections with sub-titles.

[31] The epilogue was first added in 1795.

Debemur morti nos nostraque!

THE PYRAMIDS OF EGYPT[32]

A Dialogue. Written in 1770.

Scene.—Egypt.       Persons.—Traveller, Genius, Time.

Traveller

Where are those famed piles of human grandeur,
Those sphinxes, pyramids, and Pompey's pillar,
That bid defiance to the arm of Time—
Tell me, dear Genius: for I long to see them.

Genius

At Alexandria rises Pompey's pillar,
Whose birth is but of yesterday, compar'd
With those prodigious fabricks that you see
O'er yonder distant plain—upon whose breast
Old Nile hath never roll'd his swelling streams,
The only plain so privileg'd in Egypt.
These pyramids may well excite your wonder,
They are of most remote antiquity,
Almost co-eval with those cloud-crown'd hills
That westward from them rise—'twas the same age
That saw old Babel's tower aspiring high,
When first the sage Egyptian architects
These ancient turrets to the heavens rais'd;—
But Babel's tower is gone, and these remain!

Traveller

Old Rome I thought unrivall'd in her years,
At least the remnants that we find of Rome,
But these, you tell me, are of older date.

Genius

Talk not of Rome!—before they lopt a bush
From the seven hills where Rome, earth's empress, stood,
These pyramids were old—their birth day is
Beyond tradition's reach, or history.

Traveller

Then let us haste toward those piles of wonder
That scorn to bend beneath this weight of years—
Lo! to my view, the aweful mansions rise
The pride of art, the sleeping place of death!
Are these the four prodigious monuments
That so astonish every generation—
Let us examine this, the first and greatest—
A secret horror chills my breast, dear Genius,
To touch these monuments that are so ancient,
The fearful property of ghosts and death!—
Yet of such mighty bulk that I presume
A race of giants were the architects.—
Since these proud fabricks to the heavens were rais'd
How many generations have decay'd,
How many monarchies to ruin pass'd!
How many empires had their rise and fall!
While these remain—and promise to remain
As long as yonder sun shall gild their summits,
Or moon or stars their wonted circles run.

Genius

The time will come
When these stupendous piles you deem immortal,
Worn out with age, shall moulder on their bases,
And down, down, low to endless ruin verging,
O'erwhelm'd by dust, be seen and known no more!—
Ages ago, in dark oblivion's lap
Had they been shrouded, but the atmosphere
In these parch'd climates, hostile to decay,
Is pregnant with no rain, that by its moisture
Might waste their bulk in such excess of time,
And prove them merely mortal.
'Twas on this plain the ancient Memphis stood,
Her walls encircled these tall pyramids—
But where is Pharoah's palace, where the domes
Of Egypt's haughty lords?—all, all are gone,
And like the phantom snows of a May morning
Left not a vestige to discover them!

Traveller

How shall I reach the vortex of this pile—
How shall I clamber up its shelving sides?
I scarce endure to glance toward the summit,
It seems among the clouds—When was't thou rais'd,
O work of more than mortal majesty—
Was this produc'd by persevering man,
Or did the gods erect this pyramid?

Genius

Nor gods, nor giants rais'd this pyramid—
It was the toil of mortals like yourself
That swell'd it to the skies—
See'st thou yon' little door? Through that they pass'd,
Who rais'd so high this aggregate of wonders!
What cannot tyrants do,
When they have subject nations at their will,
And the world's wealth to gratify ambition!
Millions of slaves beneath their labours fainted
Who here were doom'd to toil incessantly,
And years elaps'd while groaning myriads strove
To raise this mighty tomb—and but to hide
The worthless bones of an Egyptian king.—
O wretch, could not a humbler tomb have done,
Could nothing but a pyramid inter thee!

Traveller

Perhaps old Jacob's race, when here oppress'd,
Rais'd, in their years of bondage this dread pile.

Genius

Before the Jewish patriarchs saw the light,
While yet the globe was in its infancy
These were erected to the pride of man—
Four thousand years have run their tedious round
Since these smooth stones were on each other laid,
Four thousand more may run as dull a round
Ere Egypt sees her pyramids decay'd.

Traveller

But suffer me to enter, and behold
The interior wonders of this edifice.

Genius

'Tis darkness all, with hateful silence join'd—
Here drowsy bats enjoy a dull repose,
And marble coffins, vacant of their bones,
Show where the royal dead in ruin lay!
By every pyramid a temple rose
Where oft in concert those of ancient time
Sung to their goddess Isis hymns of praise;
But these are fallen!—their columns too superb
Are levell'd with the dust—nor these alone—
Where is thy vocal statue, Memnon, now,
That once, responsive to the morning beams,
Harmoniously to father Phœbus sung!
Where is the image that in past time stood
High on the summit of yon' pyramid?—
Still may you see its polish'd pedestal—
Where art thou ancient Thebes?——all bury'd low,
All vanish'd! crumbled into mother dust,
And nothing of antiquity remains
But these huge pyramids, and yonder hills.

Time

Old Babel's tower hath felt my potent arm
I ruin'd Ecbatan and Babylon,
Thy huge Colossus, Rhodes, I tumbled down,
And on these pyramids I smote my scythe;
But they resist its edge—then let them stand.
But I can boast a greater feat than this,
I long ago have shrouded those in death
Who made those structures rebels to my power—
But, O return!—These piles are not immortal!
This earth, with all its balls of hills and mountains,
Shall perish by my hand—then how can these,
These hoary headed pyramids of Egypt,
That are but dwindled warts upon her body,
That on a little, little spot of ground
Extinguish the dull radiance of the sun,
Be proof to Death and me?——Traveller return—
There's nought but God immortal——He alone
Exists secure, when Man, and Death, and Time,
(Time not immortal, but a fancied point
In the vast circle of eternity)
Are swallow'd up, and, like the pyramids,
Leave not an atom for their monument!

[32] The text is from the edition of 1786. The 1795 edition has the note "anno 1769."

THE MONUMENT OF PHAON[33]

Written 1770.

Phaon, the admirer of Sappho, both of the isle of Lesbos, privately forsook this first object of his affections, and set out to visit foreign countries. Sappho, after having long mourned his absence (which is the subject of one of Ovid's finest epistles), is here supposed to fall into the company of Ismenius a traveller, who informs her that he saw the tomb of a certain Phaon in Sicily, erected to his memory by a lady of the island, and gives her the inscriptions, hinting to her that, in all probability, it belonged to the same person she bemoans. She thereupon, in a fit of rage and despair, throws herself from the famous Leucadian rock, and perishes in the gulph below.

Sappho

No more I sing by yonder shaded stream,
Where once intranc'd I fondly pass'd the day,
Supremely blest, when Phaon was my theme,
But wretched now, when Phaon is away!

Of all the youths that grac'd our Lesbian isle
He, only he, my heart propitious found,
So soft his language, and so sweet his smile,
Heaven was my own when Phaon clasp'd me round!

But soon, too soon, the faithless lover fled
To wander on some distant barbarous shore—
Who knows if Phaon is alive or dead,
Or wretched Sappho shall behold him more.

Ismenius

As late in fair Sicilia's groves I stray'd,
Charm'd with the beauties of the vernal scene
I sate me down amid the yew tree's shade,
Flowers blooming round, with herbage fresh and green.

Not distant far a monument arose
Among the trees and form'd of Parian stone,
And, as if there some stranger did repose,
It stood neglected, and it stood alone.

Along its sides dependent ivy crept,
The cypress bough, Plutonian green, was near,
A sculptur'd Venus on the summit wept,
A pensive Cupid dropt the parting tear.

Strains deep engrav'd on every side I read,
How Phaon died upon that foreign shore—
Sappho, I think your Phaon must be dead,
Then hear the strains that do his fate deplore:

Thou swain that lov'st the morning air,
To those embowering trees repair,
Forsake thy sleep at early dawn.
And of this landscape to grow fonder,
Still, O still persist to wander
Up and down the flowery lawn;
And as you there enraptur'd rove
From hill to hill, from grove to grove,
Pensive now and quite alone,
Cast thine eye upon this stone,
Read its melancholy moan;
And if you can refuse a tear
To the youth that slumbers here,
Whom the Lesbians held so dear,
Nature calls thee not her own.
Echo, hasten to my aid!
Tell the woods and tell the waves,
Tell the far off mountain caves
(Wrapt in solitary shade);
Tell them in high tragic numbers,
That beneath this marble tomb,
Shrouded in unceasing gloom
Phaon, youthful Phaon, slumbers,
By Sicilian swains deplor'd—
That a narrow urn restrains
Him who charm'd our pleasing plains,
Him, whom every nymph ador'd.
Tell the woods and tell the waves,
Tell the mossy mountain caves,
Tell them, if none will hear beside,
How our lovely Phaon died.
In that season when the sun
Bids his glowing charioteer
Phœbus, native of the sphere,
High the burning zenith run;
Then our much lamented swain,
O'er the sunny, scorched plain,
Hunting with a chosen train,
Slew the monsters of the waste
From those gloomy caverns chac'd
Round stupendous Etna plac'd.—
Conquer'd by the solar beam
At last he came to yonder stream;
Panting, thirsting there he lay
On this fatal summer's day,
While his locks of raven jett
Were on his temples dripping wet;
The gentle stream ran purling by
O'er the pebbles, pleasantly,
Tempting him to drink and die—
He drank indeed—but never thought
Death was in the gelid draught!—
Soon it chill'd his boiling veins,
Soon this glory of the plains
Left the nymphs and left the swains,
And has fled with all his charms
Where the Stygian monarch reigns,
Where no sun the climate warms!—
Dread Pluto then, as once before,
Pass'd Avernus' waters o'er;
Left the dark and dismal shore,
And strait enamour'd, as he gloomy stood,
Seiz'd Phaon by the waters of the wood.
Now o'er the silent plain
We for our much lov'd Phaon call again,
And Phaon! Phaon! ring the woods amain—
From beneath this myrtle tree,
Musidora, wretched maid,
How shall Phaon answer thee,
Deep in vaulted caverns laid!—
Thrice the myrtle tree hath bloom'd
Since our Phaon was entomb'd,
I, who had his heart, below,
I have rais'd this turret high,
A monument of love and woe
That Phaon's name may never die.—
With deepest grief, O muse divine,
Around his tomb thy laurels twine
And shed thy sorrow, for to morrow
Thou, perhaps, shalt cease to glow—
My hopes are crost, my lover lost,
And I must weeping o'er the mountains go!

Sappho

Ah, faithless Phaon, thus from me to rove,
And bless my rival in a foreign grove!
Could Sicily more charming forests show
Than those that in thy native Lesbos grow—
Did fairer fruits adorn the bending tree
Than those that Lesbos did present to thee!
Or didst thou find through all the changing fair
One beauty that with Sappho could compare!
So soft, so sweet, so charming and so kind,
A face so fair, such beauties of the mind—
Not Musidora can be rank'd with me
Who sings so well thy funeral song for thee!—[34]
I'll go!—and from the high Leucadian steep
Take my last farewell in the lover's leap,
I charge thee, Phaon, by this deed of woe
To meet me in the Elysian shades below,
No rival beauty shall pretend a share,
Sappho alone shall walk with Phaon there.
She spoke, and downward from the mountain's height
Plung'd in the plashy wave to everlasting night.

[33] Text from the edition of 1786. For the edition of 1795 Freneau cut out the song of Ismenius, beginning "Thou swain that lov'st the morning air," and extending to the speech of Sappho, "Ah, faithless Phaon."

[34] This and the preceding line omitted from the later versions.

THE POWER OF FANCY[35]

Written 1770.

Wakeful, vagrant, restless thing,
Ever wandering on the wing,
Who thy wondrous source can find,
Fancy, regent of the mind;
A spark from Jove's resplendent throne,
But thy nature all unknown.
This spark of bright, celestial flame,
From Jove's seraphic altar came,
And hence alone in man we trace,
Resemblance to the immortal race.
Ah! what is all this mighty whole,
These suns and stars that round us roll!
What are they all, where'er they shine,
But Fancies of the Power Divine!
What is this globe, these lands, and seas,
And heat, and cold, and flowers, and trees,
And life, and death, and beast, and man,
And time—that with the sun began—
But thoughts on reason's scale combin'd,
Ideas of the Almighty mind!
On the surface of the brain
Night after night she walks unseen,
Noble fabrics doth she raise
In the woods or on the seas,
On some high, steep, pointed rock,
Where the billows loudly knock
And the dreary tempests sweep
Clouds along the uncivil deep.
Lo! she walks upon the moon,
Listens to the chimy tune
Of the bright, harmonious spheres,
And the song of angels hears;
Sees this earth a distant star,[A]
Pendant, floating in the air;
Leads me to some lonely dome,
Where Religion loves to come,
Where the bride of Jesus dwells,
And the deep ton'd organ swells
In notes with lofty anthems join'd,
Notes that half distract the mind.
Now like lightning she descends
To the prison of the fiends,
Hears the rattling of their chains,
Feels their never ceasing pains—
But, O never may she tell
Half the frightfulness of hell.
Now she views Arcadian rocks,
Where the shepherds guard their flocks,
And, while yet her wings she spreads,
Sees chrystal streams and coral beds,
Wanders to some desert deep,
Or some dark, enchanted steep,
By the full moonlight doth shew
Forests of a dusky blue,
Where, upon some mossy bed,
Innocence reclines her head.
Swift, she stretches o'er the seas
To the far off Hebrides,
Canvas on the lofty mast
Could not travel half so fast—
Swifter than the eagle's flight
Or instantaneous rays of light!
Lo! contemplative she stands
On Norwegia's rocky lands—
Fickle Goddess, set me down
Where the rugged winters frown
Upon Orca's howling steep,
Nodding o'er the northern deep,
Where the winds tumultuous roar,
Vext that Ossian sings no more.
Fancy, to that land repair,
Sweetest Ossian slumbers there;
Waft me far to southern isles
Where the soften'd winter smiles,
To Bermuda's orange shades,
Or Demarara's lovely glades;
Bear me o'er the sounding cape,
Painting death in every shape,
Where daring Anson spread the sail
Shatter'd by the stormy gale—
Lo! she leads me wide and far,
Sense can never follow her—
Shape thy course o'er land and sea,
Help me to keep pace with thee,
Lead me to yon' chalky cliff,
Over rock and over reef,
Into Britain's fertile land,
Stretching far her proud command.
Look back and view, thro' many a year,
Cæsar, Julius Cæsar, there.
Now to Tempe's verdant wood,
Over the mid-ocean flood
Lo! the islands of the sea—
Sappho, Lesbos mourns for thee:
Greece, arouse thy humbled head,
Where are all thy mighty dead,
Who states to endless ruin hurl'd
And carried vengeance through the world?—
Troy, thy vanish'd pomp resume,
Or, weeping at thy Hector's tomb,
Yet those faded scenes renew,
Whose memory is to Homer due.
Fancy, lead me wandering still
Up to Ida's cloud-topt hill;
Not a laurel there doth grow
But in vision thou shalt show,—
Every sprig on Virgil's tomb
Shall in livelier colours bloom,
And every triumph Rome has seen
Flourish on the years between.
Now she bears me far away
In the east to meet the day,
Leads me over Ganges' streams,
Mother of the morning beams—
O'er the ocean hath she ran,
Places me on Tinian;
Farther, farther in the east,
Till it almost meets the west,
Let us wandering both be lost
On Taitis sea-beat coast,
Bear me from that distant strand,
Over ocean, over land,
To California's golden shore—
Fancy, stop, and rove no more.
Now, tho' late, returning home,
Lead me to Belinda's tomb;
Let me glide as well as you
Through the shroud and coffin too,
And behold, a moment, there,
All that once was good and fair—
Who doth here so soundly sleep?
Shall we break this prison deep?—
Thunders cannot wake the maid,
Lightnings cannot pierce the shade,
And tho' wintry tempests roar,
Tempests shall disturb no more.
Yet must those eyes in darkness stay,
That once were rivals to the day?—
Like heaven's bright lamp beneath the main
They are but set to rise again.
Fancy, thou the muses' pride,
In thy painted realms reside
Endless images of things,
Fluttering each on golden wings,
Ideal objects, such a store,
The universe could hold no more:
Fancy, to thy power I owe
Half my happiness below;
By thee Elysian groves were made,
Thine were the notes that Orpheus play'd;
By thee was Pluto charm'd so well
While rapture seiz'd the sons of hell—
Come, O come—perceiv'd by none,
You and I will walk alone.

[A] Milton's Paradise Lost, B. II, V. 1052.—Freneau's note.

[35] From the edition of 1786. The later editions omitted all but the first twenty and the last fourteen lines of the poem, and gave to this fragment the title "Ode to Fancy." The omitted lines, much changed, were then made a separate poem, under the title "Fancy's Ramble."

THE PRAYER OF ORPHEUS

Sad monarch of the world below,
Stern guardian of this drowsy shade,
Through these unlovely realms I go
To seek a captive thou hast made.
O'er Stygian waters have I pass'd,
Contemning Jove's severe decree,
And reached thy sable court at last
To find my lost Eurydicè.

Of all the nymphs so deckt and drest
Like Venus of the starry train,
She was the loveliest and the best,
The pride and glory of the plain.
O free from thy despotic sway
This nymph of heaven-descended charms,
Too soon she came this dusky way—
Restore thy captive to my arms!

As by a stream's fair verdant side
In myrtle shades she roved along,
A serpent stung my blooming bride,
This brightest of the female throng—
The venom hastening thro' her veins
Forbade the freezing blood to flow.
And thus she left the Thracian plains
For these dejected groves below.

Even thou may'st pity my sad pain,
Since Love, as ancient stories say,
Forced thee to leave thy native reign,
And in Sicilian meadows stray:
Bright Proserpine thy bosom fired,
For her you sought unwelcome light,
Madness and love in you conspired
To seize her to the shades of night.

But if, averse to my request,
The banished nymph, for whom I mourn,
Must in Plutonian chambers rest,
And never to my arms return——
Take Orpheus too—his warm desire
Can ne'er be quench'd by your decree:
In life or death he must admire,
He must adore Eurydicè!

THE DESERTED FARM-HOUSE[36]

This antique dome the insatiate tooth of time
Now level with the dust has almost laid;—
Yet ere 'tis gone, I seize my humble theme
From these low ruins, that his years have made.

Behold the unsocial hearth!—where once the fires
Blazed high, and soothed the storm-stay'd traveller's woes;
See! the weak roof, that abler props requires,
Admits the winds, and swift descending snows.

Here, to forget the labours of the day,
No more the swains at evening hours repair,
But wandering flocks assume the well known way
To shun the rigours of the midnight air.

In yonder chamber, half to ruin gone,
Once stood the ancient housewife's curtained bed—
Timely the prudent matron has withdrawn,
And each domestic comfort with her fled.

The trees, the flowers that her own hands had reared,
The plants, the vines, that were so verdant seen,—
The trees, the flowers, the vines have disappear'd,
And every plant has vanish'd from the green.

So sits in tears on wide Campania's plain
Rome, once the mistress of a world enslaved;
That triumph'd o'er the land, subdued the main,
And Time himself, in her wild transports, braved.

So sits in tears on Palestina's shore
The Hebrew town, of splendour once divine—
Her kings, her lords, her triumphs are no more;
Slain are her priests, and ruin'd every shrine.

Once, in the bounds of this deserted room,
Perhaps some swain nocturnal courtship made,
Perhaps some Sherlock mused amidst the gloom;
Since Love and Death forever seek the shade.

Perhaps some miser, doom'd to discontent,
Here counted o'er the heaps acquired with pain;
He to the dust—his gold, on traffick sent,
Shall ne'er disgrace these mouldering walls again.

Nor shall the glow-worm fopling, sunshine bred,
Seek, at the evening hour this wonted dome—
Time has reduced the fabrick to a shed,
Scarce fit to be the wandering beggar's home.

And none but I its dismal case lament—
None, none but I o'er its cold relics mourn,
Sent by the muse—(the time perhaps misspent)—
To write dull stanzas on this dome forlorn.

[36] The first trace that I can find of this poem is in the Freeman's Journal of May 18, 1785. I have little doubt that it is the "Stanzas on an Ancient Dutch House on Long Island," mentioned in 1773 in a letter to Madison as forming a part of Freneau's publication, "The American Village," now lost. After its appearance in the Freeman's Journal, it was widely copied. The Independent Gazetteer printed it in 1787, introduced as follows: "The following is copied from Perryman's London Morning Herald of July 22, 1787: 'The Deserted Farm House,' written in America by Mr. Freneau, whose political productions tended considerably to keep alive the spirit of independence during the late civil war." I have followed the text of 1809. The poet constantly emended this poem; he seldom reprinted it without minor changes, usually for the better.

THE CITIZEN'S RESOLVE[37]

"Far be the dull and heavy day
"And toil, and restless care, from me—
"Sorrow attends on loads of gold,
"And kings are wretched, I am told.
"Soon from the noisy town removed
"To such wild scenes as Plato[38] lov'd,
"Where, placed the leafless oaks between,
"Less haughty grows the wintergreen,
"There, Night, will I (lock'd in thy arms,
"Sweet goddess of the sable charms)
"Enjoy the dear, delightful dreams
"That fancy prompts by shallow[39] streams,
"Where wood nymphs walk their evening round,
"And fairies haunt the moonlight ground.
"Beneath some mountain's towering height
"In cottage low I hail the night,
"Where jovial swains with heart sincere
"Welcome the new returning year;—
"Each tells a tale or chaunts a song
"Of her, for whom he sigh'd so long,
"Of Cynthia[40] fair, or Delia coy,
"Neglecting still her love-sick boy—
"While, near, the hoary headed sage
"Recalls the feats of youth's gay age,
"All that in past time e'er was seen,
"And many a frolic on the green,
"How champion he with champions met,
"And fiercely they did combat it—
"Or how, full oft, with horn and hound
"They chaced the deer the forest round—
"The panting deer as swiftly flies,
"Yet by the well-aimed musquet dies!
"Thus pass the evening hours away,
"Unnoticed dies the parting day;
"Unmeasured flows that happy juice,
"Which mild October did produce,
"No surly sage, too frugal found,
"No niggard housewife deals it round:
"And deep they quaff the inspiring bowl
"That kindles gladness in the soul.—[41]
"But now the moon, exalted high,
"Adds lustre to the earth and sky,
"And in the mighty ocean's glass
"Admires the beauties of her face—
"About her orb you may behold
"The circling stars that freeze with cold—
"But they in brighter seasons please,
"Winter can find no charms in these,
"While less ambitious, we admire,
"And more esteem domestic fire.
"O could I there a mansion find
"Suited exactly to my mind
"Near that industrious, heavenly train
"Of rustics honest, neat, and plain;
"The days, the weeks, the years to pass
"With some good-natured, longing lass,
"With her the cooling spring to sip,
"And seize, at will, her damask lip;
"The groves, the springs, the shades divine,
"And all Arcadia should be mine!
"Steep me, steep me, some poppies deep
"In beechen bowl, to bring on sleep;
"Love hath my soul in fetters bound,
"Through the dull night no sleep I found;—
"O gentle sleep! bestow thy dreams
"Of fields, and woods, and murmuring streams,
"Dark, tufted groves, and grottoes rare,
"And Flora, charming Flora, there.
"Dull Commerce, hence, with all thy train
"Of debts, and dues, and loss, and gain;
"To hills, and groves, and purling streams,
"To nights of ease, and heaven-born dreams,
"While wiser Damon hastes away,
"Should I in this dull city stay,
"Condemn'd to death by slow decays
"And care that clouds my brightest days?
"No—by Silenus' self I swear,
"In rustic shades I'll kill that care."
So spoke Lysander, and in haste
His clerks discharg'd, his goods re-cased,
And to the western forests flew
With fifty airy schemes in view;
His ships were set to public sale—
But what did all this change avail?—
In three short months, sick of the heavenly train,
In three short months—he moved to town again.

[37] From the edition of 1809. The 1786 edition has the note, "Written 1770."

[38] Shenstone.—Ed. 1786.

[39] Sylvan.—Ed. 1786.

[40] Dolly.—Ed. 1786.

[41]

"But swift as changing goblets pass,
They bless the virtues of the glass."—Ed. 1786.

THE DYING ELM[42]

Sweet, lovely Elm, who here dost grow
Companion of unsocial care,
Lo! thy dejected branches die
Amidst this torrid air—
Smit by the sun or blasting moon,
Like fainting flowers, their verdure gone.

Thy withering leaves, that drooping hang,
Presage thine end approaching nigh;
And lo! thy amber tears distill,
Attended with that parting sigh—
O charming tree! no more decline,
But be thy shades and love-sick whispers mine.

Forbear to die—this weeping eye
Shall shed her little drops on you,
Shall o'er thy sad disaster grieve,
And wash thy wounds with pearly dew,
Shall pity you, and pity me,
And heal the languor of my tree!

Short is thy life, if thou so soon must fade,
Like angry Jonah's gourd at Nineveh,
That, in a night, its bloomy branches spread,
And perish'd with the day.—
Come, then, revive, sweet lovely Elm, lest I,
Thro' vehemence of heat, like Jonah, wish to die.

[42] First published in the June number of the United States Magazine, 1779, under the title, "The Dying Elm: An Irregular Ode." This earliest version was much changed in its later editions; the third stanza was added for the edition of 1786. It may be doubted if Freneau much improved the poem from its first draft, save by the additional stanza. Following are some of the lines as they stood originally: "Companion of my musing care;" "Like fainting flowers that die at noon;" "O gentle tree, no more decline;" "And flourish'd for a day;" "Come, then, revive, sweet shady elm, lest I." With two minor exceptions the text was unvaried for the later editions.

COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND[43]

Columbus was a considerable number of years engaged in soliciting the Court of Spain to fit him out, in order to discover a new continent, which he imagined existed somewhere in the western parts of the ocean. During his negotiations, he is here supposed to address king Ferdinand in the following Stanzas.

Illustrious monarch of Iberia's soil,
Too long I wait permission to depart;
Sick of delays, I beg thy list'ning ear—
Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.

While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,
Grant his request to pass the western main:
Reserve this glory for thy native soil,
And what must please thee more—for thy own reign.

Of this huge globe, how small a part we know—
Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny?—
How disproportion'd to the mighty deep
The lands that yet in human prospect lie!

Does Cynthia, when to western skies arriv'd,
Spend her sweet beam upon the barren main,
And ne'er illume with midnight splendor, she,
The natives dancing on the lightsome green?—

Should the vast circuit of the world contain
Such wastes of ocean, and such scanty land?—
'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so,
I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.

Does yon' fair lamp trace half the circle round
To light the waves and monsters of the seas?—
No—be there must beyond the billowy waste
Islands, and men, and animals, and trees.

An unremitting flame my breast inspires
To seek new lands amidst the barren waves,
Where falling low, the source of day descends,
And the blue sea his evening visage laves.

Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage:[A]
"The time shall come, when numerous years are past,
"The ocean shall dissolve the bands of things,
"And an extended region rise at last;

[A] Seneca the poet, native of Cordova in Spain.—Freneau's note (1786). Venient annis secula seris, quibus oceanus vincula rerum laxet, et ingens pateat tellus, Typhisque novos detegat orbes; nec sit terris Ultima Thule.—Seneca, Med., Act. III, V. 375. (Ibid. Ed. 1795 et seq.)

"And Typhis shall disclose the mighty land
"Far, far away, where none have rov'd before;
"Nor shall the world's remotest region be
"Gibraltar's rock, or Thule's[B] savage shore."[44]

[B] Supposed by many to be the Orkney or Shetland Isles.—Freneau's note.

Fir'd at the theme, I languish to depart,
Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,
He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep;
Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.

Nor does he dread to lose the intended course,
Though far from land the reeling galley stray,
And skies above, and gulphy seas below
Be the sole objects seen for many a day.

Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vain
The mystic magnet to the mortal eye:
So late have we the guiding needle plann'd
Only to sail beneath our native sky?

Ere this was found, the ruling power of all
Found for our use an ocean in the land,
Its breadth so small we could not wander long,
Nor long be absent from the neighbouring strand.

Short was the course, and guided by the stars,
But stars no more shall point our daring way;
The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drown'd,
And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,

When southward we shall steer—O grant my wish.
Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,
He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep,
Reason shall steer, and shall disarm the gale.

[43] According to the edition of 1786, this poem was "written 1770." The first trace that I find of it is in the June number of the United States Magazine, 1779. The 1786 text, which I have followed, was changed but little in the later editions.

[44] This is a translation of the passage from Seneca used on the title page of The Rising Glory of America.

THE RISING GLORY OF AMERICA[45]

Being part of a Dialogue pronounced on a public occasion.

Argument

The subject proposed.—The discovery of America by Columbus.—A philosophical enquiry into the origin of the savages of America.—The first planters from Europe.—Causes of their migration to America.—The difficulties they encountered from the jealousy of the natives.—Agriculture descanted on.—Commerce and navigation.—Science.—Future prospects of British usurpation, tyranny, and devastation on this side the Atlantic.—The more comfortable one of Independence, Liberty and Peace.—Conclusion.

Acasto

Now shall the adventurous muse attempt a theme
More new, more noble and more flush of fame
Than all that went before—
Now through the veil of ancient days renew
The period famed when first Columbus touched5
These shores so long unknown—through various toils,
Famine, and death, the hero forced his way,
Through oceans pregnant with perpetual storms,
And climates hostile to adventurous man.
But why, to prompt your tears, should we resume,10
The tale of Cortez, furious chief, ordained
With Indian blood to dye the sands, and choak,
Famed Mexico, thy streams with dead? or why
Once more revive the tale so oft rehearsed
Of Atabilipa, by thirst of gold,15
(Too conquering motive in the human breast,)
Deprived of life, which not Peru's rich ore
Nor Mexico's vast mines could then redeem?
Better these northern realms demand our song,
Designed by nature for the rural reign,20
For agriculture's toil.—No blood we shed
For metals buried in a rocky waste.—
Cursed be that ore, which brutal makes our race
And prompts mankind to shed their kindred blood.

Eugenio

But whence arose25
That vagrant race who love the shady vale,
And choose the forest for their dark abode?—
For long has this perplext the sages' skill
To investigate.—Tradition lends no aid
To unveil this secret to the human eye,30
When first these various nations, north and south,
Possest these shores, or from what countries came;
Whether they sprang from some primæval head
In their own lands, like Adam in the east,—
Yet this the sacred oracles deny,35
And reason, too, reclaims against the thought:
For when the general deluge drowned the world
Where could their tribes have found security,
Where find their fate, but in the ghastly deep?—
Unless, as others dream, some chosen few40
High on the Andes 'scaped the general death,
High on the Andes, wrapt in endless snow,
Where winter in his wildest fury reigns,
And subtile æther scarce our life maintains.
But here philosophers oppose the scheme:45
This earth, say they, nor hills nor mountains knew
Ere yet the universal flood prevailed;
But when the mighty waters rose aloft,
Roused by the winds, they shook their solid base,
And, in convulsions, tore the deluged world,50
'Till by the winds assuaged, again they fell,
And all their ragged bed exposed to view.
Perhaps far wandering toward the northern pole
The streights of Zembla, and the frozen zone,
And where the eastern Greenland almost joins55
America's north point, the hardy tribes
Of banished Jews, Siberians, Tartars wild
Came over icy mountains, or on floats,
First reached these coasts, hid from the world beside.—
And yet another argument more strange,60
Reserved for men of deeper thought, and late,
Presents itself to view:—In Peleg's days,
(So says the Hebrew seer's unerring pen)
This mighty mass of earth, this solid globe,
Was cleft in twain,—"divided" east and west,65
While then perhaps the deep Atlantic roll'd,—
Through the vast chasm, and laved the solid world;
And traces indisputable remain
Of this primæval land now sunk and lost.—
The islands rising in our eastern main70
Are but small fragments of this continent,
Whose two extremities were Newfoundland
And St. Helena.—One far in the north,
Where shivering seamen view with strange surprize
The guiding pole-star glittering o'er their heads;75
The other near the southern tropic rears
Its head above the waves—Bermuda's isles,
Cape Verd, Canary, Britain, and the Azores,
With fam'd Hibernia, are but broken parts
Of some prodigious waste, which once sustain'd80
Nations and tribes, of vanished memory,
Forests and towns, and beasts of every class,
Where navies now explore their briny way.

Leander

Your sophistry, Eugenio, makes me smile;
The roving mind of man delights to dwell85
On hidden things, merely because they're hid:
He thinks his knowledge far beyond all limit,
And boldly fathoms Nature's darkest haunts;—
But for uncertainties, your broken isles,
Your northern Tartars, and your wandering Jews,90
(The flimsy cobwebs of a sophist's brain)
Hear what the voice of history proclaims:—
The Carthagenians, ere the Roman yoke
Broke their proud spirits, and enslaved them too,
For navigation were renowned as much95
As haughty Tyre with all her hundred fleets.
Full many a league their venturous seamen sailed
Through streight Gibraltar, down the western shore
Of Africa, to the Canary isles:
By them called Fortunate; so Flaccus sings.100
Because eternal spring there clothes the fields
And fruits delicious bloom throughout the year.—
From voyaging here, this inference I draw,
Perhaps some barque with all her numerous crew
Falling to leeward of her destined port,105
Caught by the eastern Trade, was hurried on
Before the unceasing blast to Indian isles,
Brazil, La Plata, or the coasts more south—
There stranded, and unable to return,
Forever from their native skies estranged.110
Doubtless they made these virgin climes their own,
And in the course of long revolving years
A numerous progeny from these arose,
And spread throughout the coasts—those whom we call
Brazilians, Mexicans, Peruvians rich,115
The tribes of Chili, Patagon, and those
Who till the shores of Amazon's long stream.—
When first the power of Europe here attained,
Vast empires, kingdoms, cities, palaces
And polished nations stock'd the fertile land.120
Who has not heard of Cusco, Lima, and
The town of Mexico—huge cities form'd
From Indian architecture; ere the arms
Of haughty Spain disturb'd the peaceful soil?—
But here, amid this northern dark domain,125
No towns were seen to rise.—No arts were here;
The tribes unskill'd to raise the lofty mast,
Or force the daring prow thro' adverse waves,
Gazed on the pregnant soil, and craved alone
Life from the unaided genius of the ground,—130
This indicates they were a different race;
From whom descended, 'tis not ours to say—
That power, no doubt, who furnish'd trees, and plants,
And animals to this vast continent,
Spoke into being man among the rest,—135
But what a change is here!—what arts arise!
What towns and capitals! how commerce waves
Her gaudy flags, where silence reign'd before!

Acasto

Speak, learned Eugenio, for I've heard you tell
The dismal story, and the cause that brought140
The first adventurers to these western shores!
The glorious cause that urged our fathers first
To visit climes unknown, and wilder woods
Than e'er Tartarian or Norwegian saw,
And with fair culture to adorn a soil145
That never felt the industrious swain before.

Eugenio

All this long story to rehearse, would tire;
Besides, the sun towards the west retreats,
Nor can the noblest theme retard his speed,
Nor loftiest verse—not that which sang the fall150
Of Troy divine, and fierce Achilles' ire.—
Yet hear a part:—By persecution wronged
And sacerdotal rage, our fathers came
From Europe's hostile shores to these abodes,
Here to enjoy a liberty in faith,155
Secure from tyranny and base controul.
For this they left their country and their friends,
And plough'd the Atlantic wave in quest of peace;
And found new shores, and sylvan settlements,
And men, alike unknowing and unknown.160
Hence, by the care of each adventurous chief
New governments (their wealth unenvied yet)
Were form'd on liberty and virtue's plan.
These searching out uncultivated tracts
Conceived new plans of towns, and capitals,165
And spacious provinces.—Why should I name
Thee, Penn, the Solon of our western lands;
Sagacious legislator, whom the world
Admires, long dead: an infant colony,
Nursed by thy care, now rises o'er the rest170
Like that tall pyramid in Egypt's waste
O'er all the neighbouring piles, they also great.
Why should I name those heroes so well known,
Who peopled all the rest from Canada
To Georgia's farthest coasts, West Florida,175
Or Apalachian mountains?—Yet what streams
Of blood were shed! what Indian hosts were slain,
Before the days of peace were quite restored!

Leander

Yes, while they overturn'd the rugged soil
And swept the forests from the shaded plain180
'Midst dangers, foes, and death, fierce Indian tribes
With vengeful malice arm'd, and black design,
Oft murdered, or dispersed, these colonies—
Encouraged, too, by Gallia's hostile sons,
A warlike race, who late their arms display'd,185
At Quebec, Montreal, and farthest coasts
Of Labrador, or Cape Breton, where now
The British standard awes the subject host.
Here, those brave chiefs, who, lavish of their blood,
Fought in Britannia's cause, in battle fell!—190
What heart but mourns the untimely fate of Wolfe,
Who, dying, conquered!—or what breast but beats
To share a fate like his, and die like him!

Acasto

But why alone commemorate the dead,
And pass those glorious heroes by, who yet195
Breathe the same air, and see the light with us?—
The dead, Leander, are but empty names,
And they who fall to-day the same to us
As they who fell ten centuries ago!—
Lost are they all that shined on earth before;200
Rome's boldest champions in the dust are laid,
Ajax and great Achilles are no more,
And Philip's warlike son, an empty shade!—
A Washington among our sons of fame
Will rise conspicuous as the morning star205
Among the inferior lights:—
To distant wilds Virginia sent him forth—
With her brave sons he gallantly opposed
The bold invaders of his country's rights,
Where wild Ohio pours the mazy flood,210
And mighty meadows skirt his subject streams.—
But now delighting in his elm tree's shade,
Where deep Potowmac laves the enchanting shore,
He prunes the tender vine, or bids the soil
Luxuriant harvests to the sun display.—215
Behold a different scene—not thus employed
Were Cortez, and Pizarro, pride of Spain,
Whom blood and murder only satisfied,
And all to glut their avarice and ambition!—

Eugenio

Such is the curse, Acasto, where the soul220
Humane is wanting—but we boast no feats
Of cruelty like Europe's murdering breed:—
Our milder epithet is merciful,
And each American, true hearted, learns
To conquer, and to spare; for coward souls225
Alone seek vengeance on a vanquished foe.
Gold, fatal gold, was the alluring bait
To Spain's rapacious tribes—hence rose the wars
From Chili to the Caribbean sea,
And Montezuma's Mexican domains:230
More blest are we, with whose unenvied soil
Nature decreed no mingling gold to shine,
No flaming diamond, precious emerald,
No blushing sapphire, ruby, chrysolite,
Or jasper red—more noble riches flow235
From agriculture, and the industrious swain,
Who tills the fertile vale, or mountain's brow.
Content to lead a safe, a humble life,
Among his native hills, romantic shades
Such as the muse of Greece of old did feign,240
Allured the Olympian gods from chrystal skies,
Envying such lovely scenes to mortal man.

Leander

Long has the rural life been justly fam'd,
And bards of old their pleasing pictures drew
Of flowery meads, and groves, and gliding streams:245
Hence, old Arcadia—wood-nymphs, satyrs, fauns;
And hence Elysium, fancied heaven below!—
Fair agriculture, not unworthy kings,
Once exercised the royal hand, or those
Whose virtues raised them to the rank of gods.250
See old Laertes in his shepherd weeds
Far from his pompous throne and court august,
Digging the grateful soil, where round him rise,
Sons of the earth, the tall aspiring oaks,
Or orchards, boasting of more fertile boughs,255
Laden with apples red, sweet scented peach,
Pear, cherry, apricot, or spungy plumb;
While through the glebe the industrious oxen draw
The earth-inverting plough.—Those Romans too,
Fabricius and Camillus, loved a life260
Of neat simplicity and rustic bliss,
And from the noisy Forum hastening far,
From busy camps, and sycophants, and crowns,
'Midst woods and fields spent the remains of life,
Where full enjoyment still awaits the wise.265
How grateful, to behold the harvests rise,
And mighty crops adorn the extended plains!—
Fair plenty smiles throughout, while lowing herds
Stalk o'er the shrubby hill or grassy mead,
Or at some shallow river slake their thirst.—270
The inclosure, now, succeeds the shepherd's care,
Yet milk-white flocks adorn the well stock'd farm,
And court the attention of the industrious swain.—
Their fleece rewards him well, and when the winds
Blow with a keener blast, and from the north275
Pour mingled tempests through a sunless sky
(Ice, sleet, and rattling hail) secure he sits
Warm in his cottage, fearless of the storm,
Enjoying now the toils of milder moons,
Yet hoping for the spring.—Such are the joys,280
And such the toils of those whom heaven hath bless'd
With souls enamoured of a country life.

Acasto

Such are the visions of the rustic reign—
But this alone, the fountain of support,
Would scarce employ the varying mind of man;285
Each seeks employ, and each a different way:
Strip Commerce of her sail, and men once more
Would be converted into savages;—
No nation e'er grew social and refined
'Till Commerce first had wing'd the adventurous prow,290
Or sent the slow-paced caravan, afar,
To waft their produce to some other clime,
And bring the wished exchange—thus came, of old,
Golconda's golden ore, and thus the wealth
Of Ophir, to the wisest of mankind.295

Eugenio

Great is the praise of Commerce, and the men
Deserve our praise, who spread the undaunted sail,
And traverse every sea—their dangers great,
Death still to combat in the unfeeling gale,
And every billow but a gaping grave:—300
There, skies and waters, wearying on the eye,
For weeks and months no other prospect yield
But barren wastes, unfathomed depths, where not
The blissful haunt of human form is seen
To cheer the unsocial horrors of the way.—305
Yet all these bold designs to Science owe
Their rise and glory.—Hail, fair Science! thou,
Transplanted from the eastern skies, dost bloom
In these blest regions.—Greece and Rome no more
Detain the Muses on Citheron's brow,310
Or old Olympus, crowned with waving woods,
Or Hæmus' top, where once was heard the harp,
Sweet Orpheus' harp, that gained his cause below,
And pierced the souls of Orcus and his bride;
That hush'd to silence by its voice divine315
Thy melancholy waters, and the gales
O Hebrus! that o'er thy sad surface blow.—
No more the maids round Alpheus' waters stray,
Where he with Arethusa's stream doth mix,
Or where swift Tiber disembogues his waves320
Into the Italian sea, so long unsung;
Hither they wing their way, the last, the best
Of countries, where the arts shall rise and grow,
And arms shall have their day;—even now we boast
A Franklin, prince of all philosophy,325
A genius piercing as the electric fire,
Bright as the lightning's flash, explained so well,
By him, the rival of Britannia's sage.—
This is the land of every joyous sound,
Of liberty and life, sweet liberty!330
Without whose aid the noblest genius fails,
And Science irretrievably must die.

Leander

But come, Eugenio, since we know the past—
What hinders to pervade with searching eye
The mystic scenes of dark futurity?335
Say, shall we ask what empires yet must rise,
What kingdoms, powers and states, where now are seen
Mere dreary wastes and awful solitude,
Where Melancholy sits, with eye forlorn,
And time anticipates, when we shall spread340
Dominion from the north, and south, and west,
Far from the Atlantic to Pacific shores,
And people half the convex of the main!—
A glorious theme!—but how shall mortals dare
To pierce the dark events of future years345
And scenes unravel, only known to fate?

Acasto

This might we do, if warmed by that bright coal
Snatch'd from the altar of cherubic fire
Which touched Isaiah's lips—or if the spirit
Of Jeremy and Amos, prophets old,350
Might swell the heaving breast—I see, I see
Freedom's established reign; cities, and men,
Numerous as sands upon the ocean shore,
And empires rising where the sun descends!—
The Ohio soon shall glide by many a town355
Of note; and where the Mississippi stream,
By forests shaded, now runs weeping on,
Nations shall grow, and states not less in fame
Than Greece and Rome of old!—we too shall boast
Our Scipios, Solons, Catos, sages, chiefs360
That in the lap of time yet dormant lie,
Waiting the joyous hour of life and light.—
O snatch me hence, ye muses, to those days
When, through the veil of dark antiquity,
A race shall hear of us as things remote,365
That blossomed in the morn of days.—Indeed,
How could I weep that we exist so soon,
Just in the dawning of these mighty times,
Whose scenes are painting for eternity!
Dissentions that shall swell the trump of fame,370
And ruin hovering o'er all monarchy!

Eugenio

Nor shall these angry tumults here subside
Nor murder cease, through all these provinces,
Till foreign crowns have vanished from our view
And dazzle here no more—no more presume375
To awe the spirit of fair Liberty;—
Vengeance must cut the thread,—and Britain, sure
Will curse her fatal obstinacy for it!
Bent on the ruin of this injured country,
She will not listen to our humble prayers.380
Though offered with submission:
Like vagabonds and objects of destruction,
Like those whom all mankind are sworn to hate,
She casts us off from her protection,
And will invite the nations round about,385
Russians and Germans, slaves and savages,
To come and have a share in our perdition.—
O cruel race, O unrelenting Britain,
Who bloody beasts will hire to cut our throats,
Who war will wage with prattling innocence,390
And basely murder unoffending women!—
Will stab their prisoners when they cry for quarter,
Will burn our towns, and from his lodging turn
The poor inhabitant to sleep in tempests!—
These will be wrongs, indeed, and all sufficient395
To kindle up our souls to deeds of horror,
And give to every arm the nerves of Samson—
These are the men that fill the world with ruin,
And every region mourns their greedy sway,—
Not only for ambition——400
But what are this world's goods, that they for them
Should exercise perpetual butchery?
What are these mighty riches we possess,
That they should send so far to plunder them?—
Already have we felt their potent arm—405
And ever since that inauspicious day,
When first Sir Francis Bernard
His ruffians planted at the council door,
And made the assembly room a home for vagrants,
And soldiers, rank and file—e'er since that day410
This wretched land, that drinks its children's gore,
Has been a scene of tumult and confusion!—
Are there not evils in the world enough?
Are we so happy that they envy us?
Have we not toiled to satisfy their harpies,415
Kings' deputies, that are insatiable;
Whose practice is to incense the royal mind
And make us despicable in his view?—
Have we not all the evils to contend with
That, in this life, mankind are subject to,420
Pain, sickness, poverty, and natural death—
But into every wound that nature gave
They will a dagger plunge, and make them mortal!

Leander

Enough, enough!—such dismal scenes you paint,
I almost shudder at the recollection.—425
What! are they dogs that they would mangle us?—
Are these the men that come with base design
To rob the hive, and kill the industrious bee!—
To brighter skies I turn my ravished view,
And fairer prospects from the future draw:—430
Here independent power shall hold her sway,
And public virtue warm the patriot breast:
No traces shall remain of tyranny,
And laws, a pattern to the world beside,
Be here enacted first.——435

Acasto

And when a train of rolling years are past,
(So sung the exiled seer in Patmos isle)
A new Jerusalem, sent down from heaven.
Shall grace our happy earth,—perhaps this land,
Whose ample bosom shall receive, though late,440
Myriads of saints, with their immortal king,
To live and reign on earth a thousand years,
Thence called Millennium. Paradise anew
Shall flourish, by no second Adam lost,
No dangerous tree with deadly fruit shall grow,445
No tempting serpent to allure the soul
From native innocence.—A Canaan here,
Another Canaan shall excel the old,
And from a fairer Pisgah's top be seen.
No thistle here, nor thorn, nor briar shall spring,450
Earth's curse before: the lion and the lamb
In mutual friendship linked, shall browse the shrub.
And timorous deer with softened tygers stray
O'er mead, or lofty hill, or grassy plain;
Another Jordan's stream shall glide along,455
And Siloah's brook in circling eddies flow:
Groves shall adorn their verdant banks, on which
The happy people, free from toils and death.
Shall find secure repose. No fierce disease,
No fevers, slow consumption, ghastly plague,460
(Fate's ancient ministers) again proclaim
Perpetual war with man: fair fruits shall bloom,
Fair to the eye, and sweeter to the taste;
Nature's loud storms be hushed, and seas no more
Rage hostile to mankind—and, worse than all,465
The fiercer passions of the human breast
Shall kindle up to deeds of death no more,
But all subside in universal peace.——
Such days the world,
And such America at last shall have470
When ages, yet to come, have run their round,
And future years of bliss alone remain.

[45] The text is from the edition of 1809. The poem, given originally as the graduating address of Freneau and Brackenridge at Princeton, Brackenridge delivering it, was first published In 1772 at Philadelphia, by Joseph Crukshank, for R. Aitken, bookseller. This pamphlet edition is the only one extant of the original poem. Freneau reprinted his own part, with many modifications and additions, in the first edition of his poems, 1786, explaining it with the following note: "This poem is a little altered from the original (published in Philadelphia in 1772), such parts being only inserted here as were written by the author of this volume. A few more modern lines towards the conclusion are incorporated with the rest, being a supposed prophetical anticipation of subsequent events." The text of the edition of 1772, which is now exceedingly rare, is as follows:

A POEM ON THE RISING GLORY OF AMERICA

Being an Exercise delivered at the Public Commencement at Nassau-Hall, September 25, 1771.

Argument

The subject proposed.—The discovery of America by Columbus and others.—A philosophical enquiry into the origin of the savages of America.—Their uncultivated state.—The first planters of America.—The cause of their migration from Europe.—The difficulties they encountered from the resentment of the natives and other circumstances.—The French war in North America.—The most distinguished heroes who fell in it; Wolf, Braddock, &c.—General Johnson,—his character.—North America, why superior to South.—On Agriculture.—On commerce.—On science.—Whitefield,—his character.—The present glory of America.—A prospect of its future glory, in science,—in liberty,—and the gospel.—The conclusion of the whole.

Leander

No more of Memphis and her mighty kings.
Or Alexandria, where the Ptolomies
Taught golden commerce to unfurl her sails,
And bid fair science smile: No more of Greece
Where learning next her early visit paid,
And spread her glories to illume the world;
No more of Athens, where she flourished,
And saw her sons of mighty genius rise,
Smooth flowing Plato, Socrates and him
Who with resistless eloquence reviv'd
The spirit of Liberty, and shook the thrones
Of Macedon and Persia's haughty king.
No more of Rome, enlighten'd by her beams,
Fresh kindling there the fire of eloquence,
And poesy divine; imperial Rome!
Whose wide dominion reach'd o'er half the globe;
Whose eagle flew o'er Ganges to the East,
And in the West far to the British isles.
No more of Britain and her kings renown'd,
Edward's and Henry's thunderbolts of war;
Her chiefs victorious o'er the Gallic foe;
Illustrious senators, immortal bards,
And wise philosophers, of these no more.
A Theme more new, tho' not less noble, claims
Our ev'ry thought on this auspicious day;
The rising glory of this western world.
Where now the dawning light of science spreads
Her orient ray, and wakes the muse's song;
Where freedom holds her sacred standard high,
And commerce rolls her golden tides profuse
Of elegance and ev'ry joy of life.

Acasto

Since then, Leander, you attempt a strain
So new, so noble and so full of fame;
And since a friendly concourse centers here,
America's own sons, begin O muse!
Now thro' the veil of ancient days review
The period fam'd when first Columbus touch'd
The shore so long unknown, thro' various toils,
Famine and death, the hero made his way,
Thro' oceans bellowing with eternal storms.
But why, thus hap'ly found, should we resume
The tale of Cortez, furious chief, ordain'd
With Indian blood to dye the sands, and choak
Fam'd Amazonia's stream with dead! Or why
Once more revive the story old in fame,
Of Atabilipa, by thirst of gold
Depriv'd of life: which not Peru's rich ore,
Nor Mexico's vast mines cou'd then redeem.
Better these northern realms deserve our song,
Discover'd by Britannia for her sons;
Undeluged with seas of Indian blood,
Which cruel Spain on southern regions spilt;
To gain by terrors what the gen'rous breast
Wins by fair treaty, conquers without blood.

Eugenio

High in renown th' intrepid hero stands,
From Europe's shores advent'ring first to try
New seas, new oceans, unexplor'd by man.
Fam'd Cabot too may claim our noblest song,
Who from th' Atlantic surge decry'd these shores,
As on he coasted from the Mexic bay
To Acady and piny Labradore.
Nor less than him the muse would celebrate
Bold Hudson stemming to the pole, thro' seas
Vex'd with continual storms, thro' the cold straits,
Where Europe and America oppose
Their shores contiguous, and the northern sea
Confin'd, indignant, swells and roars between.
With these be number'd in the list of fame
Illustrious Raleigh, hapless in his fate:
Forgive me, Raleigh, if an infant muse
Borrows thy name to grace her humble strain;
By many nobler are thy virtues sung;
Envy no more shall throw them in the shade;
They pour new lustre on Britannia's isle.
Thou too, advent'rous on th' Atlantic main,
Burst thro' its storms and fair Virginia hail'd,
The simple natives saw thy canvas flow,
And gaz'd aloof upon the shady shore:
For in her woods America contain'd,
From times remote, a savage race of men.
How shall we know their origin, how tell,
From whence or where the Indian tribes arose?

Acasto

And long has this defy'd the sages skill
T'investigate: Tradition seems to hide
The mighty secret from each mortal eye,
How first these various nations South and North
Possest these shores, or from what countries came;
Whether they sprang from some premœval head
In their own lands, like Adam in the East;
Yet this the sacred oracles deny,
And reason too reclaims against the thought.
For when the gen'ral deluge drown'd the world,
Where could their tribes have found security?
Where find their fate but in the ghastly deep?
Unless, as others dream, some chosen few
High on the Andes 'scap'd the gen'ral death,
High on the Andes, wrapt in endless snow,
Where winter in his wildest fury reigns.
But here Philosophers oppose the scheme,
The earth, say they, nor hills nor mountains knew
E'er yet the universal flood prevail'd:
But when the mighty waters rose aloft,
Rous'd by the winds, they shook their solid case
And in convulsions tore the drowned world!
'Till by the winds assuag'd they quickly fell
And all their ragged bed exposed to view.
Perhaps far wand'ring towards the northern pole,
The straits of Zembla and the Frozen Zone,
And where the eastern Greenland almost joins
America's north point, the hardy tribes
Of banish'd Jews, Siberians, Tartars wild
Came over icy mountains, or on floats
First reach'd these coasts hid from the world beside.
And yet another argument more strange
Reserv'd for men of deeper thought and late
Presents Itself to view: In Peleg's days,
So says the Hebrew seer's inspired pen,
This mighty mass of earth, this solid globe
Was cleft in twain—cleft east and west apart
While strait between the deep Atlantic roll'd.
And traces indisputable remain
Of this unhappy land now sunk and lost;
The islands rising in the eastern main
Are but small fragments of this continent,
Whose two extremities were Newfoundland
And St. Helena.—One far in the north
Where British seamen now with strange surprise
Behold the pole star glitt'ring o'er their heads;
The other in the southern tropic rears
Its head above the waves; Bermudas and
Canary isles, Britannia and th' Azores,
With fam'd Hibernia are but broken parts
Of some prodigious waste which once sustain'd
Armies by lands, where now but ships can range.

Leander

Your sophistry, Acasto, makes me smile;
The roving mind of man delights to dwell
On hidden things, merely because they're hid;
He thinks his knowledge ne'er can reach too high
And boldly pierces nature's inmost haunts
But for uncertainties; your broken isles,
Your northern Tartars, and your wand'ring Jews,
Hear what the voice of history proclaims.
The Carthaginians, e'er the Roman yoke
Broke their proud spirits and enslav'd them too,
For navigation were reknown'd as much
As haughty Tyre with all her hundred fleets;
Full many a league their vent'rous seamen sail'd
Thro' strait Gibralter down the western shore
Of Africa, and to Canary isles
By them call'd fortunate, so Flaccus sings,
Because eternal spring there crowns the fields,
And fruits delicious bloom throughout the year.
From voyaging here this inference I draw,
Perhaps some barque with all her num'rous crew
Caught by the eastern trade wind hurry'd on
Before th' steady blast to Brazil's shore,
New Amazonia and the coasts more south.
Here standing and unable to return.
For ever from their native skies estrang'd,
Doubtless they made the unknown land their own.
And in the course of many rolling years
A num'rous progeny from these arose,
And spread throughout the coasts; those whom we call
Brazilians, Mexicans, Peruvians rich,
Th' tribes of Chili, Patagon and those
Who till the shores of Amazon's long stream.
When first the pow'rs of Europe here attain'd,
Vast empires, kingdoms, cities, palaces
And polish'd nations stock'd the fertile land;
Who has not heard of Cusco, Lima and
The town of Mexico; huge cities form'd
From Europe's architecture, e'er the arms
Of haughty Spain disturb'd the peaceful soil.

Eugenio

Such disquisition leads the puzzled mind
From maze to maze by queries still perplex'd.
But this we know, if from the east they came.
Where science first and revelation beam'd,
Long since they've lost all memory, all trace
Of this their origin: Tradition tells
Of some great forefather beyond the lakes
Oswego, Huron, Mechigan, Champlaine
Or by the stream of Amazon which rolls
Thro' many a clime; while others simply dream
That from the Andes or the mountains north,
Some hoary fabled ancestor came down
To people this their world.

Leander

How fallen, Oh!
How much obscur'd is human nature here!
Shut from the light of science and of truth
They wander'd blindfold down the steep of time;
Dim superstition with her ghastly train
Of dæmons, spectres and foreboding signs
Still urging them to horrid rites and forms
Of human sacrifice, to sooth the pow'rs
Malignant, and the dark infernal king.
Once on this spot perhaps a wigwam stood
With all its rude inhabitants, or round
Some mighty fire an hundred savage sons
Gambol'd by day, and filled the night with cries;
In what superior to the brutal race
That fled before them thro' the howling wilds,
Were all those num'rous tawny tribes which swarm'd
From Baffin's bay to Del Fuego south,
From California to the Oronoque?
Far from the reach of fame they liv'd unknown
In listless slumber and inglorious ease;
To them fair science never op'd her stores,
Nor sacred truth sublim'd the soul to God;
No fix'd abode their wand'ring genius knew;
No golden harvest crown'd the fertile glebe;
No city then adorn'd the river's bank,
Nor rising turret overlook'd the stream.

Acasto

Now view the prospect chang'd; far off at sea
The mariner descry's our spacious towns,
He hails the prospect of the land and views
A new, a fair, a fertile world arise;
Onward from India's isles far east, to us
Now fair-ey'd commerce stretches her white sails,
Learning exalts her head, the graces smile
And peace establish'd after horrid war
Improves the splendor of these early times.
But come, my friends, and let us trace the steps
By which this recent happy world arose,
To this fair eminence of high renown
This height of wealth, of liberty and fame.

Leander

Speak then, Eugenio, for I've heard you tell
The pleasing hist'ry, and the cause that brought
The first advent'rers to these happy shores;
The glorious cause that urg'd our fathers first
To visit climes unknown and wilder woods
Than e'er Tartarian or Norwegian saw,
And with fair culture to adorn that soil
Which never knew th' Industrious swain before.

Eugenio

All this long story to rehearse would tire;
Besides, the sun toward the west retreats,
Nor can the noblest tale retard his speed,
Nor loftiest verse; not that which sung the fall
Of Troy divine and smooth Scamander's stream.
Yet hear a part.—By persecution wrong'd
And popish cruelty, our fathers came
From Europe's shores to find this blest abode,
Secure from tyranny and hateful man,
And plough'd th' Atlantic wave in quest of peace;
And found new shores and sylvan settlements
Form'd by the care of each advent'rous chief,
Who, warm in liberty and freedom's cause,
Sought out uncultivated tracts and wilds,
And fram'd new plans of cities, governments
And spacious provinces: Why should I name
Thee, Penn, the Solon of our western lands;
Sagacious legislator, whom the world
Admires tho' dead: an infant colony,
Nurs'd by thy care, now rises o'er the rest
Like that tall Pyramid on Memphis' stand
O'er all the lesser piles, they also great.
Why should I name those heroes so well known
Who peopled all the rest from Canada
To Georgia's farthest coasts, West Florida
Or Apalachian mountains; yet what streams
Of blood were shed! What Indian hosts were slain
Before the days of peace were quite restor'd.

Leander

Yes, while they overturn'd the soil untill'd,
And swept the forests from the shaded plain
'Midst dangers, foes and death, fierce Indian tribes
With deadly malice arm'd and black design,
Oft murder'd half the hapless colonies.
Encourag'd too by that inglorious race
False Gallia's sons, who once their arms display'd
At Quebec, Montreal and farthest coasts
Of Labrador and Esquimaux where now
The British standard awes the coward host.
Here those brave chiefs, who lavish of their blood
Fought in Britannia's cause, most nobly fell.
What Heart but mourns the untimely fate of Wolf,
Who dying conquer'd, or what breast but beats
To share a fate like his, and die like him?

Acasto

And he demands our lay who bravely fell
By Monangahela and the Ohio's stream;
By wiles o'ercome the hapless hero fell,
His soul too gen'rous for that dastard crew
Who kill unseen and shun the face of day.
Ambush'd in wood, and swamp and thick grown hill,
The bellowing tribes brought on the savage war.
What could avail, O Braddock, then the flame,
The gen'rous flame which fir'd thy martial soul!
What could avail Britannia's warlike troops,
Choice spirits of her isle? What could avail
America's own sons? The skulking foe,
Hid in the forest lay and fought secure,
What could the brave Virginians do, o'erpower'd
By such vast numbers and their leader dead?
'Midst fire and death they bore him from the field,
Where in his blood full many a hero lay.
'Twas there, O Halkut! thou so nobly fell,
Thrice valiant Halkut, early son of fame!
We still deplore a face so immature,
Fair Albion mourns thy unsuccessful end,
And Caledonia sheds a tear for him
Who led the bravest of her sons to war.

Eugenio

But why alas commemorate the dead?
And pass those glorious heroes by, who yet
Breathe the same air and see the light with us?
The dead, Acasto, are but empty names
And he who dy'd to day the same to us
As he who dy'd a thousand years ago.
A Johnson lives, among the sons of fame
Well known, conspicuous as the morning star
Among the lesser lights: A patriot skill'd
In all the glorious arts of peace or war.
He for Britannia gains the savage race,
Unstable as the sea, wild as the winds,
Cruel as death, and treacherous as hell,
Whom none but he by kindness yet could win,
None by humanity could gain their souls,
Or bring from woods and subteranean dens
The skulking crew, before a Johnson rose,
Pitying their num'rous tribes: ah how unlike
The Cortez' and Acosta's, pride of Spain
Whom blood and murder only satisfy'd.
Behold their doleful regions overflow'd
With gore, and blacken'd with ten thousand deaths
From Mexico to Patagonia far,
Where howling winds sweep round the southern cape,
And other suns and other stars arise!

Acasto

Such is the curse, Eugenio, where the soul
Humane is wanting, but we boast no feats
Of cruelty like Spain's unfeeling sons.
The British Epithet is merciful:
And we the sons of Britain learn like them
To conquer and to spare; for coward souls
Seek their revenge but on a vanquish'd foe.
Gold, fatal gold was the alluring bait
To Spain's rapacious mind, hence rose the wars
From Chili to the Caribbean sea,
O'er Terra-Firma and La Plata wide.
Peru then sunk in ruins, great before
With pompous cities, monuments superb
Whose tops reach'd heav'n. But we more happy boast
No golden metals in our peaceful land,
No flaming diamond, precious emerald,
Or blushing saphire, ruby, chrysolite
Or jasper red; more noble riches flow
From agriculture and th' industrious swain,
Who tills the fertile vale or mountain's brow,
Content to lead a safe, a humble life
'Midst his own native hills; romantic scenes,
Such as the muse of Greece did feign so well.
Envying their lovely bow'rs to mortal race.

Leander

Long has the rural life been justly fam'd;
And poets old their pleasing pictures drew
Of flow'ry meads, and groves and gliding streams.
Hence, old Arcadia, woodnymphs, satyrs, fauns
And hence Elysium, fancy'd heav'n below.
Fair agriculture, not unworthy kings,
Once exercis'd the royal hand, or those
Whose virtue rais'd them to the rank of gods.
See old Laertes in his shepherd weeds,
Far from his pompous throne and court august,
Digging the grateful soil, where peaceful blows
The west wind murm'ring thro' the aged trees
Loaded with apples red, sweet scented peach
And each luxurious fruit the world affords,
While o'er the fields the harmless oxen draw
Th' industrious plough. The Roman heroes too,
Fabricius and Camillus, lov'd a life
Of sweet simplicity and rustic joy;
And from the busy Forum hast'ning far,
'Midst woods and fields spent the remains of age.
How grateful to behold the harvests rise
And mighty crops adorn the golden plains!
Fair plenty smiles throughout, while lowing herds
Stalk o'er the grassy hill or level mead,
Or at some winding river slake their thirst.
Thus fares the rustic swain; and when the winds
Blow with a keener breath, and from the North
Pour all their tempests thro' a sunless sky,
Ice, sleet and rattling hail, secure he sits
In some thatch'd cottage fearless of the storm;
While on the hearth a fire still blazing high
Chears ev'ry mind, and nature sits serene
On ev'ry countenance, such the joys
And such the fate of those whom heav'n hath bless'd
With souls enamour'd of a country life.

Eugenio

Much wealth and pleasure agriculture brings;
Far in the woods she raises palaces,
Puisant states and crowded realms where late
A desart plain or frowning wilderness
Deform'd the view; or where with moving tents
The scatter'd nations seeking pasturage,
Wander'd from clime to clime incultivate;
Or where a race more savage yet than these,
In search of prey o'er hill and mountain rang'd,
Fierce as the tygers and the wolves they slew.
Thus lives th' Arabian and the Tartar wild
In woody wastes which never felt the plough;
But agriculture crowns our happy land,
And plants our colonies from north to south,
From Cape Breton far as the Mexic bay,
From th' Eastern shores to Mississippi's stream.
Famine to us unknown, rich plenty reigns
And pours her blessings with a lavish hand.

Leander

Nor less from golden commerce flow the streams
Of richest plenty on our smiling land.
Now fierce Bellona must'ring all her rage,
To other climes and other seas withdraws,
To rouse the Russian on the desp'rate Turk
There to conflict by Danube and the straits
Which join the Euxine to th' Egean Sea.
Britannia holds the empire of the waves,
And welcomes ev'ry bold adventurer
To view the wonders of old Ocean's reign.
Far to the east our fleets on traffic sail,
And to the west thro' boundless seas which not
Old Rome nor Tyre nor mightier Carthage knew.
Daughter of commerce, from the hoary deep
New-York emerging rears her lofty domes,
And hails from far her num'rous ships of trade,
Like shady forests rising on the waves.
From Europe's shores or from the Caribbees,
Homeward returning annually they bring
The richest produce of the various climes.
And Philadelphia, mistress of our world,
The seat of arts, of science, and of fame,
Derives her grandeur from the pow'r of trade.
Hail, happy city, where the muses stray,
Where deep philosophy convenes her sons
And opens all her secrets to their view!
Bids them ascend with Newton to the skies,
And trace the orbits of the rolling spheres,
Survey the glories of the universe.
Its suns and moons and ever blazing stars!
Hail, city, blest with liberty's fair beams,
And with the rays of mild religion blest!

Acasto

Nor these alone, America, thy sons
In the short circle of a hundred years
Have rais'd with toil along thy shady shores.
On lake and bay and navigable stream,
From Cape Breton to Pensacola south,
Unnnmber'd towns and villages arise.
By commerce nurs'd these embrio marts of trade
May yet awake the envy and obscure
The noblest cities of the eastern world;
For commerce is the mighty reservoir
From whence all nations draw the streams of gain.
'Tis commerce joins dissever'd worlds in one,
Confines old Ocean to more narrow bounds;
Outbraves his storms and peoples half his world.

Eugenio

And from the earliest times advent'rous man
On foreign traffic stretch'd the nimble sail;
Or sent the slow pac'd caravan afar
O'er barren wastes, eternal sands where not
The blissful haunt of human form is seen
Nor tree, not ev'n funeral cypress sad
Nor bubbling fountain. Thus arriv'd of old
Golconda's golden ore, and thus the wealth
Of Ophir to the wisest of mankind.

Leander

Great is the praise of commerce, and the men
Deserve our praise who spread from shore to shore
The flowing sail; great are their dangers too;
Death ever present to the fearless eye
And ev'ry billow but a gaping grave;
Yet all these mighty feats to science owe
Their rise and glory.—Hail fair science! thou,
Transplanted from the eastern climes, dost bloom
In these fair regions, Greece and Rome no more
Detain the muses on Cithæron's brow,
Or old Olympus crown'd with waving woods;
Or Hæmus' top where once was heard the harp,
Sweet Orpheus' harp that ravish'd hell below
And pierc'd the soul of Orcus and his bride,
That hush'd to silence by the song divine
Thy melancholy waters, and the gales
O Hebrus! which o'er thy sad surface blow.
No more the maids round Alpheus' waters stray
Where he with Arethusa's stream doth mix,
Or where swift Tiber disembogues his waves
Into th' Italian sea so long unsung.
Hither they've wing'd their way, the last, the best
Of countries where the arts shall rise and grow
Luxuriant, graceful; and ev'n now we boast
A Franklin skill'd in deep philosophy,
A genius piercing as th' electric fire,
Bright as the light'ning's flash, explain'd so well
By him, the rival of Britannia's sage.
This is a land of ev'ry joyous sound
Of liberty and life; sweet liberty!
Without whose aid the noblest genius fails,
And science irretrievably must die.

Acasto

This is a land where the more noble light
Of holy revelation beams, the star
Which rose from Judah lights our skies, we feel
Its influence as once did Palestine
And Gentile lands, where now the ruthless Turk
Wrapt up in darkness sleeps dull life away.
Here many holy messengers of peace
As burning lamps have given light to men.
To thee, O Whitefield; favourite of Heav'n,
The muse would pay the tribute of a tear.
Laid in the dust thy eloquence no more
Shall charm the list'ning soul, no more
Thy bold imagination paint the scenes
Of woe and horror in the shades below;
Of glory radiant in the fields above;
No more thy charity relieve the poor;
Let Georgia mourn, let all her orphans weep.

Leander

Yet tho' we wish'd him longer from the skies,
And wept to see the ev'ning of his days,
He long'd himself to reach his final hope,
The crown of glory for the just prepar'd.
From life's high verge he hail'd th' eternal shore
And, freed at last from his confinement, rose
An infant seraph to the worlds on high.

Eugenio

For him we found the melancholy lyre,
The lyre responsive to each distant sigh:
No grief like that which mourns departing souls
Of holy, just and venerable men,
Whom pitying Heav'n sends from their native skies
To light our way and bring us nearer God.
But come, Leander, since we know the past
And present glory of this empire wide,
What hinders to pervade with searching eye
The mystic scenes of dark futurity?
Say, shall we ask what empires yet must rise,
What kingdoms, pow'rs and states where now are seen
But dreary wastes and awful solitude,
Where melancholy sits with eye forlorn
And hopes the day when Britain's sons shall spread
Dominion to the north and south and west
Far from th' Atlantic to Pacific shores?
A glorious theme, but how shall mortals dare
To pierce the mysteries of future days,
And scenes unravel only known to fate.

Acasto

This might we do if warm'd by that bright coal
Snatch'd from the altar of seraphic fire,
Which touch'd Isaiah's lips, or if the spirit
Of Jeremy and Amos, prophets old,
Should fire the breast; but yet I call the muse
And what we can will do. I see, I see
A thousand kingdoms rais'd, cities and men
Num'rous as sand upon the ocean shore;
Th' Ohio then shall glide by many a town
Of note: and where the Mississippi stream
By forests shaded now runs weeping on,
Nations shall grow and states not less in fame
Than Greece and Rome of old: we too shall boast
Our Alexanders, Pompeys, heroes, kings
That in the womb of time yet dormant lye
Waiting the joyful hour for life and light.
O snatch us hence, ye muses! to those days
When, through the veil of dark antiquity,
Our sons shall hear of us as things remote,
That blossom'd in the morn of days, alas!
How could I weep that we were born so soon,
In the beginning of more happy times!
But yet perhaps our fame shall last unhurt.
The sons of science nobly scorn to die;
Immortal virtue this denies, the muse
Forbids the men to slumber in the grave
Who well deserve the praise that virtue gives.

Eugenio

'Tis true no human eye can penetrate
The veil obscure, and in fair light disclos'd
Behold the scenes of dark futurity;
Yet if we reason from the course of things,
And downward trace the vestiges of time,
The mind prophetic grows and pierces far
Thro' ages yet unborn. We saw the states
And mighty empires of the East arise
In swift succession from the Assyrian
To Macedon and Rome; to Britain thence
Dominion drove her car, she stretch'd her reign
O'er many isles, wide seas, and peopled lands.
Now in the west a continent appears;
A newer world now opens to her view,
She hastens onward to th' Americ shores
And bids a scene of recent wonders rise.
New states, new empires and a line of kings,
High rais'd in glory, cities, palaces,
Fair domes on each long bay, sea, shore or stream,
Circling the hills now rear their lofty heads.
Far in the Arctic skies a Petersburgh,
A Bergen, or Archangel lifts its spires
Glitt'ring with Ice, far in the West appears
A new Palmyra or an Ecbatan
And sees the slow pac'd caravan return
O'er many a realm from the Pacific shore,
Where fleets shall then convey rich Persia's silks,
Arabia's perfumes, and spices rare
Of Philippine, Cœlebe and Marian isles,
Or from the Acapulco coast our India then,
Laden with pearl and burning gems and gold.
Far in the south I see a Babylon,
As once by Tigris or Euphrates stream,
With blazing watch tow'rs and observatories
Rising to heav'n; from thence astronomers
With optic glass take nobler views of God
In golden suns and shining worlds display'd
Than the poor Chaldean with the naked eye.
A Nineveh where Oronoque descends
With waves discolour'd from the Andes high,
Winding himself around a hundred isles
Where golden buildings glitter o'er his tide.
To mighty nations shall the people grow
Which cultivate the banks of many a flood,
In chrystal currents poured from the hills
Apalachia nam'd, to lave the sands
Of Carolina, Georgia, and the plains
Stretch'd out from thence far to the burning Line,
St. Johns or Clarendon or Albemarle.
And thou Patowmack, navigable stream,
Rolling thy waters thro' Virginia's groves,
Shall vie with Thames, the Tiber or the Rhine,
For on thy banks I see an hundred towns
And the tall vessels wafted down thy tide.
Hoarse Niagara's stream now roaring on
Thro' woods and rocks and broken mountains torn,
In days remote far from their antient beds,
By some great monarch taught a better course,
Or cleared of cataracts shall flow beneath
Unnumbr'd boats and merchandise and men;
And from the coasts of piny Labradore,
A thousand navies crowd before the gale,
And spread their commerce to remotest lands,
Or bear their thunder round the conquered world.

Leander

And here fair freedom shall forever reign.
I see a train, a glorious train appear,
Of Patriots plac'd in equal fame with those
Who nobly fell for Athens or for Rome.
The sons of Boston, resolute and brave,
The firm supporters of our injur'd rights,
Shall lose their splendours in the brighter beams
Of patriots fam'd and heroes yet unborn.

Acasto

'Tis but the morning of the world with us
And Science yet but sheds her orient rays.
I see the age, the happy age, roll on
Bright with the splendours of her mid-day beams,
I see a Homer and a Milton rise
In all the pomp and majesty of song,
Which gives immortal vigour to the deeds
Atchiev'd by Heroes in the fields of fame.
A second Pope, like that Arabian bird
Of which no age can boast but one, may yet
Awake the muse by Schuylkill's silent stream,
And bid new forests bloom along her tide.
And Susquehanna's rocky stream unsung,
In bright meanders winding round the hills,
Where first the mountain nymph, sweet echo, heard
The uncouth musick of my rural lay,
Shall yet remurmur to the magic sound
Of song heroic, when in future days
Some noble Hambden rises into fame.

Leander

Or Roanoke's and James's limpid waves
The sound of musick murmurs in the gale:
Another Denham celebrates their flow,
In gliding numbers and harmonious lays.

Eugenio

Now in the bow'rs of Tuscororah hills,
As once on Pindus all the muses stray,
New Theban bards high soaring reach the skies
And swim along thro' azure deeps of air.

Leander

From Alleghany in thick groves imbrown'd,
Sweet music breathing thro' the shades of night
Steals on my ear, they sing the origin
Of those fair lights which gild the firmament;
From whence the gale that murmurs in the pines;
Why flows the stream down from the mountains brow
And rolls the ocean lower than the land.
They sing the final destiny of things,
The great result of all our labours here,
The last day's glory, and the world renew'd.
Such are their themes, for in these happier days
The bard enraptur'd scorns ignoble strains,
Fair science smiling and full truth revealed,
The world at peace, and all her tumults o'er,
The blissful prelude to Emanuel's reign.

Eugenio

And when a train of rolling years are past,
(So sang the exil'd seer in Patmos isle,)
A new Jerusalem sent down from heav'n
Shall grace our happy earth, perhaps this land,
Whose virgin bosom shall then receive, tho' late,
Myriads of saints with their almighty king,
To live and reign on earth a thousand years
Thence call'd Millennium. Paradise anew
Shall flourish, by no second Adam lost.
No dang'rous tree or deathful fruit shall grow,
No tempting serpent to allure the soul,
From native innocence; a Canaan here
Another Canaan shall excel the old,
And from fairer Pisgah's top be seen.
No thistle here or briar or thorn shall spring,
Earth's curse before: the lion and the lamb
In mutual friendship link'd shall browse the shrub,
And tim'rous deer with rabid tygers stray
O'er mead or lofty hill or grassy plain.
Another Jordan's stream shall glide along
And Siloah's brook in circling eddies flow,
Groves shall adorn their verdant banks, on which
The happy people free from second death
Shall find secure repose; no fierce disease
No fevers, slow consumption, direful plague
Death's ancient ministers, again renew
Perpetual war with man: Fair fruits shall bloom
Fair to the eye, sweet to the taste, if such
Divine inhabitants could need the taste
Of elemental food, amid the joys,
Fit for a heav'nly nature. Music's charms
Shall swell the lofty soul and harmony
Triumphant reign; thro' ev'ry grove shall sound
The cymbal and the lyre, joys too divine
For fallen man to know. Such days the world
And such, America, thou first shall have
When ages yet to come have run their round
And future years of bliss alone remain.

Acasto

This is thy praise. America, thy pow'r,
Thou best of climes, by science visited,
By freedom blest and richly stor'd with all
The luxuries of life. Hail, happy land,
The seat of empire, the abode of kings,
The final stage where time shall introduce
Renowned characters, and glorious works
Of high invention and of wond'rous art
Which not the ravages of time shall waste
Till he himself has run his long career;
Till all those glorious orbs of light on high,
The rolling wonders that surround the ball,
Drop from their spheres extinguish'd and consum'd;
When final ruin with her fiery car
Rides o'er creation, and all nature's works
Are lost in chaos and the womb of night.

The 1786 edition, which was evolved with such great changes from the original version, furnished the text of the 1795 edition. There were some twenty variations and three added lines, viz., lines 354, 427, 438. Line 265 was changed from "Which full enjoyment only finds for fools," to its final form; line 352 was changed from "A thousand kingdoms rais'd;" line 360, from "Our Alexanders, Pompeys, heroes, kings;" line 371, from "One monarchy;" and 461, from "Death's ancient." The other changes were largely verbal, nearly all being for the better. For the edition of 1809, Freneau used the 1795 text, with some twenty-one variations and one added line, viz., line 67. These variations, which nearly all concern single words, are generally not at all for the better: for instance, "Shackle," in line 343, is changed to "people;" "our sons," in line 365, is changed to "a race;" "were born," in 367, to "we exist;" and "strumpets," in 409, to "vagrants." Freneau's notes in the various editions were as follows:

  62. Genesis x, 25.
100. Hor. Epod. 16.
207. 1755.
251. Hom. Odyss. B. 24.
328. Newton.
373. The Massacre at Boston. March 5th, 1770, is here more particularly glanced at.

ON RETIREMENT[46]

(By Hezekiah Salem)

A hermit's house beside a stream,
With forests planted round,
Whatever it to you may seem
More real happiness I deem
Than if I were a monarch crown'd.

A cottage I could call my own,
Remote from domes of care;
A little garden walled with stone,
The wall with ivy overgrown,
A limpid fountain near,

Would more substantial joys afford,
More real bliss impart
Than all the wealth that misers hoard,
Than vanquish'd worlds, or worlds restored—
Mere cankers of the heart!

Vain, foolish man! how vast thy pride,
How little can your wants supply!—
'Tis surely wrong to grasp so wide—
You act as if you only had
To vanquish—not to die!

[46] The title in the edition of 1786 was "Retirement." In 1795 it was changed to "The Wish of Diogenes."

DISCOVERY[47]

Six thousand years in these dull regions pass'd,
'Tis time, you'll say, we knew their bounds at last,
Knew to what skies our setting stars retire,
And where the wintry suns expend their fire;
What land to land protracts the varied scene,
And what extended oceans roll between;
What worlds exist beneath antarctic skies,
And from Pacific waves what verdant islands rise.
In vain did Nature shore from shore divide:
Art formed a passage and her waves defied:
When his bold plan the master pilot drew
Dissevered worlds stept forward at the view,
And lessening still the intervening space,
Disclosed new millions of the human race.
Proud even of toil, succeeding ages joined
New seas to vanquish, and new worlds to find;
Age following age still farther from the shore,
Found some new wonder that was hid before,
'Till launched at length, with avarice doubly bold,
Their hearts expanding as the world grew old,
Some to be rich, and some to be renowned,
The earth they rifled, and explored it round.
Ambitious Europe! polished in thy pride,
Thine was the art that toil to toil allied,
Thine was the gift, to trace each heavenly sphere,
And seize its beams, to serve ambition here:
Hence, fierce Pizarro stock'd a world with graves,
Hence Montezuma left a race of slaves.—
Which project suited best with heaven's decree,
To force new doctrines, or to leave them free?—
Religion only feigned to claim a share,
Their riches, not their souls, employed your care.—
Alas! how few of all that daring train
That seek new worlds embosomed in the main,
How few have sailed on virtue's nobler plan,
How few with motives worthy of a man!—
While through the deep-sea waves we saw them go
Where'er they found a man they made a foe;
Superior only by superior art,
Forgot the social virtues of the heart,
Forgetting still, where'er they madly ran,
That sacred friendship binds mankind to man,
Fond of exerting power untimely shewn,
The momentary triumph all their own!
Met on the wrecks and ravages of time,
They left no native master of his clime,
His trees, his towns, with hardened front they claimed,
Seized every region that a despot named
And forced the oath that bound him to obey
Some prince unknown, ten thousand miles away.
Slaves to their passions, man's imperious race,
Born for contention, find no resting place,
And the vain mind, bewildered and perplext,
Makes this world wretched to enjoy the next.
Tired of the scenes that Nature made their own,
They rove to conquer what remains unknown:
Avarice, undaunted, claims whate'er she sees,
Surmounts earth's circle, and foregoes all ease:
Religion, bolder, sends some sacred chief
To bend the nations to her own belief.
To their vain standard Europe's sons invite,
Who hold no other world can think aright.
Behold their varied tribes, with self applause,
First in religion, liberty, and laws,
And while they bow to cruelty and blood,
Condemn the Indian with his milder god.—
Ah, race to justice, truth, and honour blind,
Are thy convictions to convert mankind!—
Vain pride—convince them that your own are just,
Or leave them happy, as you found them first.
What charm is seen through Europe's realms of strife
That adds new blessings to the savage life?—
On them warm suns with equal splendor shine,
Their each domestic pleasure equals thine,
Their native groves as soft a bloom display,
As self-contented roll their lives away,
And the gay soul, in fancy's visions blest,
Leaves to the care of chance her heaven of rest.
What are the arts that rise on Europe's plan
But arts destructive to the bliss of man?
What are all wars, where'er the marks you trace,
But the sad records of our world's disgrace?
Reason degraded from her tottering throne,
And precepts, called divine, observed by none.
Blest in their distance from that bloody scene,
Why spread the sail to pass the gulphs between?—
If winds can waft to ocean's utmost verge,
And there new islands and new worlds emerge—
If wealth, or war, or science bid thee roam,
Ah, leave religion and thy laws at home,
Leave the free native to enjoy his store,
Nor teach destructive arts, unknown before—
Woes of their own those new found worlds invade,
There, too, fierce passions the weak soul degrade,
Invention there has winged the unerring dart,
There the swift arrow vibrates to the heart.
Revenge and death contending bosoms share,
And pining envy claims her subjects there.
Are these too few?—then see despotic power
Spends on a throne of logs her busy hour.
Hard by, and half ambitious to ascend,
Priests, interceding with the gods, attend—
Atoning victims at their shrines they lay,
Their crimson knives tremendous rites display,
Or the proud despot's gore remorseless shed.
Through life detested, or adored when dead.
Born to be wretched, search this globe around,
Dupes to a few the race of man is found!
Seek some new world in some new climate plac'd,
Some gay Ta-ia[A] on the watery waste,
Though Nature clothes in all her bright array,
Some proud tormentor steals her charms away:
Howe'er she smiles beneath those milder skies,
Though men decay the monarch never dies!
Howe'er the groves, howe'er the gardens bloom,
A monarch and a priest is still their doom!

[A] Commonly called Otaheite, an island in the Southern Pacific Ocean, noted for the natural civilization of its inhabitants.—Freneau's note.

[47] The edition of 1786 has the date 1772 for this poem. Very little change was made in the text for the later editions.

THE PICTURES OF COLUMBUS,
THE GENOESE[48]

Picture I.

Columbus making Maps[A]

[A] History informs us this was his original profession: and from the disproportionate vacancy observable in the drafts of that time between Europe and Asia to the west, it is most probable he first took the idea of another continent, lying in a parallel direction to, and existing between both.—Freneau's note.

As o'er his charts Columbus ran,
Such disproportion he survey'd,
He thought he saw in art's mean plan
Blunders that Nature never made;
The land in one poor corner placed,
And all beside, a swelling waste!—
"It can't be so," Columbus said;

"This world on paper idly drawn,[49]
"O'er one small tract so often gone
"The pencil tires; in this void space
"Allow'd to find no resting place.

"But copying Nature's bold design,
"If true to her, no fault is mine;
"Perhaps in these moist regions dwell
"Forms wrought like man, and lov'd as well.

"Yet to the west what lengthen'd seas!
"Are no gay islands found in these,
"No sylvan worlds that Nature meant
"To balance Asia's vast extent?

"As late a mimic globe I made
"(Imploring Fancy to my aid)
"O'er these wild seas a shade I threw,
"And a new world my pencil drew.

"But westward plac'd, and far away
"In the deep seas this country lay
"Beyond all climes already known,
"In Neptune's bosom plac'd alone.

"Who knows but he that hung this ball
"In the clear void, and governs all,
"On those dread scenes, remote from view,
"Has trac'd his great idea too.

"What can these idle charts avail—
"O'er real seas I mean to sail;
"If fortune aids the grand design,
"Worlds yet unthought of shall be mine.

"But how shall I this country find!
"Gay, painted picture of the mind!
"Religion[B] holds my project vain,
"And owns no worlds beyond the main.

[B] The Inquisition made it criminal to assert the existence of the Antipodes.—Freneau's note.

"'Midst yonder hills long time has stay'd[50]
"In sylvan cells a wondrous maid,
"Who things to come can truly tell,
"Dread mistress of the magic spell.

"Whate'er the depths of time can shew
"All pass before her in review,
"And all events her eyes survey,
"'Till time and nature both decay.

"I'll to her cave, enquiring there
"What mighty things the fates prepare;
"Whether my hopes and plans are vain,
"Or I must give new worlds to Spain."

Picture II.[51]

The Cell of an Inchantress

Inchantress

Who dares attempt this gloomy grove
Where never shepherd dream'd of love,
And birds of night are only found,
And poisonous weeds bestrew the ground:
Hence, stranger, take some other road,
Nor dare prophane my dark abode;
The winds are high, the moon is low—
Would you enter?—no, no, no:—

Columbus

Sorceress of mighty power![A]
Hither at the midnight hour
Over hill and dale I've come,
Leaving ease and sleep at home:
With daring aims my bosom glows;
Long a stranger to repose,
I have come to learn from you
Whether phantoms I pursue,
Or if, as reason would persuade,
New worlds are on the ocean laid—
Tell me, wonder-working maid,
Tell me, dire inchantress, tell,
Mistress of the magic spell!

[A] The fifteenth century was, like many of the preceding, an age of superstition, cruelty, and ignorance. When this circumstance, therefore, is brought into view, the mixture of truth and fiction will not appear altogether absurd or unnatural. At any rate, it has ever been tolerated in this species of poetry.—Freneau's note.

Inchantress

The staring owl her note has sung;
With gaping snakes my cave is hung;
Of maiden hair my bed is made,
Two winding sheets above it laid;
With bones of men my shelves are pil'd,
And toads are for my supper boil'd;
Three ghosts attend to fill my cup,
And four to serve my pottage up;
The crow is waiting to say grace:—
Wouldst thou in such a dismal place
The secrets of thy fortune trace?

Columbus

Though death and all his dreary crew
Were to be open'd on my view,
I would not from this threshold fly
'Till you had made a full reply.
Open wide this iron gate,
I must read the book of fate:
Tell me, if beyond the main
Islands are reserv'd for Spain;
Tell me, if beyond the sea
Worlds are to be found by me:
Bid your spirits disappear,
Phantoms of delusive fear,
These are visions I despise,
Shadows and uncertainties.

Inchantress

Must I, then, yield to your request!
Columbus, why disturb my rest!—
For this the ungrateful shall combine,
And hard misfortune shall be thine;—
For this the base reward remains
Of cold neglect and galling chains![B]
In a poor solitude forgot,
Reproach and want shall be the lot
Of him that gives new worlds to Spain,
And westward spreads her golden reign.
Before you came to vex my bower
I slept away the evening hour,
Or watch'd the rising of the moon,
With hissing vipers keeping tune,
Or galloping along the glade
Took pleasure in the lunar shade,
And gather'd herbs, or made a prize
Of horses' tails and adders' eyes:
Now open flies the iron gate,
Advance, and read the book of fate!
On thy design what woes attend!
The nations at the ocean's end,
No longer destin'd to be free,
Shall owe distress and death to thee!
The seats of innocence and love
Shall soon the scenes of horror prove:
But why disturb these Indian climes,
The pictures of more happy times!
Has avarice, with unfeeling breast,
Has cruelty thy soul possess'd?
May ruin on thy boldness wait!—
Advance, and read the book of fate.
When vulture, fed but once a week,
And ravens three together shriek,
And skeleton for vengeance cries,
Then shall the fatal curtain rise!
Two lamps in yonder vaulted room,
Suspended o'er a brazen tomb,
Shall lend their glimmerings, as you pass,
To find your fortune in that glass
Whose wondrous virtue is, to show
Whate'er the inquirer wants to know.

[B] In 1498 he was superseded in his command at Hispaniola and sent home in irons. Soon after finishing his fourth voyage, finding himself neglected by the Court of Spain after all his services, he retired to Valladolid, in Old Castile, where he died on the 20th of May. A. D. 1506.—Freneau's note.

Picture III.

The Mirror

Columbus

Strange things I see, bright mirror, in thy breast:—
There Perseverance stands, and nobly scorns
The gabbling tongue of busy calumny;
Proud Erudition in a scholar's garb
Derides my plans and grins a jeering smile.
Hypocrisy, clad in a doctor's gown,
A western continent deems heresy:
The princes, kings, and nobles of the land
Smile at my projects, and report me mad:
One royal woman only stands my friend,
Bright Isabell, the lady of our hearts,
Whom avarice prompts to aid my purposes,
And love of toys—weak female vanity!—
She gains her point!—three slender barques I see
(Or else the witch's glass deceives mine eye)
Rigg'd trim, and furnish'd out with stores and men,
Fitted for tedious journeys o'er the main:
Columbus—ha!—their motions he directs;
Their captains come, and ask advice from him,
Holding him for the soul of resolution.
Now, now we launch from Palos! prosperous gales
Impel the canvas: now the far fam'd streight
Is pass'd, the pillars of the son of Jove,
Long held the limits of the paths of men:
Ah! what a waste of ocean here begins,
And lonely waves, so black and comfortless!
Light flies each bounding galley o'er the main;
Now Lancerota gathers on our view,
And Teneriffe her clouded summit rears:
Awhile we linger at these islands fair
That seem the utmost boundaries of the world,
Then westward aiming on the unfathom'd deep
Sorrowing, with heavy hearts we urge our way.
Now all is discontent—such oceans pass'd,
No land appearing yet, dejects the most;
Yet, fertile in expedients, I alone
The mask of mild content am forc'd to wear:
A thousand signs I see, or feign to see,
Of shores at hand, and bottoms underneath,
And not a bird that wanders o'er the main,
And not a cloud that traverses the sky
But brings me something to support their hopes:
All fails at last!—so frequently deceiv'd
They growl with anger—mad to look at death
They gnash their teeth, and will be led no more;
On me their vengeance turns: they look at me
As their conductor to the realms of ruin:
Plot after plot discover'd, not reveng'd,
They join against their chief in mutiny:
They urge to plunge him in the boiling deep
As one, the only one that would pursue
Imaginary worlds through boundless seas:—
The scene is chang'd—Fine islands greet mine eye,
Cover'd with trees, and beasts, and yellow men;
Eternal summer through the vallies smiles
And fragrant gales o'er golden meadows play!—
Inchantress, 'tis enough!—now veil your glass—
The curtain falls—and I must homeward pass.

Picture IV.

Columbus addresses King Ferdinand

Prince and the pride of Spain! while meaner crowns,
Pleas'd with the shadow of monarchial sway,
Exact obedience from some paltry tract
Scarce worth the pain and toil of governing,
Be thine the generous care to send thy fame
Beyond the knowledge, or the guess of man.
This gulphy deep (that bounds our western reign
So long by civil feuds and wars disgrac'd)
Must be the passage to some other shore
Where nations dwell, children of early time,
Basking in the warm sunshine of the south,
Who some false deity, no doubt, adore,
Owning no virtue in the potent cross:
What honour, sire, to plant your standards there,[A]
And souls recover to our holy faith
That now in paths of dark perdition stray
Warp'd to his worship by the evil one!
Think not that Europe and the Asian waste,
Or Africa, where barren sands abound,
Are the sole gems in Neptune's bosom laid:
Think not the world a vast extended plain:
See yond' bright orbs, that through the ether move,
All globular; this earth a globe like them
Walks her own rounds, attended by the moon,
Bright comrade, but with borrowed lustre bright.
If all the surface of this mighty round
Be one wide ocean of unfathom'd depth
Bounding the little space already known,
Nature must have forgot her wonted wit
And made a monstrous havock of proportion.
If her proud depths were not restrain'd by lands,
And broke by continents of vast extent
Existing somewhere under western skies,
Far other waves would roll before the storms
Than ever yet have burst on Europe's shores,
Driving before them deluge and confusion.
But Nature will preserve what she has plann'd:
And the whole suffrage of antiquity,
Platonic dreams, and reason's plainer page
All point at something that we ought to see
Buried behind the waters of the west,
Clouded with shadows of uncertainty.
The time is come for some sublime event
Of mighty fame:—mankind are children yet,
And hardly dream what treasures they possess
In the dark bosom of the fertile main,
Unfathom'd, unattempted, unexplor'd.
These, mighty prince, I offer to reveal,
And by the magnet's aid, if you supply
Ships and some gallant hearts, will hope to bring
From distant climes, news worthy of a king.

[A] It is allowed by most historians, that Ferdinand was an implicit believer and one of the must superstitious bigots of his age.—Freneau's note.

Picture V.

Ferdinand and his First Minister

Ferdinand

What would this madman have, this odd projector!
A wild address I have to-day attended,
Mingling its folly with our great affairs,
Dreaming of islands and new hemispheres
Plac'd on the ocean's verge, we know not where—
What shall I do with this petitioner?

Minister

Even send him, sire, to perish in his search:
He has so pester'd me these many years
With idle projects of discovery—
His name—I almost dread to hear it mention'd:
He is a Genoese of vulgar birth
And has been round all Europe with his plans
Presenting them to every potentate;
He lives, 'tis said, by vending maps and charts,[52]
And being us'd to sketch imagin'd islands
On that blank space that represents the seas,
His head at last grows giddy with this folly,
And fancied isles are turned to real lands
With which he puzzles me perpetually:
What pains me too, is, that our royal lady
Lends him her ear, and reads his mad addresses,
Oppos'd to reason and philosophy.

Ferdinand

He acts the devil's part in Eden's garden;
Knowing the man was proof to his temptations
He whisper'd something in the ear of Eve,
And promis'd much, but meant not to perform.

Minister

I've treated all his schemes with such contempt
That any but a rank, mad-brain'd enthusiast,
Pushing his purpose to extremities,
Would have forsook your empire, royal sir,
Discourag'd, and forgotten long ago.

Ferdinand

Has he so long been busy at his projects?—
I scarcely heard of him till yesterday:
A plan pursued with so much obstinacy
Looks not like madness:—wretches of that stamp
Survey a thousand objects in an hour,
In love with each, and yet attach'd to none
Beyond the moment that it meets the eye—
But him I honour, tho' in beggar's garbs,
Who has a soul of so much constancy
As to bear up against the hard rebuffs,
Sneers of great men, and insolence of power,
And through the opposition of them all
Pursues his object:—Minister, this man
Must have our notice:—Let him be commissioned
Viceroy of all the lands he shall discover,
Admiral and general in the fleets of Spain;
Let three stout ships be instantly selected,
The best and strongest ribb'd of all we own,
With men to mann them, patient of fatigue:
But stay, attend! how stands our treasury?—

Minister

Empty—even to the bottom, royal sir!
We have not coin for bare necessities,
Much less, so pardon me, to spend on madmen.

Picture VI.

Columbus addresses Queen Isabella

While Turkish queens, dejected, pine,
Compell'd sweet freedom to resign;
And taught one virtue, to obey,
Lament some eastern tyrant's sway,

Queen of our hearts, bright Isabell!
A happier lot to you has fell,
Who makes a nation's bliss your own,
And share the rich Castilian throne.

Exalted thus, beyond all fame,
Assist, fair lady, that proud aim
Which would your native reign extend
To the wide world's remotest end.

From science, fed by busy thought,
New wonders to my view are brought:
The vast abyss beyond our shore
I deem impassable no more.

Let those that love to dream or sleep
Pretend no limits to the deep:
I see beyond the rolling main
Abounding wealth reserv'd for Spain.

From Nature's earliest days conceal'd,
Men of their own these climates yield,
And scepter'd dames, no doubt, are there,
Queens like yourself, but not so fair.

But what should most provoke desire
Are the fine pearls that they admire,
And diamonds bright and coral green
More fit to grace a Spanish queen.

Their yellow shells, and virgin gold,
And silver, for our trinkets sold,
Shall well reward this toil and pain,
And bid our commerce shine again.

As men were forc'd from Eden's shade
By errors that a woman made,
Permit me at a woman's cost
To find the climates that we lost.

He that with you partakes command,
The nation's hope, great Ferdinand,
Attends, indeed, to my request,
But wants no empires in the west.

Then, queen, supply the swelling sail,
For eastward breathes the steady gale
That shall the meanest barque convey
To regions richer than Cathay.[A]

[A] The ancient name for China.—Freneau's note.

Arriv'd upon that flowery coast
Whole towns of golden temples boast,
While these bright objects strike our view
Their wealth shall be reserv'd for you.

Each swarthy king shall yield his crown,
And smiling lay their sceptres down,
When they, not tam'd by force of arms,
Shall hear the story of your charms.

Did I an empty dream pursue
Great honour still must wait on you,
Who sent the lads of Spain to keep
Such vigils on the untravell'd deep,

Who fix'd the bounds of land and sea,
Trac'd Nature's works through each degree,
Imagin'd some unheard of shore
But prov'd that there was nothing more.

Yet happier prospects, I maintain,
Shall open on your female reign,
While ages hence with rapture tell
How much they owe to Isabell!

Picture VII.

Queen Isabella's Page of Honour writing a reply to Columbus

Your yellow shells, and coral green.
And gold, and silver—not yet seen,
Have made such mischief in a woman's mind
The queen could almost pillage from the crown,
And add some costly jewels of her own,
Thus sending you that charming coast to find
Where all these heavenly things abound,
Queens in the west, and chiefs renown'd.
But then no great men take you by the hand,
Nor are the nobles busied in your aid;
The clergy have no relish for your scheme,
And deem it madness—one archbishop said
You were bewilder'd in a paltry dream
That led directly to undoubted ruin,
Your own and other men's undoing:—
And our confessor says it is not true,
And calls it heresy in you
Thus to assert the world is round,
And that Antipodes are found
Held to the earth, we can't tell how.—
But you shall sail; I heard the queen declare
That mere geography is not her care;—
And thus she bids me say,
"Columbus, haste away,
"Hasten to Palos, and if you can find
"Three barques, of structure suited to your mind,
"Strait make a purchase in the royal name;
"Equip them for the seas without delay,
"Since long the journey is (we heard you say)
"To that rich country which we wish to claim.—
"Let them be small—for know the crown is poor
"Though basking in the sunshine of renown.
"Long wars have wasted us: the pride of Spain
"Was ne'er before so high, nor purse so mean;
"Giving us ten years' war, the humbled Moor
"Has left us little else but victory:
"Time must restore past splendor to our reign."

Picture VIII.

Columbus at the Harbour of Palos, in Andalusia

Columbus

In three small barques to cross so vast a sea,
Held to be boundless, even in learning's eye,
And trusting only to a magic glass,
Which may have represented things untrue,
Shadows and visions for realities!—[53]
It is a bold attempt!—Yet I must go,
Travelling the surge to its great boundary;
Far, far away beyond the reach of men,
Where never galley spread her milk-white sail
Or weary pilgrim bore the Christian name!
But though I were confirm'd in my design
And saw the whole event with certainty,
How shall I so exert my eloquence,
And hold such arguments with vulgar minds
As to convince them I am not an idiot
Chasing the visions of a shatter'd brain,
Ending in their perdition and my own?
The world, and all its wisdom is against me;
The dreams of priests; philosophy in chains;
False learning swoln with self-sufficiency;
Men seated at the helm of royalty
Reasoning like school-boys;—what discouragements!
Experience holds herself mine enemy,
And one weak woman only hears my story!—
I'll make a speech—"Here jovial sailors, here!
"Ye that would rise beyond the rags of fortune,
"Struggling too long with hopeless poverty,
"Coasting your native shores on shallow seas,
"Vex'd by the gallies of the Ottoman;
"Now meditate with me a bolder plan,
"Catching at fortune in her plenitude!
"He that shall undertake this voyage with me
"Shall be no longer held a vulgar man:
"Princes shall wish they had been our companions,
"And Science blush she did not go along
"To learn a lesson that might humble pride
"Now grinning idly from a pedant's cap,
"Lurking behind the veil of cowardice.
"Far in the west a golden region lies
"Unknown, unvisited for many an age,
"Teeming with treasures to enrich the brave.
"Embark, embark—Columbus leads the way—
"Why, friends, existence is alike to me
"Dear and desireable with other men;
"What good could I devise in seeking ruin?
"Embark, I say; and he that sails with me
"Shall reap a harvest of immortal honour:
"Wealthier he shall return than they that now
"Lounge in the lap of principalities,
"Hoarding the gorgeous treasures of the east."—
Alas, alas! they turn their backs upon me,
And rather choose to wallow in the mire
Of want, and torpid inactivity,
Than by one bold and masterly exertion
Themselves ennoble, and enrich their country!

Picture IX.

A Sailor's Hut, near the Shore

Thomas and Susan

Thomas

I wish I was over the water again!
'Tis a pity we cannot agree;
When I try to be merry 'tis labour in vain,
You always are scolding at me;
Then what shall I do
With this termagant Sue;
Tho' I hug her and squeeze her
I never can please her—
Was there ever a devil like you!

Susan

If I was a maid as I now am a wife
With a sot and a brat to maintain,
I think it should be the first care of my life,
To shun such a drunkard again:
Not one of the crew
Is so hated by Sue;
Though they always are bawling,
And pulling and hauling—
Not one is a puppy like you.[54]

Thomas

Dear Susan, I'm sorry that you should complain:
There is nothing indeed to be done;
If a war should break out, not a sailor in Spain
Would sooner be found at his gun:
Arriving from sea
I would kneel on one knee,
And the plunder presenting
To Susan relenting—
Who then would be honour'd like me!

Susan

To-day as I came by the sign of the ship,
A mighty fine captain was there,
He was asking for sailors to take a small trip,
But I cannot remember well where:
He was hearty and free,
And if you can agree
To leave me, dear honey,
To bring me some money!—
How happy—indeed—I shall be!

Thomas

The man that you saw not a sailor can get,
'Tis a captain Columbus, they say;
To fit out a ship he is running in debt,
And our wages he never will pay:
Yes, yes, it is he,
And, Sue, do ye see,
On a wild undertaking
His heart he is breaking—
The devil may take him for me!

Picture X.

Bernardo, a Spanish Friar, in his canonicals

Did not our holy book most clearly say
This earth is built upon a pillar'd base;
And did not Reason add convincing proofs
That this huge world is one continued plain
Extending onward to immensity,
Bounding with oceans these abodes of men,
I should suppose this dreamer had some hopes,
Some prospects built on probability.
What says our lord the pope—he cannot err—
He says, our world is not orbicular,
And has rewarded some with chains and death
Who dar'd defend such wicked heresies.
But we are turning heretics indeed!—
A foreigner, an idiot, an impostor,
An infidel (since he dares contradict
What our most holy order holds for truth)
Is pouring poison in the royal ear;
Telling him tales of islands in the moon,
Leading the nation into dangerous errors,
Slighting instruction from our brotherhood!—
O Jesu! Jesu! what an age is this!

Picture XI.

Orosio, a Mathematician, with his scales and compasses

This persevering man succeeds at last!
The last gazette has publish'd to the world
That Ferdinand and Isabella grant
Three well rigg'd ships to Christopher Columbus;
And have bestow'd the noble titles too
Of Admiral and Vice-Roy—great indeed!—
Who will not now project, and scrawl on paper—
Pretenders now shall be advanc'd to honour;
And every pedant that can frame a problem,
And every lad that can draw parallels
Or measure the subtension of an angle,
Shall now have ships to make discoveries.
This simple man would sail he knows not where;
Building on fables, schemes of certainty;—
Visions of Plato, mix'd with idle tales
Of later date, intoxicate his brain:
Let him advance beyond a certain point
In his fantastic voyage, and I foretell
He never can return: ay, let him go!—
There is a line towards the setting sun
Drawn on an ocean of tremendous depth,
(Where nature plac'd the limits of the day)
Haunted by dragons, fond of solitude,
Red serpents, fiery forms, and yelling hags,
Fit company for mad adventurers.—
There, when the sun descends, 'tis horror all;
His angry globe through vast abysses gliding
Burns in the briny bosom of the deep
Making a havoc so detestable,
And causing such a wasteful ebullition
That never island green, or continent
Could find foundation, there to grow upon.

Picture XII.

Columbus and a Pilot

Columbus

To take on board the sweepings of a jail
Is inexpedient in a voyage like mine,
That will require most patient fortitude,
Strict vigilance and staid sobriety,
Contempt of death on cool reflection founded,
A sense of honour, motives of ambition,
And every sentiment that sways the brave.—
Princes should join me now!—not those I mean
Who lurk in courts, or revel in the shade
Of painted ceilings:—those I mean, more worthy,
Whose daring aims and persevering souls,
Soaring beyond the sordid views of fortune,
Bespeak the lineage of true royalty.

Pilot

A fleet arrived last month at Carthagene
From Smyrna, Cyprus, and the neighbouring isles:
Their crews, releas'd from long fatigues at sea,
Have spent their earnings in festivity,
And hunger tells them they must out again.
Yet nothing instantly presents itself
Except your new and noble expedition:
The fleet must undergo immense repairs,
And numbers will be unemploy'd awhile:
I'll take them in the hour of dissipation
(Before reflection has made cowards of them,
Suggesting questions of impertinence)
When desperate plans are most acceptable,
Impossibilities are possible,
And all the spring and vigour of the mind
Is strain'd to madness and audacity:
If you approve my scheme, our ninety men
(The number you pronounce to be sufficient)
Shall all be enter'd in a week, at most.

Columbus

Go, pilot, go—and every motive urge
That may put life into this expedition.
Early in August we must weigh our anchors.
Time wears apace—-bring none but willing men,
So shall our orders be the better borne,
The people less inclin'd to mutiny.

Picture XIII.

Discontents at Sea

Antonio

Dreadful is death in his most gentle forms!
More horrid still on this mad element,
So far remote from land—from friends remote!
So many thousand leagues already sail'd
In quest of visions!—what remains to us
But perishing in these moist solitudes;
Where many a day our corpses on the sea
Shall float unwept, unpitied, unentomb'd!
O fate most terrible!—undone Antonio!
Why didst thou listen to a madman's dreams,
Pregnant with mischief—why not, comrades, rise!—
See, Nature's self prepares to leave us here;
The needle, once so faithful to the pole,
Now quits his object and bewilders us;
Steering at random, just as chance directs—
O fate most terrible!—undone Antonio!—

Hernando

Borne to creation's utmost verge, I saw
New stars ascending, never view'd before!
Low sinks the bear!—O land, my native land,
Clear springs and shady groves! why did I change
Your aspect fair for these infernal wastes,
Peopled by monsters of another kind;
Ah me! design'd not for the view of man!

Columbus

Cease, dastards, cease; and be inform'd that man
Is nature's lord, and wields her to his will;
If her most noble works obey our aims,
How much more so ought worthless scum, like you,
Whose whole existence is a morning dream,
Whose life is sunshine on a wintry day,
Who shake at shadows, struck with palsied fear:
Measuring the limit of your lives by distance.

Antonio

Columbus, hear! when with the land we parted
You thirty days agreed to plough the main,
Directing westward.—Thirty have elaps'd,
And thirty more have now begun their round,
No land appearing yet, nor trace of land,
But distant fogs that mimic lofty isles,
Painting gay landscapes on the vapourish air,
Inhabited by fiends that mean our ruin—
You persevere, and have no mercy on us—
Then perish by yourself—we must return—
And know, our firm resolve is fix'd for Spain;
In this resolve we are unanimous.

Juan de Villa-Real to Columbus

(A Billet)

"I heard them over night a plot contriving
"Of fatal purpose—have a care, Columbus!—
"They have resolv'd, as on the deck you stand,
"Aiding the vigils of the midnight hour,
"To plunge you headlong in the roaring deep,
"And slaughter such as favour your design
"Still to pursue this western continent."

Columbus, solus

Why, nature, hast thou treated those so ill,
Whose souls, capacious of immense designs,
Leave ease and quiet for a nation's glory,
Thus to subject them to these little things,
Insects, by heaven's decree in shapes of men!
But so it is, and so we must submit,
Bending to thee, the heaven's great chancellor!
But must I fail!—and by timidity!
Must thou to thy green waves receive me, Neptune,
Or must I basely with my ships return,
Nothing accomplish'd!—not one pearl discover'd,
One bit of gold to make our queen a bracelet,
One diamond for the crown of Ferdinand!
How will their triumph be confirm'd, who said
That I was mad!—Must I then change my course,
And quit the country that would strait appear,
If one week longer we pursued the sun!—
The witch's glass was not delusion, sure!—
All this, and more, she told me to expect!—[55]
(To the crew)
"Assemble, friends; attend to what I say:
"Signs unequivocal, at length, declare
"That some great continent approaches us:
"The sea no longer glooms unmeasur'd depths,[56]
"The setting sun discovers clouds that owe
"Their origin to fens and woodland wastes,
"Not such as breed on ocean's salt domain:—
"Vast flocks of birds attend us on our way,
"These all have haunts amidst the watry void.
"Sweet scenes of ease, and sylvan solitude,
"And springs, and streams that we shall share with them.
"Now, hear my most importunate request:
"I call you all my friends; you are my equals,
"Men of true worth and native dignity,
"Whose spirits are too mighty to return
"Most meanly home, when nothing is accomplish'd—
"Consent to sail our wonted course with me
"But one week longer, and if that be spent,
"And nought appear to recompence our toil,
"Then change our course and homeward haste away—
"Nay, homeward not!—for that would be too base—
"But to some negro coast,[57] where we may hide,
"And never think of Ferdinand again."

Hernando

One week!—too much—it shall not be, Columbus!
Already are we on the verge of ruin,
Warm'd by the sunshine of another sphere,
Fann'd by the breezes of the burning zone,
Launch'd out upon the world's extremities!—
Who knows where one week more may carry us?

Antonio

Nay, talk not to the traitor!—base Columbus,
To thee our ruin and our deaths we owe!
Away, away!—friends!—men at liberty,
Now free to act as best befits our case,
Appoint another pilot to the helm,
And Andalusia be our port again!

Columbus

Friends, is it thus you treat your admiral,
Who bears the honours of great Ferdinand,
The royal standard, and the arms of Spain!
Three days allow me—and I'll show new worlds.

Hernando

Three days!—one day will pass too tediously—
But in the name of all our crew, Columbus,
Whose speaker and controuler I am own'd;
Since thou indeed art a most gallant man,
Three days we grant—but ask us not again!

Picture XIV.

Columbus at Cat Island

Columbus, solus

Hail, beauteous land! the first that greets mine eye
Since, bold, we left the cloud capp'd Teneriffe,
The world's last limit long suppos'd by men.—
Tir'd with dull prospects of the watry waste
And midnight dangers that around us grew,
Faint hearts and feeble hands and traitors vile,
Thee, Holy Saviour, on this foreign land
We still adore, and name this coast from thee![A]
In these green groves who would not wish to stay,
Where guardian nature holds her quiet reign,
Where beardless men speak other languages,
Unknown to us, ourselves unknown to them.

[A] He called the island San Salvador (Holy Saviour). It lies about ninety miles S.E. from Providence; is one of the Bahama cluster, and to the eastward of the Grand Bank.—Freneau's note.

Antonio

In tracing o'er the isle no gold I find—
Nought else but barren trees and craggy rocks
Where screaming sea-fowl mix their odious loves,
And fields of burning marle, where devils play
And men with copper skins talk barbarously;—
What merit has our chief in sailing hither,
Discovering countries of no real worth!
Spain has enough of barren sands, no doubt,
And savages in crowds are found at home;—
Why then surmount the world's circumference
Merely to stock us with this Indian breed?

Hernando

Soft!—or Columbus will detect your murmuring—
This new found isle has re-instated him
In all our favours—see you yonder sands?—
Why, if you see them, swear that they are gold,
And gold like this shall be our homeward freight,
Gladding the heart of Ferdinand the great,
Who, when he sees it, shall say smilingly,
"Well done, advent'rous fellows, you have brought
"The treasure we expected and deserv'd!"—
Hold!—I am wrong—there goes a savage man
With gold suspended from his ragged ears:
I'll brain the monster for the sake of gold;
There, savage, try the power of Spanish steel—
'Tis of Toledo[B]—true and trusty stuff!
He falls! he falls! the gold, the gold is mine!
First acquisition in this golden isle!—

[B] The best steel-blades in Spain are manufactured at Toledo and Bilboa.—Freneau's note.

Columbus, solus

Sweet sylvan scenes of innocence and ease,
How calm and joyous pass the seasons here!
No splendid towns or spiry turrets rise,
No lordly palaces—no tyrant kings
Enact hard laws to crush fair freedom here;
No gloomy jails to shut up wretched men;
All, all are free!—here God and nature reign;
Their works unsullied by the hands of men.—
Ha! what is this—a murder'd wretch I see,[58]
His blood yet warm—O hapless islander,
Who could have thus so basely mangled thee,
Who never offer'd insult to our shore—
Was it for those poor trinkets in your ears
Which by the custom of your tribe you wore,—
Now seiz'd away—and which would not have weigh'd
One poor piastre!
Is this the fruit of my discovery!
If the first scene is murder, what shall follow
But havock, slaughter, chains and devastation
In every dress and form of cruelty!
O injur'd Nature, whelm me in the deep,
And let not Europe hope for my return,
Or guess at worlds upon whose threshold now
So black a deed has just been perpetrated!—
We must away—enjoy your woods in peace,
Poor, wretched, injur'd, harmless islanders;—
On Hayti's[C] isle you say vast stores are found
Of this destructive gold—which without murder
Perhaps, we may possess!—away, away!
And southward, pilots, seek another isle,
Fertile they say, and of immense extent:
There we may fortune find without a crime.

[C] This island is now called Hispaniola, but is of late recovering its ancient name.—Freneau's note.

Picture XV.

Columbus in a Tempest, on his return to Spain

The storm hangs low; the angry lightning glares
And menaces destruction to our masts;
The Corposant[A] is busy on the decks,
The soul, perhaps, of some lost admiral
Taking his walks about most leisurely,
Foreboding we shall be with him to-night:
See, now he mounts the shrouds—as he ascends
The gale grows bolder!—all is violence!
Seas, mounting from the bottom of their depths,
Hang o'er our heads with all their horrid curls
Threatening perdition to our feeble barques,
Which three hours longer cannot bear their fury,
Such heavy strokes already shatter them;
Who can endure such dreadful company!—
Then, must we die with our discovery!
Must all my labours, all my pains, be lost,
And my new world in old oblivion sleep?—
My name forgot, or if it be remember'd,
Only to have it said, "He was a madman
"Who perish'd as he ought—deservedly—
"In seeking what was never to be found!"—
Let's obviate what we can this horrid sentence,
And, lost ourselves, perhaps, preserve our name.
'Tis easy to contrive this painted casket,
(Caulk'd, pitch'd, secur'd with canvas round and round)
That it may float for months upon the main,
Bearing the freight within secure and dry:
In this will I an abstract of our voyage,
And islands found, in little space enclose:
The western winds in time may bear it home
To Europe's coasts: or some wide wandering ship
By accident may meet it toss'd about,
Charg'd with the story of another world.

[A] A vapour common at sea in bad weather, something larger and rather paler than the light of a candle; which, seeming to rise out of the sea, first moves about the decks, and then ascends or descends the rigging in proportion to the increase or decrease of the storm. Superstition formerly imagined them to be the souls of drowned men.—Freneau's note.

Picture XVI.

Columbus visits the Court at Barcelona

Ferdinand

Let him be honour'd like a God, who brings
Tidings of islands at the ocean's end!
In royal robes let him be straight attir'd.
And seated next ourselves, the noblest peer.

Isabella

The merit of this gallant deed is mine:
Had not my jewels furnish'd out the fleet
Still had this world been latent in the main.—
Since on this project every man look'd cold,
A woman, as his patroness, shall shine;
And through the world the story shall be told,
A woman gave new continents to Spain.

Columbus

A world, great prince, bright queen and royal lady,
Discover'd now, has well repaid our toils;
We to your bounty owe all that we are;
Men of renown and to be fam'd in story.
Islands of vast extent we have discover'd
With gold abounding: see a sample here
Of those most precious metals we admire;
And Indian men, natives of other climes,
Whom we have brought to do you princely homage,
Owning they hold their diadems from you.

Ferdinand

To fifteen sail your charge shall be augmented:
Hasten to Palos, and prepare again
To sail in quest of this fine golden country,
The Ophir, never known to Solomon;
Which shall be held the brightest gem we have,
The richest diamond in the crown of Spain.

Picture XVII.

Columbus in Chains[A]

[A] During his third voyage, while in San Domingo, such unjust representations were made of his conduct to the Court of Spain, that a new admiral, Bovadilla, was appointed to supersede him, who sent Columbus home in irons.—Freneau's note.

Are these the honours they reserve for me,
Chains for the man that gave new worlds to Spain!
Rest here, my swelling heart!—O kings, O queens,
Patrons of monsters, and their progeny,
Authors of wrong, and slaves to fortune merely!
Why was I seated by my prince's side,
Honour'd, caress'd like some first peer of Spain?
Was it that I might fall most suddenly
From honour's summit to the sink of scandal!
'Tis done, 'tis done!—what madness is ambition!
What is there in that little breath of men,
Which they call Fame, that should induce the brave
To forfeit ease and that domestic bliss
Which is the lot of happy ignorance,
Less glorious aims, and dull humility?—
Whoe'er thou art that shalt aspire to honour,
And on the strength and vigour of the mind
Vainly depending, court a monarch's favour,
Pointing the way to vast extended empire;
First count your pay to be ingratitude,
Then chains and prisons, and disgrace like mine!
Each wretched pilot now shall spread his sails,
And treading in my footsteps, hail new worlds,
Which, but for me, had still been empty visions.

Picture XVIII.

Columbus at Valladolid[A]

[A] After he found himself in disgrace with the Court of Spain, he retired to Vallodolid, a town of Old Castile, where he died, it is said, more of a broken heart than any other disease, on the 20th of May, 1506.—Freneau's note.

1

How sweet is sleep, when gain'd by length of toil!
No dreams disturb the slumbers of the dead—
To snatch existence from this scanty soil,
Were these the hopes deceitful fancy bred;
And were her painted pageants nothing more
Than this life's phantoms by delusion led?

2

The winds blow high: one other world remains;
Once more without a guide I find the way;
In the dark tomb to slumber with my chains—
Prais'd by no poet on my funeral day,
Nor even allow'd one dearly purchas'd claim—
My new found world not honour'd with my name.

3

Yet, in this joyless gloom while I repose,
Some comfort will attend my pensive shade,
When memory paints, and golden fancy shows
My toils rewarded, and my woes repaid;
When empires rise where lonely forests grew,
Where Freedom shall her generous plans pursue.

4

To shadowy forms, and ghosts and sleepy things,
Columbus, now with dauntless heart repair;
You liv'd to find new worlds for thankless kings,
Write this upon my tomb—yes—tell it there—
Tell of those chains that sullied all my glory—
Not mine, but their's—ah, tell the shameful story.

[48] First published in the edition of 1788, the text of which I have reproduced. Aside from several significant changes in Picture I., and the total omission of Pictures II. and III., the later editions contain but few variations. The edition of 1795 is signed "Anno 1774."

[49] The four stanzas beginning "This world on paper idly drawn," are omitted from later editions, and the stanza beginning "But westward plac'd" is made to read:

"Far to the west what lengthen'd seas!
"Are no gay islands found in these,
"No sylvan worlds, by Nature meant
"To balance Asia's vast extent?"

[50] In later editions the last three stanzas are omitted, and in their place is added the following, taken partly from the words of the Inchantress in the next picture:

"If Neptune on my prowess smiles,
And I detect his hidden isles,
I hear some warning spirit say:
'No monarch will your toils repay:
'For this the ungrateful shall combine,
'And hard misfortune must be thine;
'For this the base reward remains
'Of cold neglect and galling chains!
'In a poor solitude forgot,
'Reproach and want shall be the lot
'Of him that gives new worlds to Spain
'And westward spreads her golden reign.
'On thy design what woes attend!
'The nations at the ocean's end
'No longer destined to be free
'Shall owe distress and death to thee!
'The seats of innocence and love
'Shall soon the scenes of horror prove;
'But why disturb these Indian climes,
'The pictures of more happy times!
'Has avarice, with unfeeling breast,
'Has cruelty thy soul possess'd?
'May ruin on thy boldness wait!—
'And sorrow crown thy toils too late!'"

[51] Pictures II. and III. are omitted from later editions.

[52] The six lines beginning here are omitted in the later versions.

[53] This and the two preceding lines omitted in later versions.

[54] "Not one is so noisy as you."—Ed. 1795.

[55] This and preceding line omitted in later versions.

[56] Two lines added in later editions:

"Small motes I see, from ebbing rivers borne,
And Neptune's waves a greener aspect wear."

[57] "But to the depths below."—Ed. 1795.

[58] One line added in later versions:

"A Spanish ponyard thro' his entrails driven."

THE EXPEDITION OF TIMOTHY TAURUS,
ASTROLOGER

To the Falls of Passaick River, in New Jersey[59]

Written soon after an excursion to the village at that place in August,
1775, under the character of Timothy Taurus, a student
in astrology; and formerly printed in New-York.

Characters of the Poem

Timothy Taurus, Astrologer, in love with Tryphena.
Slyboots, a Quaker, and his two Daughters.
Dullman, a City Broker.
Deacon Samuel.
Brigadier-General Nimrod.
Lawyer Ludwick.
Parson Pedro.
Doctor Sangrado.
Saunders, a Horse Jockey.
Gubbin, a Tavern-keeper.
Scalpella Gubbin, his Wife.
Mithollan, a Farmer.

My morning of life is beclouded with care!
I will go to Passaick, I say and I swear—
To the falls of Passaick, that elegant scene,
Where all is so pretty, and all is so green—
That river Passaick!—celestial indeed!
That river of rivers, no rivers exceed.—
Now why, I would ask, should I puzzle my brain
The nature of stars, or their use to explain—
To trace the effects they may have on our earth,
How govern our actions, or rule at our birth?
Five years have I been at these studies, and scanned
All the books on the subject that sophists have planned!
I am sorry to say (yet it ought to be said)
The stars have not sent me one rye loaf of bread!
Not a shilling to purchase a glass of good beer,—
By my soul, it's enough to make ministers swear.
Tryphena may argue, and say what she will,
I am sure all my fortune is going down hill:
Dear girl! if you wait 'till the planets are for us
Your name will scarce alter to Tryphena Taurus.
Tryphena! I love you—have courted you long—
But find all my labours will end in a song!—
"Will you play at all-fours?"—she said, very jolly;—
I answered, The play at all-fours is all folly!
"Will you play, then, at whist?"—she obligingly said;—
I answered, the game is gone out of my head—
Indeed, I am weary—I feel rather sick,
So, I leave you, Tryphena, to win the odd trick.—
There's a music some talk of, that's play'd by the spheres:—
I wish him all luck who this harmony hears;
And the people who hear it, I hope they may find
It is not a music that fills them with wind.—
There's Saturn, and Venus, and Jove, and the rest:
Their music to me is not quite of the best.—
These orbs of the stars, and that globe of the moon
To me, I am certain, all play a wrong tune.
Not a creature that plods in, or ploughs up the dirt,
But from the mean clod gets a better support:
Then farewell to Mars, and the rest of the gang,
And the comets—I tell them they all may go hang;
I mean, if they only with music will treat,
It is not to me the best cooked of all meat.
They may go where they will, and return when they please,—
And I hope they'll remember to pay up my fees—
So I leave them awhile, to be cheerful below,
And away to Passaick most merrily go!
The month, it was August, and meltingly warm,
Not a cloud in the sky nor the sign of a storm;
So I jumped in the stage, with the freight of the fair,
And in less than a day at Passaick we were.—
Well, arrived at the Falls, I procured me a bed
In a box of a house—you might call it a shed;
The best of the taverns were all pre-engaged,
So I barely was lodged, or rather encaged;
Yet, cage as it was, I enjoyed a regale
Of victuals three times every day, without fail:
There was poultry, and pyes, and a dozen things more
That the damnable college had never in store:
I feasted, and lived on such fat of the place
That the college would not have remembered my face—
So long had I fed on their trash algebraic,
Indeed, it was time I went to Passaick!—
The rocks were amazing, and such was the height,
They struck me at once with surprize and delight.
The waters rushed down with a terrible roar—
What a pleasure it was to be lounging on shore!
They now were as clear as old Helicon's stream,
Or as clear as the clearest in poetry's dream.—
These falls were stupendous, the fountains so clear,
That another Narcissus might see himself here,
Nor only Narcissus—some ill-featured faces
From the springs were reflected—not made up of graces.
But now I must tell you—what people were met:
They were, on my conscience, a wonderful sett;
Some came for their health, and some came for their pleasure,
And to steal from the city a fortnight of leisure;
Some came for a day, and yet more for a week,
Some came from the college, tormented with Greek,
To continue as long as their means would afford,
That is, while the taverns would trust them their board:
(Of this last mentioned class, I confess I was one,
For why should I fib when the mischief is done?)
This age may decay, and another may rise,
Before it is fully revealed to our eyes,
That Latin, and Hebrew, Chaldaic, and Greek,
To the shades of oblivion must certainly sneak;
Too much of our time is employed on such trash
When we ought to be taught to accumulate cash.
Supposing I knew them as pat as my prayers
(And to know them completely would cost me twelve years)
Supposing, I say, I had Virgil by rote,
And could talk with old Homer—'tis not worth a groat;
If with Rabbi Bensalem I knew how to chat,
Where lies the advantage?—and what of all that?
Were this cart load of learning the whole that I knew,
I could sooner get forward by mending a shoe:
I could sooner grow rich by the axe or the spade,
Or thrive by the meanest mechanical trade,
The tinker himself would be richer than I,
For the tinker has something that people must buy,
While such as have little but Latin to vend,
On a shadow may truly be said to depend;
Old words, and old phrases that nothing bestow,
And the owners discarded ten ages ago.—
Here were people on people—I hardly know who—
There was Mammon the merchant, and Japhet the Jew:
There was Slyboots the Quaker, whose coat had no flaps,
With two of his Lambkins, as plain in their caps.
In silks of the richest I saw them array,
But nothing was cut in our mode of the day,
They hung to old habits as firm as to rocks,
And are just what they were in the days of George Fox.
They talked in a style that was wholly their own;
They shunned the vain world, and were mostly alone,
One talked in the Nay, and one talked in the Yea,
And of light in their lanthorns that no one could see:
They hated the crowd, and they hated the play,
And hoped the vain actors would soon run away;—
No follies like that would the preachers allow;
And Tabitha said thee, and Rebecca said thou.
Here was Dullman, the broker, who looked as demure
As if a false key had unlocked the shop door:
He seemed to enjoy not a moment of rest,
So unhappy to be—far away from his chest.
He was all on the fidgets to be with his gold:
Both honour and conscience he bartered, or sold—
The devil himself—excuse me, I pray—
Old Satan—oh no—take it some other way—
The God of this world had him fast by a chain,
And there let us leave him—and let him remain.—
Here was Samuel, the Deacon, who read a large book,
Though few but himself on its pages would look;
Would you know what it was?—an abridgement of Flavell,[A]
With Bunyan's whole war between soul and the devil;—
It seemed very old, and the worse for the wear,
And might last the next century, handled with care;
But if fashions and folly should not have a fall,
I presume it will hardly be handled at all.—
Here was Nimrod the soldier—he wore a long sword,
And, of course, all the ladies his courage adored;
Two fringed epaulettes on his shoulders displayed,
Discovered the rank of this son of the blade.
"O la!" cried Miss Kitty, "how bold he must be!
Papa! we must beg him to join us at tea!
How much like a hero he looketh—good me!
Full many a battle, no doubt, he has stood,
And waded shoe deep through a mill pond of mud!
What heads have been sliced from the place they possessed
By the sword at his side!—all, I hope, for the best!"
Then the soldier went out, to refresh at the inn—
Perhaps he did not—if he did it's no sin—
He made his congee, and he bowed to us all,
And said he was going to Liberty Hall:
'Tis certain he went, but certainly where
I cannot inform, and the devil may care.
But now to proceed, in describing in rhyme
The folks that came hither to pass away time:
There were more that had heads rather shallow than strong,
And more than had money to bear them out long.
In short, there were many more ladies than gents,
And the latter complained of the heavy expense!
And some I could see, with their splendour and show,
That their credit was bad, and their pockets were low;
Many females were gadding, I saw with concern,
Who had better been knitting, or weaving their yarn.
And many went into Passaick to lave
Whose hides were, indeed, a disgrace to the wave;
Who should have been home at their houses and farms,
Not here to be dabbling, to shew us their charms:
It would have been better to wash their own walls
Than here—to come here, to be washed in the falls.
A judge of the court (in the law a mere goose)
Here wasted his time with a lawyer let loose.
Their books were thrown by—so I begged of the fates
That the falls of Passaick might fall on their pates.
This lawyer was Ludwick, who scarce had a suit,
And for once in his life was disposed to be mute,
But was mostly engaged in some crazy dispute:
A cause against Smyth[B] he could never defend,
As well might the Old One with Michael contend:
The road was before him, the country was spacious,
And he knew an old fellow called fieri facias:—
I saw him demurr, when they asked him to pay—
With a noli-pros-equi he scampered away.—
Though his head was profusely be-plaistered with meal,
One sorrowful secret it could not conceal,
That he drew his first breath when a two penny star
Presided, and governed this son of the bar.
Here was Pedro, the parson, who looked full as grave
As it he had lodged in Trophonius's cave.
He talked of his wine, and he talked of his beer,
And he talked of his texts, that were not very clear;
And many suspected he talked very queer.—
He talked with Scalpella, the inn-holder's wife,
Then dwelt on her beauties, and called her his life!—
He ogled Scalpella!—and spake of her charms;
And oh! how he wished to repose in her arms:
He called her his deary, and talked of their loves;
And left her at last—a pair of old gloves!
I was sorry to see him deranged and perplext
That no one would ask him to handle a text:—
All gaped when he spoke, and incessantly gazed,
And thought him no witch, but a parson be-crazed.
Fine work did he make of Millennium, I trow,
Which he told us would come (tho' it comes very slow)
When earth with the pious and just will abound
And Eden itself at Egg-Harbour be found:
No musketoes to bite us, no rats to molest,
And lawyers themselves rocked into something like rest.
But most of us judged it was rather a whim,
Or, at least, that the prospect was distant and dim.
So I saw him pack up his polemical gown,
To retreat while he could from the noise of the town.[C]
He said there was something in Falls he admired,
But of constantly hearing the roar—he was tired!
With their damp exhalations his fancy was dimmed,
He would come the next spring with his surplice new trimmed,
Besides there were fogs in the morning (he said)
That rose on the river and muddled his head!—
Thus he quitted Passaick!—deserted her shore,
And the taverns that knew him shall know him no more!
One farmer Milhollan—I saw him come here,
Almost at the busiest time in the year;
His intent might be good, but I never could learn
Who coaxed him away from his crib and his barn:
Each morning he tippled three glasses of gin
With as many, at least, as three devils therein.
He quarrelled with Jack, and he wrangled with Tom,
'Till scarcely a negro but wished him at home;
He talked over much of the badness of times,
And read us a list of the governor's[D] crimes,
From which it was clearly predicted, and plain,
That his honour would hardly be chosen again.
He fought with Tim Tearcoat, and cudgelled with Ben,
And wrestled with Sampson—all quarrelsome men;—
I was sorry to see him thus wasting his force
On fellows who kicked with the heels of a horse.
Tho' strong in my arms, and of strength to contest
With the youths of my age in the wars of the fist,
I thought it was better to let them pursue
The quarrels they had, than to be one of their crew;
I saw it was madness to join in the fray,
So I left them to wrangle—each dog his own way.
He spoke thrice an hour of his crop that had failed,
And losses, he feared, that would get him enjailed;
He mentioned his poultry, and mentioned his pigs,
And railed at some Tories, converted to Whigs.—
(Excuse me retailing so much in my rhymes
Of the chatt of the day and the stuff of the times;
'Tis thus in the acts of a play, we perceive
All the parts are not cast to the wise, or the brave;
Not all is discoursed by the famed or the fair,
The demons of dullness have also their share;
Statira in play-house has not all the chance,
For hags are permitted to join in the dance:
Not Catos, or Platos engross every play,
For clowns and clod-hoppers must, too, have their day;
Not the nobles of nature say all that is said,
And monarchs are frequently left in the shade;
There must be some nonsense, to step in between,
There must be some fools to enliven the scene.)
Here was Doctor Sangrado, with potion and pill,
And his price was the same, to recover or kill.
He waddled about, and was vext to the soul
To see so much health in this horrible hole;
He seemed in a fret there was nobody sick,
And enquired of the landlord, "What ails your son Dick?"
"What ails him? (said Gubbins) why nothing at all!"
"By my soul (said the quack) he's as white as the wall;
I must give him a potion to keep down his gall!
There is bile on his stomach—I clearly see that;
This night he will vomit as black as my hat:
Here's a puke and a purge—twelve doses of bark;
Let him swallow them all—just an hour before dark!"
"O dear! (said the mother) the lad is quite well!"—
Said the Doctor, "No, no! he must take calomel:
It will put him to rights, as I hope to be saved!"
"Or rather (said Gubbins) you hope him engraved!"
So, the Doctor walked off in a pitiful plight,
And he lodged in a dog-house (they told me) that night.
Here were wives, and young widows, and matrons, and maids,
Who came for their health, or to stroll in the shades;
Here were Nellies, and Nancies, and Hetties, by dozens,
With their neighbours, and nephews, and nieces, and cousins—
All these had come hither to see the famed Fall,
And you, pretty Sally, the best of them all.
Here was Saunders, the jockey, who rode a white horse,
His last, it was said, and his only resource;
And the landlord was careful to put us in mind
That hell and destruction were riding behind:
He often had told him, "Do, Saunders, take care,
This swilling of gin is a cursed affair:
Indeed—and it puts a man off from his legs,
And brings us at last to be pelted with eggs—
The wit of your noddle should carry you through,—
Break your bottle of rum—give the devil his due!
Keep the reason about you that nature designed,
And you have the respect and regard of mankind!"
This steed of poor Saunders' was woefully lean,
And he looked, as we thought, like the flying machine;
And, in short, it appeared, by the looks of his hide,
That the stables he came from were poorly supplied:
A bundle of bones—and they whispered it round,
That he came from the hole where the Mammoth was found.[E]
They stuff'd him with hay, and they crammed him with oats
While Saunders was gaming and drinking with sots:
(For the de'il in the shape of a bottle of rum
Deceived him with visions of fortune to come;)
His landlady had on the horse a sheep's-eye,
So Saunders had plenty of whiskey and pye:
He had gin of the best, and he treated all round,
'Till care was dismissed and solicitude drowned,
And a reckoning was brought him of more than three pound.
As he had not a groat in his lank looking purse,
The landlord made seizure of saddle and horse:—
Scalpella, the hostess, cried, "Fly from this room,
Or I'll sweep you away with my hickory broom!"
Thus Saunders sneaked off in a sorrowful way,
And the Falls were his fall—to be beggar next day.—
The lady of ladies that governed the inn
Was a sharper indeed, and she kept such a din!—
Scalpella!—and may I remember the name!—
Could scratch like a tyger, or play a tight game.
A bludgeon she constantly held in her hand,
The sign of respect, and a sign of command:
She could scream like a vulture, or wink like an owl;
Not a dog in the street like Scalpella could howl.—
She was a Scalpella!—I am yet on her books,
But, oh! may I never encounter her looks!—
I owe her five pounds—I am that in her debt,
And my dues from the stars have not cleared it off yet.
If she knew where I am!—I should fare very ill;
Instead of some beer she would drench me with swill;
I should curse and reflect on the hour I was born.—
If she thought I had fixed on the pitch of Cape Horn,
She would find me!—Scalpella! set down what I owe
In the page of bad debts—due to Scalpy and Co!—
Her boarders she hated, and drove with a dash,
And nothing about them she liked but their cash;
Except they were Tories—ah, then she was kind—
And said to their honours, "You are men to my mind!
Sit down, my dear creatures—I hope you've not dined!"—
She talked of the king, and she talked of the queen,
And she talked of her floors—that were not very clean:—
She talked of the parson, and spoke of the 'squire,
She talked of her child that was singed in the fire—
The Tories, poor beings, were wishing to kiss her—oh—
If they had—all the stars would have fought against—Cicero.[F]
She talked, and she talked—now angry, now civil,
'Till the Tories themselves wished her gone to the devil.
How I tremble to think of her tongue and her stick,—
Tryphena, Tryphena! I've played the odd trick!
Now the soldier re-entered—the ladies were struck:
And "she that can win him will have the best luck!"
"La! father (said Kitty) observe the bold man!
I will peep at his phyz from behind my new fan!
What a lace on his beaver!—his buttons all shine!
In the cock of a hat there is something divine!
Since the days of Goliah, I'll venture to lay
There never was one that could stand in his way:
What a nose!—what an eye!—what a gallant address!
If he's not a hero, then call me Black Bess!
What a gaite—what a strut—how noble and free!
I'm ravished!—I'm ruined!—-good father!—good me!"
"Dear Kitty, (he answered) regard not his lace,
The devil I see in the mould of his face:
Cockades have been famous for crazing your sex
Since Helen played truant, and left the poor Greeks;
And while her good husband was sleeping, and snored,
Eloped with Sir Knight from his bed, and his board.—
Three things are above me, yea, four, I maintain,
Have puzzled the cunningest heads to explain!
The way of a snake on a rock—very sly—
The way of an eagle, that travels the sky,
The way of a ship in the midst of the sea,
And the way of a soldier—with maidens like thee."

[A] An English divine of considerable note, who died about a century ago.—Freneau's note.

[B] William Smyth, Esq. Before the Revolution a celebrated lawyer in New York, author of the History of New Jersey, and other works. Afterwards, taking part with the British, he was made Chief Justice of Lower Canada—He is since dead.—Freneau's note.

[C] Passaick Village is at present called Patterson, noted for its unfortunate manufacturing establishments.—Freneau's note.

[D] William Franklin, Esq., then Governor of New Jersey.—Freneau's note.

[E] These two lines were inserted since the first publication of this Poem in Sept., 1775.—Freneau's note.

[F] They fought from heaven; the stars in their courses fought against Sisera. Ancient History.—Freneau's note.

At length, a dark fortnight of weather came on,
And most of us thought it high time to be gone.—
The moon was eclipsed, and she looked like a fright;
Indeed—and it was a disconsolate night!
Our purses were empty—the landlord looked sour,
I gave them leg-bail in a terrible shower:—
Scalpella!—her face was as black as the moon,
Her voice, was the screech of a harpy, or loon,—
I quitted Passaick—that elegant place,
While a hurricane hindered them giving me chace.

[59] Freneau mentions in this poem that it was printed in New York in September, 1775. I can find no trace of it, either as a separate publication or a contribution to a newspaper. As far as I can find, the poem is unique in the edition of 1809.

Mr. William Nelson of Paterson, N. J., Secretary of the New Jersey Historical Society, believes that the local allusions in the poem cannot be verified. He writes:

"There were but two taverns at the Passaic Falls at that time; one kept by Abraham Godwin, the other by James Leslie. Godwin and three of his sons went in the American Army at the beginning of the Revolution, and he died in the service. His widow survived him and carried on the tavern for a number of years. She had an intolerant hatred of all Tories. In 1776 Leslie was keeping a tavern at the present Passaic, a few miles below the Passaic Falls, and he continued there during the greater part of the Revolution, I think.

"The character of the tavern-keeper's wife, 'Scalpella,' is either purely fictitious or based on the character of some other person. Moreover, I do not think Passaic Falls was ever a summer resort of the character depicted in this poem. Travellers merely went there to see the Falls, occasionally staying over night, but I cannot think it possible that there could have been such a party assembled there at one time as indicated in the poem. I do not think the two taverns together could have accommodated so many people. The place was never called 'Passaic Village,' as stated in the note, but was known as Totown Bridge until 1792, when Paterson was founded. Passaic Village was the name given about forty years ago to the present city of Passaic.

"The only allusions in the poem which have some semblance of reality are the references to 'Miss Kitty,' by whom is perhaps meant the daughter of Lord Stirling; and 'Liberty Hall,' the residence of her uncle, Gov. Livingstone, near Elizabethtown. There was no such person as 'Gubbins.' I should think that the scene of the poem, if it has any foundation whatever in fact, was more probably laid somewhere near Philadelphia."

PART II

THE FIRST POETIC PERIOD

1775—1781

THE FIRST POETIC PERIOD

1775-1781[60]

A POLITICAL LITANY[61]

Libera Nos, Domine.—Deliver us, O Lord, not only from British dependence, but also

From a junto that labour with absolute power,
Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour,
From the lords of the council, who fight against freedom,
Who still follow on where delusion[62] shall lead them.

From the group at St. James's, who slight our petitions,
And fools that are waiting for further submissions—
From a nation whose manners are rough and severe,
From scoundrels and rascals,—do keep us all clear.[63]

From pirates sent out by command of the king
To murder and plunder, but never to swing.
From Wallace and Greaves, and Vipers and Roses,[A]
Whom, if heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses.

[A] Captains and ships in the British navy, then employed on the American coast.—Freneau's note. During the summer of 1775, Capt. Wallace and his vessel, the Rose, kept the American coast cities in a state of constant terror. The colonial newspapers show how widespread and real was this terror.

From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of banditti,
Who plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city,[64]
From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear,
The little fat man with his pretty white hair.[65]

From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown,
From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne,
From assemblies that vote against Congress proceedings,
(Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings.)

From Tryon[66] the mighty, who flies from our city,
And swelled with importance disdains the committee:
(But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes,
What the devil care we where the devil he goes.)

From the caitiff,[67] lord North, who would bind us in chains,
From a royal king Log, with his tooth-full of brains,
Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap)
He has conquered our lands, as they lay on his map.[68]

From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears,
We send up to heaven our wishes and prayers
That we, disunited, may freemen be still,
And Britain go on—to be damned if she will.

[60] In August, 1775, Freneau emerges from the obscurity which has concealed him since the year of his graduation at Princeton, and enters upon an era of marvelous productiveness. For four months, poetry must have been his one thought, his one occupation. It was during this period of his life that he did his most spontaneous and original work.

[61] The earliest trace I can find of this poem is in the 1786 edition of Freneau, where it is dated "New York, Sept. 26, 1775." In this edition, and in that of 1795, it had the title "Libera Nos, Domine." In the edition of 1809, which I have followed, it is dated "New-York, June, 1775." The earlier date is probably the date of publication.

[62] "The devil."—Ed. 1786.

[63] "Whom gold can corrupt."—Ed. 1786.

[64] Lord Dunmore was the last Royal Governor of Virginia. In April, 1775, he had removed the public stores from Williamsburg, and with the aid of the navy and what forces he could raise, was waging open war on the colonies.

[65] George Montagu, admiral of the British fleet during the early part of the war, did much to exasperate the colonists. "He stopped and searched vessels without adequate pretext, and fired at the market boats as they entered Newport harbor. He treated the farmers on the islands much as the Saracens in the Middle Ages treated the coast population of Italy." He was mild in appearance, but testy and arbitrary to an extraordinary degree. He covered the British retreat from Boston, aided Lord Dunmore to escape from Virginia, and took part in the capture of New York City.

[66] William Tryon, the last Royal Governor of New York, informed of a resolution of the Continental Congress: "That it be recommended to the several provincial assemblies, in conventions and councils or committees of safety, to arrest and secure every person in their respective colonies whose going at large may, in their opinion, endanger the safety of the colony or the liberties of America," discerning the signs of the times, took refuge on board the Halifax packet in the harbour, and left the city in the middle of October, 1775.—Duyckinck.

[67] Scoundrel.—Ed. 1786.

[68]

"From a dunce of a king who was born without brains,
The utmost extent of whose sense is to see
That reigning and making of buttons agree."—Ed. 1786.

AMERICAN LIBERTY, A POEM[69]

Argument

Present Situation of Affairs in North-America.—Address to the Deity.—Unhappy Situation of New-England, in particular.—The first Emigrations of the Colonists from Europe.—Cruelties of the Indian Natives.—All our Hopes of future Safety depend secondarily on our present Resolution and Activity.—Impossible for British Soldiers to join heartily for the purpose of enslaving us.—Present happy Unanimity among the Colonies.—The Baseness of pensioned Writers against their native Country.—General Gage's late Proclamation.—The Odium consequent upon his Undertaking his present Office.—Character of a weak Monarch.—Popery established in Canada.—General Washington.—The Honourable Continental Congress.—Hancock.—Adams.—Invitation to Foreigners to retire hither from their respective Slavish Regions.—Bravery of the New-England Forces in the late Engagements.—The determined Resolution of the Colonies to be free.—The future Happiness of America if she surmounts the present Difficulties.

Once more Bellona, forc'd upon the stage,
Inspires new fury, and awakes her rage,
From North to South her thun'dring trumpet spreads
Tumults, and war and death, and daring deeds.
What breast but kindles at the martial sound?
What heart but bleeds to feel its country's wound?
For thee, blest freedom, to protect thy sway,
We rush undaunted to the bloody fray;
For thee, each province arms its vig'rous host,
Content to die, e'er freedom shall be lost.
Kind watchful power, on whose supreme command
The fate of monarchs, empires, worlds depend,
Grant, in a cause thy wisdom must approve,
Undaunted valour kindled from above,
Let not our souls descend to dastard fear,
Be valour, prudence both united here,
Now as of old thy mighty arm display;
Relieve the opprest, and saving power convey.
'Tis done, and see th' omnipotent befriends,
The sword of Gideon, and of God descends.
Ah, see with grief fair Massachusetts' plains,
The seat of war, and death's terrific scenes;
Where darling peace with smiling aspect stood,
Lo! the grim soldier stalks in quest of blood:
What madness, heaven, has made Britannia frown?
Who plans our schemes to pull Columbia[A] down?
See Boston groan beneath the strong blockade,
Her freedom vanish'd, and destroy'd her trade;
Injur'd, opprest, no tyrant could exceed
The cruel vengeance of so base a deed.
New Albion's[B] sons whom honest freedom moves,
(My heart admires them, and my verse approves),
Tir'd of oppression in a Stuart's reign,
A Popish faction, ministerial train;
Bravely resolv'd to leave their native shore
And some new world, they knew not where, explore,
Far in the West, beyond where Poets said,
The Sun retir'd, and Cynthia went to bed.
Few then had seen the scarce discover'd Bourne,
From whence like death yet fewer did return:
Dire truths from thence the wand'ring sailor brought,
Enlarg'd by terror, and the power of thought,
With all the forms that pict'ring fancy gives,
With all the dread that in idea lives;
Fierce Cannibals that sought the blood of man,
Vast cruel tribes that through the desart ran,
Giants whose height transcends the tow'ring oak,
Brutes with whose screams the trembling forest shook,—
All these and more they held no cause of fear,
Since naught but slavery, dreadful could appear.
Ah, see the day, distressful to the view,
Wives, husbands, fathers, bid a long adieu.
Dear native land, how heav'd the heavy sigh,
When thy last mountains vanish'd on the eye;
Then their frail barks, just enter'd on the sea,
Pursu'd the long, uncomfortable way:
But pitying heav'n the just design surveys,
Sends prosp'rous gales, and wafts them o'er the seas.
Behold the shore; no rising cities there,
To hail them welcome from the sea appear,
In the wild woods the exil'd host were spread,
The heavens their covering, and the earth their bed:
What expectations but a life of woe?
Unnumber'd myriads of the savage foe,
Whose brutal fury rais'd, at once might sweep
The adventurers all to death's destructive sleep;
Yet 'midst this scene of horror and despair,
Stout industry began his office here,
Made forests bend beneath his sturdy stroke,
Made oxen groan beneath the sweaty yoke,
Till half the desart smil'd and look'd as gay
As northern gardens in the bloom of May.
But ah, review the sorrows interwove,
How the fierce native with the stranger strove;—
So heaven's bright lamp, the all-reviving sun,
Just as his flaming journey is begun,
Mists, fogs and vapours, sprung from damps of night,
Mount up and strive to dim the approach of light;
But he in triumph darts his piercing ray,
Scatters their forces and pursues his way.
Oft when the husband did his labour leave
To meet his little family at eve,
Stretch'd in their blood he saw each well known face,
His dear companion and his youthful race;
Perhaps the scalp with barbarous fury torn,
The visage mangled, and the babe unborn
Ripp'd from its dark abode, to view the sun,
Ere nature finish'd half she had begun.
And should we now when spread thro' ev'ry shore,
Submit to that our fathers shunn'd before?
Should we, just heaven, our blood and labour spent,
Be slaves and minions to a parliament?
Perish the thought, nor may one wretch remain,
Who dares not fight and in our cause be slain;
The cause of freedom daunts the hireling foe,
And gives each Sampson's strength toward the blow,
And each, like him whom fear nor force confines,
Destroys a thousand modern Philistines.
Who fights to take our liberty away,
Dead-hearted fights and falls an easy prey;
The cause, the cause, most cruel to enslave,
Disheartens thousands, and unmans the brave:
Who could have thought that Britons bore a heart,
Or British troops to act so base a part?
Britons of old renown'd, can they descend
T' enslave their brethren in a foreign land?
What oath, what oath, inform us if you can,
Binds them to act below the worth of man?
Can they whom half the world admires, can they
Be advocates for vile despotic sway?
Shall they, to every shore and clime renown'd,
Enforce those acts that tyranny did found?
'Yet sure if this be their resolv'd design,
'Conquer they shall where'er the sun doth shine;
'No expedition prov'd unhappy yet,
'Can we Havanna's bloody siege forget,[70]
'Where British cannon the strong fortress tore,
'And wing'd whole legions to its infernal shore.
'Or does the voice of fame so soon forego
'Gibraltar's action, and the vanquish'd foe,
'Where art and nature both at once combin'd
'To baffle all our hardy troops design'd?—
'Yet there Britannia's arms successful sped,
'While haughty Spaniards trembled, felt and fled.'
So say the pensioned fools of slavery,
So say our traitors, but so say not I—
(Tories or traitors, call them what you choose,
Tories are rogues, and traitors imps broke loose).
But know, ye few, the scandal of our land,
On whom returns the blood that we expend,
Those troops whose fears are told on every shore,
Here lose their spirit and are brave no more;
When armies fight to gain some cruel cause,
Establish tyrants or destructive laws,
True courage scorns to inspire the hateful crew,
Recall past fame, or spur them on to new;
Dark boding thoughts the heavy soul possess,
And ancient valour turns to cowardice.
Dark was the prospect, gloomy was the scene,
When traitors join'd to break our union chain:
But soon, by heaven inspir'd, arose the cry,
Freedom or death, unite, unite or die.
Now far and wide a manly spirit reigns,
From Canada to Georgia's sun burnt plains;
Few now insult with falsehood's shameless pen.
Monsters from Tophet, driv'n in shapes of men:
Few pension'd scribblers left the daring head,
Some have turn'd lunatics and some have fled—
Some, late converted, scarce their pensions hold.
And from mere force disdain the charms of gold.
What deep offence has fir'd a monarch's rage,
What moonstruck madness seized the brain of Gage?
Laughs not the soul, when an imprison'd few
Affect to pardon those they can't subdue?
Tho' twice repuls'd and hemm'd up to their stations,
Yet issue pardons, oaths, and proclamations,
As if at sea some desperate madman crew
Should threat the tempest with what they could do,
And like proud Xerxes lash the angry waves,
At the same instant that they find their graves.
But not the pomps and favours of a crown,
A nation's anger, or a statesman's frown,
Could draw the virtuous man from virtue's way,
To chain by force what treach'ry can't betray.
Virtue disdains to own tyrannic laws,
Takes part with freedom, and assumes its cause;
No part had she, her fiercest forces own,
To bring so far this heavy vengeance on;
She stood with Romans while their hearts were true,
And so she shall, Americans, with you.
Should heaven in wrath decree some nation's fall,
Whose crimes from thence for sacred vengeance call,
A monarch first of vulgar soul should rise,
A sure fore-runner of its obsequies,
Whose heart should glow with not one gen'rous thought,
Born to oppress, to propagate, and rot.
Whose lengthen'd reign no deed of worth should grace,
None trusted but a servile pensioned race;
Too dull to know what saving course to take,
That heaven in time its purpose might forsake,
Too obstinately will'd to bow his ear
To groaning thousands or petitions hear,
Dare break all oaths that bind the just like fate,
Oaths, that th' Arch-Devil would blush to violate,
And, foe to truth, both oaths and honour sell,
To establish principles, the growth of hell,—
Still those who aim to be his truest friends,
Traitors, insidious rebels, madmen, fiends,
Hoodwink'd and blind, deceived by secret foes,
Whose fathers once with exil'd tyrants rose,
Bless'd with as little sense as God e'er gave,
Slave to wrong schemes, dupe to a noble knave.
So odd a monarch heaven in wrath would plan,
And such would be the fury of a man.
See far and wide o'er long Canadia's plains,
Old popish fraud and superstition reigns;
The scarlet whore long hath heaven withstood,
Who cries for murder and who thirsts for blood,
Establish'd there, marks down each destined name,
And plants the stake impatient for the flame,
With sanguinary soul her trade begins,
To doom her foes to hell or pardon sins;
Her crafty priests their impious rites maintain,
And crucify their Saviour once again;
Defend his rights, who, scatt'ring lies abroad,
With shameless front usurps the seat of God:
Those are, we fear, who his vile cause assert,
But half reform'd and papists at the heart.
Bear me, some power, as far as the winds can blow,
As ships can travel, or as waves can flow,
To some lone island beyond the southern pole,
Or lands round which pacific waters roll,
There should oblivion stop the heaving sigh,
There should I live at least with liberty.
But honour checks my speed and bids me stay,
To try the fortune of the well fought day.
Resentment for my country's fate I bear,
And mix with thousands for the willing war;
See Washington New Albion's freedom owns,
And moves to war with half Virginia's sons,
Bold in the fight, whose actions might have aw'd
A Roman Hero, or a Grecian God.
He, he, as first his gallant troops shall lead,
Undaunted man, a second Diomede;
As when he fought at wild Ohio's flood,
When savage thousands issu'd from the wood,
When Braddock's fall disgrac'd the mighty day,
And Death himself stood weeping o'er his prey,
When doubting vict'ry chang'd from side to side,
And Indian sod with Indian blood was dy'd,
When the last charge repuls'd th' invenom'd foe,
And lightnings lit them to the shades below.
See where from various distant climes unites
A generous council to protect our rights,
Fix'd on a base too steadfast to be mov'd,
Loving their country, by their country lov'd,
Great guardians of our freedom, we pursue
Each patriot measure as inspir'd by you,
Columbia, nor shall fame deny it owes
Past safety to the counsel you propose;
And if they do not keep Columbia free,
What will alas! become of Liberty?
Great souls grow bolder in their country's cause,
Detest enslavers, and despise their laws.
O Congress fam'd, accept this humble lay,
The little tribute that the muse can pay;
On you depends Columbia's future fate,
A free asylum or a wretched state.
Fall'n on disastrous times we push our plea,
Heard or not heard, and struggle to be free.
Born to contend, our lives we place at stake,
And grow immortal by the stand we make.
O you, who, far from liberty detain'd,
Wear out existence in some slavish land,
Fly thence from tyrants, and their flatt'ring throng,
And bring the fiery freeborn soul along.
Neptune for you shall smooth the hoary deep,
And awe the wild tumultuous waves to sleep;
Here vernal woods, and flow'ry meadows blow,
Luxuriant harvests in rich plenty grow,
Commerce extends as far as waves can roll,
And freedom, God-like freedom, crowns the whole.
And you, brave men, who scorn the dread of death,
Resolv'd to conquer to the latest breath,
Soldiers in act, and heroes in renown,
Warm in the cause of Boston's hapless town,
Still guard each pass; like ancient Romans, you
At once are soldiers, and are farmers too;
Still arm impatient for the vengeful blow,
And rush intrepid on the yielding foe;
As when of late midst clouds of fire and smoke,
Whole squadrons fell, or to the center shook,
And even the bravest to your arm gave way,
And death, exulting, ey'd the unhappy fray.
Behold, your Warren bleeds, who both inspir'd
To noble deeds, and by his actions fir'd;
What pity, heaven!—but you who yet remain
Affect his spirit as you lov'd the man:
Once more, and yet once more for freedom strive,
To be a slave what wretch would dare to live?
We too to the last drop our blood will drain,
And not till then shall hated slavery reign,
When every effort, every hope is o'er,
And lost Columbia swells our breasts no more.
O if that day, which heaven avert, must come,
And fathers, husbands, children, meet their doom,
Let one brave onset yet that doom precede,
To shew the world America can bleed,
One thund'ring raise the midnight cry,
And one last flame send Boston to the sky.
But cease, foreboding Muse, not strive to see
Dark times deriv'd by fatal destiny;
If ever heaven befriended the distrest,
If ever valour succour'd those opprest,
Let America rejoice, thy standard rear,
Let the loud trumpet animate to war:
Thy guardian Genius, haste thee on thy way,
To strike whole hosts with terror and dismay.
Happy some land, which all for freedom gave,
Happier the men whom their own virtues save;
Thrice happy we who long attacks have stood,
And swam to Liberty thro' seas of blood;
The time shall come when strangers rule no more,
Nor cruel mandates vex from Britain's shore;
When Commerce shall extend her short'ned wing,
And her free freights from every climate bring;
When mighty towns shall flourish free and great,
Vast their dominion, opulent their state;
When one vast cultivated region teems,
From ocean's edge to Mississippi's streams;
While each enjoys his vineyard's peaceful shade,
And even the meanest has no cause to dread;
Such is the life our foes with envy see,
Such is the godlike glory to be free.

[A] Columbia, America sometimes so called from Columbus, the first discoverer.—Freneau's note.

[B] New Albion, properly New England, but is often applied to all British America.—Freneau's note.

[69] This was published by Anderson in 1775. In Holt's New York Journal of July 6, it is advertised as just published. The advertisement observes that "This poem is humbly addressed to all true lovers of this once flourishing country, whether they shine as soldiers or statesmen. In it Ciceronian eloquence and patriotic fire are happily blended." The poet never reprinted it. The only copy of the poem extant, as far as I can discover, is that in the Library of Congress at Washington.

[70] Of the siege of Havana, in July, 1762, Bancroft writes: "This siege was conducted in midsummer, against a city which lies just within the tropic. The country around the Moro Castle is rocky. To bind and carry the fascines was of itself a work of incredible labor;... sufficient earth to hold the fascines firm was gathered with difficulty from the crevices of the rocks. Once, after a drought of fourteen days, the grand battery took fire from the flames, and crackling and spreading where water could not follow it, nor earth stifle it, was wholly consumed. The climate spoiled a great part of the provisions. Wanting good water, many died in agonies of thirst. More fell victims of a putrid fever.... Hundreds of carcasses floated on the ocean. And yet such was the enthusiasm of the English, such the resolute zeal of the sailors and soldiers, such the unity of action between the fleet and army, that the vertical sun of June and July, the heavy rains of August, raging fever, and strong and well defended fortresses, all the obstacles of nature and art were surmounted, and the most decisive victory of the war was gained."

GENERAL GAGE'S SOLILOQUY[71]

Scene.—Boston, besieged by the Men of Massachusetts

Written and published in New-York, 1775

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart, unwounded, play,
For some must write, while some must speak;
So runs the world away!
—Shakespeare.

Destruction waits my call!—some demon say
Why does destruction linger on her way!
Charlestown is burnt, and Warren is deceased—
Heavens! shall we never be from war released?
Ten years the Greeks besieged the walls of Troy,
But when did Grecians their own towns destroy?
Yes, that's the point!—Let those who will, say, No;
If George and North decree—it must be so.
Doubts, black as night, disturb my loved repose—
Men that were once my friends have turned my foes—
What if we conquer this rebellious town,
Suppose we burn it, storm it, tear it down—
This land's like Hydra, cut off but one head,
And ten shall rise, and dare you in its stead.
If to subdue a league or two of coast
Requires a navy, and so large a host,
How shall a length of twice seven hundred miles
Be brought to bend to two European Isles?—
And that, when all their utmost strength unite,
When twelve[A] dominions swear to arm and fight,
When the same spirit darts from every eye,
One fixed resolve to gain their point or die.
As for myself—true—I was born to fight
As George commands, let him be wrong or right,
While from his hand I squeeze the golden prize,[72]
I'll ask no questions, and he'll tell no lies;—
But did I swear, I ask my heart again,
In their base projects monarchs to maintain?—[73]
Yes—when Rebellion her artillery brings
And aims her arrows at the best of kings,
I stand a champion in my monarch's cause—
The men are rebels that resist his laws.[74]
A viceroy I, like modern monarchs, stay
Safe in the town—let others guide the fray:
A life like mine is of no common worth,
'Twere wrong, by heaven, that I should sally forth![75]
A random bullet from a rifle sent
Might pierce my heart, and ruin North's intent:
Let others combat in the dusty field,
Let petty captains scorn to live or yield,
I'll send my ships to neighbouring isles, where stray[76]
Unnumb'red herds, and steal those herds away;
I'll strike the women in this town with awe,
And make them tremble at my martial law.
Should gracious heaven befriend our troops and fleet,
And throw this vast dominion at my feet,
How would Britannia echo with my fame!
What endless honours would await my name!
In every province should the traveller see
Recording marble, raised to honour me.—[77]
Hard by the lakes, my sovereign lord would grant
A rural empire to supply my want,
A manor would but poorly serve my turn,
Less than an empire from my soul I scorn![78]
An ample kingdom round Ontario's lake,
By heaven! should be the least reward I'd take.
There might I reign, unrivalled and alone,
An ocean and an empire of my own!—
What though the scribblers and the wits might say,
He built his pile on vanquished Liberty—
Let others meanly dread the slanderous tongue,
While I obey my king, can I do wrong?
Then, to accomplish all my soul's desire,
Let red-hot bullets set their towns on fire;
May heaven, if so the righteous judgment pass,[79]
Change earth to steel, the sky to solid brass,
Let hosts combined, from Europe centering here,[80]
Strike this base offspring with alarm and fear;
Let heaven's broad concave to the center ring,
And blackest night expand her sable wing,
The infernal powers in dusky combat join,
Wing the swift ball, or spring the deadly mine;
(Since 'tis most true, tho' some may think it odd,
The foes of England are the foes of God):
Let bombs, like comets, kindle all the air,
Let cruel famine prompt the orphan's prayer,
And every ill that war or want can bring
Be shower'd on subjects that renounce their king.
What is their plea?—our sovereign only meant
This people should be taxed without consent,
Ten years the court with secret cunning tried
To gain this point—the event their hopes belied:
How should they else than sometimes miss the mark
Who sleep at helm, yet think to steer the barque?
North, take advice; thy lucky genius show,
Dispatch Sir Jeffery[B] to the states below.
That gloomy prince, whom mortals Satan call,[81]
Must help us quickly, if he help at all—
You strive in vain by force of bribes to tie;
They see through all your schemes with half an eye;
If open force with secret bribes I join,
The contest sickens—and the day is mine.
But hark the trumpet's clangor—hark—ah me!
What means this march of Washington and Lee?
When men like these such distant marches make,
Fate whispers something—that we can't mistake;[82]
When men like these defy my martial rule,
Good heaven! it is no time to play the fool—
Perhaps, they for their country's freedom rise;
North has, perhaps, deceived me with his lies.—
If George at last a tyrant should be found,
A cruel tyrant, by no sanctions bound,
And I, myself, in an unrighteous cause,
Be sent to execute the worst of laws,
How will those dead whom I conjured to fight—
Who sunk in arms to everlasting night,
Whose blood the conquering foe conspired to spill
At Lexington and Bunker's fatal hill,
Whose mangled corpses scanty graves embrace—
Rise from those graves, and curse me to my face!—
Alas! that e'er ambition bade me roam,
Or thirst of power, forsake my native home—
What shall I do?—there, crowd the hostile bands;
Here, waits a navy to receive commands;—
I speak the language of my heart—shall I
Steal off by night, and o'er the ocean fly,
Like a lost man to unknown regions stray,
And to oblivion leave this stormy day?—[83]
Or shall I to Britannia's shores again,
And big with lies, conceal my thousands slain?—
Yes—to some distant clime[84] my course I steer,
To any country rather than be here,
To worlds where reason scarce exerts her law,[85]
A branch-built cottage, and a bed of straw.—
Even Scotland's coast seems charming in my sight,
And frozen Zembla yields a strange delight.—
But such vexations in my bosom burn,
That to these shores I never will return,
'Till fruits and flowers on Greenland's coast be known,
And frosts are thawed in climates once their own.
Ye souls of fire, who burn for chief command,
Come! take my place in this disastrous land;
To wars like these I bid a long good-night—
Let North and George themselves such battles fight.

[A] Georgia had not at this time acceded to the Union of the Thirteen States.—Freneau's note.

[B] Sir Jeffery Amherst, who about this time refused to act against the Colonial cause.—Freneau's note.

[71] From the edition of 1809. The original edition, which consisted of 114 lines, was first published in New York, by H. Gaine, in August, 1775. The poem was thus written and published in the early days of the siege.

General Gage, the last royal governor of Massachusetts, arrived in Boston May, 1774, and remained until October, 1775, when he was succeeded by Major General Howe. The siege of Boston began with the arrival of Washington before the city, early in July, 1775, and continued until Howe was forced to evacuate the city, the following March. Gage's incompetency was admitted even by his own countrymen. He was narrow-minded, and prejudiced, and unable to estimate justly the forces that were against him. His only argument was force and dictatorial interference.

[72] This and the following line not in edition of 1775.

[73] To fight for Britons against Englishmen.—Ed. 1775.

In such damn'd service to harass my brain.—Ed. 1786.

[74] Four lines of the original edition omitted:

"North take advice, thy lucky genius show,
Dismiss a legate to the world below,
Sir Belzebub, for aid like thine we sue,
Send up the damned and let them help me too."

[75]

A life like mine is of such mighty worth,
I'll wrong my king if I should sally forth.

[76] This and the following line is not in edition of 1775.

[77] Some trophy of my tedious victory.—Ed. 1775.

[78] The Lordship of a manor I would scorn.—Ed. 1775.

[79] In place of the next eight lines, the edition of 1775 has the following:

"Let heaven's broad concave to the center ring,
And Imps from hell their swifter vengeance wing;
May heaven, if so the righteous judgment pass,
Change earth to steel, the sky to solid brass."

[80] Let hell-cats darting from some blackguard sphere.—Ed. 1786.

[81] This and the four following lines not found in the edition of 1775.

[82] It shows they think their freedom lies at stake.—Ed. 1775.

[83] In the original edition these two lines read as follows:

"Like Captain Cook to Southern islands stray,
And take new kings and kingdoms in my way."

[84] "Foreign clime."—Ed. 1775. "Negro clime."—Ed. 1786.

[85] This line, and the nine following, are not found in the edition of 1775.

THE MIDNIGHT CONSULTATIONS;[86]

OR, A TRIP TO BOSTON

First published in 1775

Small bliss is theirs whom Fate's too heavy hand
Confines through life to some small square of land;
More wretched they whom heaven inspires to roam,
Yet languish out their lives and die at home.
Heaven gave to man this wide extended round,5
No climes confine him and no oceans bound;
Heaven gave him forest, mountain, vale, and plain,
And bade him vanquish, if he could, the main;
But sordid cares our short-lived race confine,
Some toil at trades, some labour in the mine,10
The miser hoards, and guards his shining store,
The sun still rises where he rose before—
No happier scenes his earth-born fancy fill
Than one dark valley, or one well-known hill.
To other shores his mind, untaught to stray,15
Dull and inactive, slumbers life away.
But by the aid of yonder glimmering beam
The pole star, faithful to my vagrant dream,
Wild regent of my heart! in dreams convey
Where the herded Britons their bold ranks display;20
So late the pride of England's fertile soil,
(Her grandeur heightened by successive toil)
See how they sicken in these hostile climes,
Themes for the stage, and subjects for our rhimes.
What modern poet have the muses led25
To draw the curtain that conceals the dead?
What bolder bard to Boston shall repair,
To view the peevish, half-starved spectres there?
O thou wronged country! why sustain these ills?
Why rest thy navies on their native hills?30
See, endless forests shade the uncultured plain,
Descend, ye forests, and command the main:
A leafy verdure shades the mighty mast,
And the tall oak bends idly to the blast,
Earth's entrails teem with stores for your defence,35
Descend and drag the stores of war from thence:
Your fertile soil the flowing sail supplies,
And Europe's arts in every village rise—
No want is yours—Disdain unmanly fear,
And swear no tyrant shall reign master here;40
Know your own strength—in rocky desarts bred,
Shall the fierce tiger by the dog be led,
And bear all insults from that snarling race
Whose courage lies in impudence of face?—
No—rather bid the wood's wild native turn,45
And from his side the unfaithful guardian spurn.
Now, pleased I wander to the dome of state
Where Gage resides, our western potentate—
Chief of ten thousand, all a race of slaves,[87]
Sent to be shrouded in untimely graves;[88]50
Sent by our angry Jove, sent sword in hand
To murder, burn, and ravage through the land.—
You dream of conquest—tell me how or whence—
Act like a man, and get you gone from hence;
A madman sent you to this hostile shore55
To vanquish nations, that shall spill your gore.—
Go, fiends, and in a social league combined
Destroy, distress, and triumph o'er mankind!—
'Tis not our peace this murdering hand restrains,
The want of power is made the monster's chains;60
Compassion is a stranger to his heart,
Or if it came, he bade the guest depart;
The melting tear, the sympathising groan
Were never yet to Gage or Jefferies[A] known;
The seas of blood his heart fore-dooms to spill65
Is but a dying serpent's rage to kill.
What power shall drive these vipers from our shore,
These monsters swoln with carnage, death, and gore!
Twelve was the hour—congenial darkness reigned,
And no bright star a mimic day-light feigned—70
First, Gage we saw—a crimson chair of state
Received the honour of his Honour's weight;
This man of straw the regal purple bound,
But dullness, deepest dullness, hovered round.
Next Graves, who wields the trident of the brine,75
The tall arch-captain of the embattled line,
All gloomy sate—mumbling of flame and fire,
Balls, cannon, ships, and all their damned attire;
Well pleased to live in never-ending hum,
But empty as the interior of his drum.80
Hard by, Burgoyne assumes an ample space,
And seemed to meditate with studious face,
As if again he wished our world to see
Long, dull, dry letters, writ to General Lee—
Huge scrawls of words through endless circuits drawn85
Unmeaning as the errand he's upon.—
Is he to conquer—he subdue our land?—
This buckram hero, with his lady's hand?
By Cesars to be vanquished is a curse,
But by a scribbling fop—by heaven, is worse![89]90
Lord Piercy seemed to snore—but may the Muse
This ill-timed snoring to the peer excuse;
Tired was the long boy of his toilsome day,
Full fifteen miles he fled—a tedious way;
How could he then the dews of Somnus shun,95
Perhaps not used to walk—much less to run.
Red-faced as suns, when sinking to repose,
Reclined the infernal captain of the Rose,[B]
In fame's proud temple aiming for a niche,
With those who find her at the cannon's breech;100
Skilled to direct the cannonading shot,
No Turkish rover half so murdering hot,
Pleased with base vengeance on defenceless towns,
His heart was malice—but his words were, Zounds!
Howe, vexed to see his starving army's doom,105
In prayer, besought the skies for elbow room—[90]
Small was his stock, and theirs, of heavenly grace,
Yet just enough to ask a larger place.—
He cursed the brainless minister that planned
His bootless errand to this hostile land,110
But, awed by Gage, his bursting wrath recoiled,
And in his inmost bosom doubly boiled.
These, chief of all the tyrant-serving train,
Exalted sate—the rest (a pensioned clan),
A sample of the multitude that wait,115
Pale sons of famine, at perdition's gate,
North's friends down swarming (so our monarch wills),
Hungry as death, from Caledonian hills;
Whose endless numbers if you bid me tell,
I'll count the atoms of this globe as well,—120
Knights, captains, 'squires—a wonder-working band,
Held at small wages 'till they gain the land,
Flocked pensive round—black spleen assailed their hearts,
(The sport of plough-boys, with their arms and arts)
And made them doubt (howe'er for vengeance hot)125
Whether they were invincible or not.
Now Gage upstarting from his cushioned seat
Swore thrice, and cried—"'Tis nonsense to be beat!
Thus to be drubbed! pray, warriors, let me know
Which be in fault, myself, the fates, or you—130
Henceforth let Britain deem her men mere toys—
Gods! to be frightened thus by country boys;
Why, if your men had had a mind to sup,
They might have eat that scare-crow[91] army up—
Three thousand to twelve hundred thus to yield,135
And twice five hundred stretched upon the field!—[92]
O shame to Britain, and the British name,
Shame damps my heart, and I must die with shame—
Thus to be worsted, thus disgraced and beat!—
You have the knack, Lord Piercy,[93] to retreat,140
The death you escaped my warmest blood congeals,
Heaven grant me, too, so swift a pair of heels—[94]
In Chevy-Chace, as, doubtless, you have read,
Lord Piercy would have sooner died than fled—
Behold the virtues of your house decay—145
Ah! how unlike the Piercy of that day!"
Thus spoke the great man in disdainful tone
To the gay peer—not meant for him alone—
But ere the tumults of his bosom rise
Thus from his bench the intrepid peer replies:150
"When once the soul has reached the Stygian shore,
My prayer book says, it shall return no more—
When once old Charon hoists his tar-blacked sail,
And his boat swims before the infernal gale,
Farewell to all that pleased the man above,155
Farewell to feats of arms, and joys of love!
Farewell the trade that father Cain began,
Farewell to wine, that cheers the heart of man;
All, all farewell!—the pensive shade must go
Where cold Medusa turns to stone below,160
Where Belus' maids eternal labours ply
To drench the cask that stays forever dry,
And Sysiphus, with many a weary groan,
Heaves up the mount the still recoiling stone!
"Since, then, this truth no mortal dares deny,165
That heroes, kings—and lords, themselves, must die,
And yield to him who dreads no hostile sword,
But treats alike the peasant and the lord;
Since even great George must in his turn give place
And leave his crown, his Scotchmen, and his lace,—170
How blest is he, how prudent is the man
Who keeps aloof from fate—while yet he can;
One well-aimed ball can make us all no more
Than shipwrecked scoundrels on that leeward shore.
"But why, my friends, these hard reflections still175
On Lexington affairs—'tis Bunker's hill—
O fatal hill!—one glance at thee restrains
My once warm blood, and chills it in my veins—
May no sweet grass adorn thy hateful crest
That saw Britannia's bravest troops distrest—180
Or if it does—may some destructive gale
The green leaf wither, and the grass turn pale—
All moisture to your brow may heaven deny,
And God and man detest you, just as I;—
'Tis Bunker's hill, this night has brought us here,185
Pray question him who led your armies there,
Nor dare my courage into question call,
Or blame Lord Piercy for the fault of all."
Howe chanced to nod while heathenish Piercy spoke,
But as his Lordship ceased, his Honour awoke,190
(Like those whom sermons into sleep betray)
Then rubbed his eyes, and thus was heard to say:
"Shall those who never ventured from the town,
Or their ships' sides, now pull our glory down?
We fought our best—so God my honour save!—195
No British soldiers ever fought so brave—
Resolved I led them to the hostile lines,
(From this day famed where'er great Phœbus shines)
Firm at their head I took my dangerous stand,
Marching to death and slaughter, sword in hand,200
But wonted Fortune halted on her way,
We fought with madmen, and we lost the day—
Putnam's brave troops, your honours would have swore
Had robbed the clouds of half their nitrous store,
With my bold veterans strewed the astonished plain,205
For not one musquet was discharged in vain.—
But, honoured Gage, why droops thy laurelled head?—
Five hundred foes we packed off to the dead.—[95]
Now captains, generals, hear me and attend!
Say, shall we home for other succours send?210
Shall other navies cross the stormy main?—
They may, but what shall awe the pride of Spain?
Still for dominion haughty Louis pants—
Ah! how I tremble at the thoughts of France.—
Shall mighty George, to enforce his injured laws,215
Transport all Russia to support the cause?—
That allied empire countless shoals may pour
Numerous as sands that strew the Atlantic shore;
But policy inclines my heart to fear
They'll turn their arms against us when they're here—220
Come, let's agree—for something must be done
Ere autumn flies, and winter hastens on—
When pinching cold our navy binds in ice,
You'll find 'tis then too late to take advice."
The clock strikes two!—Gage smote upon his breast,225
And cried,—"What fate determines, must be best—
But now attend—a counsel I impart
That long has laid the heaviest at my heart—
Three weeks—ye gods!—nay, three long years it seems
Since roast-beef I have touched except in dreams.230
In sleep, choice dishes to my view repair,
Waking, I gape and champ the empty air.—
Say, is it just that I, who rule these bands,
Should live on husks, like rakes in foreign lands?—[96]
Come, let us plan some project ere we sleep,235
And drink destruction to the rebel sheep.
"On neighbouring isles uncounted cattle stray,
Fat beeves and swine, an ill-defended prey—
These are fit visions for my noon day dish,
These, if my soldiers act as I would wish,240
In one short week should glad your maws and mine;
On mutton we will sup—on roast beef dine."
Shouts of applause re-echoed through the hall,
And what pleased one as surely pleased them all;
Wallace was named to execute the plan,245
And thus sheep-stealing pleased them to a man.
Now slumbers stole upon the great man's eye,
His powdered foretop nodded from on high,
His lids just opened to find how matters were,
Dissolve, he said, and so dissolved ye are,250
Then downward sunk to slumbers dark and deep,—
Each nerve relaxed—and even his guts asleep.[97]

[A] An inhuman, butchering English judge in the time of Charles the first.—Freneau's note.

[B] Capt. Wallace.—Freneau's note. Sir James Wallace was a prominent naval officer during the Revolution. In 1774-5 he commanded the Rose, a 20-gun frigate, and greatly annoyed the people of Rhode Island by his detention of shipping and his seizure of private property. His severity and activity made him greatly detested by the colonists during the entire Revolution.

Epilogue

What are these strangers from a foreign isle,
That we should fear their hate or court their smile?—
Pride sent them here, pride blasted in the bud,255
Who, if she can, will build her throne in blood,
With slaughtered millions glut her tearless eyes,
And bid even virtue fall, that she may rise.
What deep offence has fired a monarch's rage?
What moon-struck madness seized the brain of Gage?260
Laughs not the soul when an imprisoned crew
Affect to pardon those they can't subdue,
Though thrice repulsed, and hemmed up to their stations,
Yet issue pardons, oaths, and proclamations!—
Too long our patient country wears their chains,265
Too long our wealth all-grasping Britain drains.
Why still a handmaid to that distant land?
Why still subservient to their proud command?
Britain the bold, the generous, and the brave
Still treats our country like the meanest slave,270
Her haughty lords already share the prey,
Live on our labours, and with scorn repay;—
Rise, sleeper, rise, while yet the power remains,
And bind their nobles and their chiefs in chains:
Bent on destructive plans, they scorn our plea,275
'Tis our own efforts that must make us free—
Born to contend, our lives we place at stake,
And rise to conquerors by the stand we make.—
The time may come when strangers rule no more,
Nor cruel mandates vex from Britain's shore,280
When commerce may extend her shortened wing,
And her rich freights from every climate bring,
When mighty towns shall flourish free and great,
Vast their dominion, opulent their state,
When one vast cultivated region teems285
From ocean's side to Mississippi streams,
While each enjoys his vineyard's peaceful shade,
And even the meanest has no foe to dread.
And you, who, far from Liberty detained,
Wear out existence in some slavish land—290
Forsake those shores, a self-ejected throng,
And armed for vengeance, here resent the wrong:
Come to our climes, where unchained rivers flow,
And loftiest groves, and boundless forests grow.
Here the blest soil your future care demands;295
Come, sweep the forests from these shaded lands,
And the kind earth shall every toil repay,
And harvests flourish as the groves decay.
O heaven-born Peace, renew thy wonted charms—
Far be this rancour, and this din of arms—300
To warring lands return, an honoured guest,
And bless our crimson shore among the rest—
Long may Britannia rule our hearts again,
Rule as she ruled in George the Second's reign,
May ages hence her growing grandeur see,305
And she be glorious—but ourselves as free!

[86] Text from the edition of 1809. The poem was first published in New York in 1775 by Anderson, under the title, "A Voyage to Boston, a poem," and a second edition was printed the same year in Philadelphia for William Woodhouse. The revision of the poem in the 1786 edition of Freneau's works mentions that the poem was published in September, 1775. This is evidently a mistake. In the issue of October 21, of Anderson's Constitutional Gazette, appears the advertisement, "This day is published & to be sold by the printer, 'A Voyage to Boston: a Poem.'" The copy of the poem in possession of the Library Company, Philadelphia, has endorsed upon it, "published in October, 1775." This earliest version, only a fragment of which was given in the various editions of the poet's works, has never before been reprinted. It is as follows:

A VOYAGE TO BOSTON, A POEM

Argument

Introductory reflections. A traveller undertakes a voyage to Boston: arrives in a river of Massachusetts: has there a sight of the native Genius of North-America, who presents him with a mantle, and acquaints him with its virtue of rendering the wearer invisible; desires him to visit the town in that state and remark the transactions there. Accordingly he arrives at General Gage's mansion, where are several other ministerial tools sitting in council. The striking similarity of Gage's temper and conduct to that of Hernando Cortez. Some account of Cortez, and his horrid devastations in Mexico, &c. The traveller enters their junto, and gives an account of the chief members of it, viz., General Gage, Admiral Greaves, General Burgoyne, Lord Percy, General Howe, Capt. Wallace, and a numerous fry of dependents and needy favourites waiting for posts and estates in America, as soon as they shall have compelled us to resign our liberties: General Gage's surprize at their several defeats in New-England, and questions his leaders thereupon. Lord Percy's answer: Greaves's reply to that nobleman: Gage's raillery upon Percy for his nimble retreat on April 19, 1775. Percy's defence of his conduct on that day, and the reason of his activity; and desires them to forget Lexington for the present, and turn their eyes to the late loss at Bunker's Hill. General Howe's speech concerning that action. Burgoyne's harrangue, with his invectives against Colonel Grant, who "pledged himself for the general cowardice of all America:" Gage's brief reply; and communicates his intention of purloining cattle from the islands, and plans that right honourable exploit; but being overcome by sleep, dismisses his counsellors. The cutting down the Liberty Tree in Boston, and untimely end of one of the wretches employed in that sneaking affair. Distresses of the imprisoned citizens in Boston. Dissection of a Tory. The traveller leaves Boston, and visits the Provincial Camp; meets the Genius of America again on the way and resigns the mantle, whereby he again becomes visible; arrives at the camp. View of the Rifle-men, Virginians, &c. Speech of an American soldier; his determined resolution, which is that of all America, to defend our rights and privileges. Grief that he must fight against our own nation. Mention of Carleton and Johnson; concludes with a melancholy recital of our present distractions, and sincere hope of reconcilation with Great Britain before a wicked ministry render it too late. Conclusion.

How curs'd the man whom fate's unhappy doom
Confines, unluckly, to his native home,
How doubly curs'd by cross grain'd stars is he,
Whom fate ties down, tho' struggling to be free!
Heaven gave to man this vast extended round.
No climes confine him and no oceans bound;
Heaven gave him forest, mountain, vale and plain,
And bade him vanquish, if he could, the main:
Then, miser, hoard and heap thy riches still,
View the sun rise above thy well known hill,
Vile as the swine, enjoy thy gloomy den,
Sweat in the compass of a squalid pen,
'Till sick of life, on terms with death agree,
And leave thy fortune, not thy heart, to me.
So mus'd the bard who this rough verse indites,
Asserting freedom, and his country's rights:
Nor mus'd in vain; the fruitful musings brought
To practice what in theory he thought;
And gave desire, a keen desire, to roam
A hundred or two hundred leagues from home.
Where should he go? The eastern hills reply,
Come, pensive traveller, with thy tearful eye,
Come, and fair Boston from our summit see,
No city sits so widow-like as she;
Her trading navies spread their sails no more,
Remotest nations cease to seek her shore,
Deep are her weeds—in darkest sable clad,
O come and view the Queen of all that's sad,
Long are her nights, that yield no chearful sound,
Like endless nights in tombs below the ground,
Low burns her lamp before th' insulting rout;
See, the lamp dies, and every light goes out!
O Britain come, and, if you can, relent
This rage, that better might on Spain be spent.
Touch'd with the mountain's melancholy prayer
(Perhaps a mountain or Dame Fancy there)
Could I refuse, since mutual grief endears,
To seek New Albion's Lady all in tears?
But doubts perplexing hover'd o'er my mind,
Whether to chuse the aid of horse or wind;
That suits the best with bards of place and state,
This must be needy Rhymers compensate,
Since Jove his ancient bounty has deny'd,
And grants no modern Pegasus to ride.
Dark was the night, the winds tempestuous roar'd
From western skies, and warn'd us all aboard;
Spread were the sails, the nimble vessel flies
O'er Neptune's bosom and reflected skies;
Nor halt I here to tell you how she roves
O'er Tython's chambers and his coral groves.
Let some prose wand'rer long-sun journals keep,
I haste me, like the vessel, o'er the deep;
Nor tire you with descriptions of the coast,
New mountains gain'd or hills in æther lost,—
The muse can only hint at scenes like these,
Not stop to spend her poem in their praise:
Three days we cut the brine with steady prore,
The fourth beheld as on New Albion's shore.
Guard me, ye heavens, shield this defenceless head,
While travelling o'er these sanguine plains of dead;
Nor only me, may heaven defend us all
From the harsh rigour of King George's ball.

Far in the depth of an aspiring wood,
Where roll'd its waves a silver winding flood,
Our weary vessel urg'd its darksome way,
And safely anchor'd in a shady bay.
Landing, I left the weather-beaten crew,
And pensive rov'd as home-sick travellers do;
When all at once before my wand'ring eyes,
The Genius of the river seem'd to rise;
Tall and erect, untaught by years to bow,
But not a smile relax'd his clouded brow:
His swarthy features vengeful deeds forebode,
Terror march'd on before him as he trode;
His rattling quiver at his shoulder hung,
His pointed spear and glitt'ring helmet rung;
The tall oaks trembled at the warlike shade,
When thus the Genius of the water said:
"O curious stranger, come from far to see
What grieves us all, but none so much as me!
The free-born Genius of the woods am I,
Who scorn to dwell in lands of slavery;
I, tho' unseen, command the heart to dare,
And spread the soul of freedom thro' the air,
That each may taste and value if he can,
This sovereign good that constitutes the man:
Here, in the center of tyrannic sway,
I spread my spirit and forbid dismay,
To every bosom dart may influence round,
Like the sun beams that fructify the ground;
But waft a timorous and ignoble breath
Where conscience, conscience bids them shrink at death.
"O stranger, led by Heaven's supreme decree,
Go, view the dire effects of tyranny,
Strait to the town direct thy fated way,
But heark attentive, listen and obey,
I to thy care commit this magic vest,
To guard thee 'midst yon' spires, a viewless guest;
Whene'er its wreathy folds thy limbs embrace,
No mortal eye thy roving step shall trace;
Unseen as ghosts that quit the clay below,
Yet seeing all securely thou shalt go.
There watch the motions of the hostile lines,
Observe their counsels, watch their deep designs;
Trace all their schemes, the lawless strength survey
Of licens'd robbers howling for their prey."

So spoke the Genius of the shaded wave,
And then the vest of wondrous virtue gave,
Which scarce my limbs enwrapt, when I began
To move as ne'er before did mortal man.
Light as the air, as free as winds I stray'd,
Pierc'd firmest rocks and walls for prisons made,
Soar'd high, nor ask'd the feeble aid of art,
And trac'd all secrets but the human heart.
Then to the town I held my hasty course,
To Boston's town subdu'd by lawless force;
Close by a centinel I took my stride,
The wretch ne'er saw me tho' I graz'd his side:
But for my vest, what pains had been my lot.
What gibes, what sneers, reproaches, and what not?
Or in their place the robbers had constrained
To turn a Tory, which my heart disdained.

Now stalk'd I on towards the dome of state,
Where Gage resides, our western Potentate,
A second Cortez,[a] sent by heaven's command,
To murder, rage, and ravage o'er our land;
A very Cortez—what's the difference?
He wants his courage and he wants his sense;
E'en Cortez would our tyrant's part disdain.
That murder'd strangers; this his countrymen;
In all the rest resemblance so exact,
No glass Venetian could more true reflect.
In all their rest, congenial souls combin'd,
The scourge, the curse and scandal of our kind.

Cortez was sent by Spain's black brotherhood,
Whose faith is murder, whose religion blood;
Sent unprovok'd, with his Iberian train,
To fat the soil with millions of the slain:
Poor Mexico! arouse thy sanguine head,
Peru, disclose thy hosts of murder'd dead!
Let your vast plains all white with human bones,
That bleeding lie, and ask sepulchral stones,
Force a dumb voice and echo to the sky,
The blasting curse of papal tyranny;
And let your rocks, and let your hills proclaim,
That Gage and Cortez' errand is the same.

Say then what cause this murd'rous band restrains?
The want of power is made the monster's chains,
The streams of blood his heart foredooms to spill,
Is but a dying serpent's rage to kill:
What power shall drive this serpent from our shore,
This scorpion, swoln with carnage, death, and gore?
Twelve was the hour,—infernal darkness reign'd,
Low hung the clouds, the stars their light restrain'd:
High in the dome a dire assembly sat,
A stupid council on affairs of state;
To their dim lamps I urg'd my fearless way,
And marching 'twixt their guards without delay,
Step'd boldly in, and safely veil'd from view,
Stood in the center of the black-guard crew.
First, Gage was there—a mimic chair of state,

[a] Hernando Cortez, one of the original conquerors of Spanish America, who depopulated many provinces, and slew several millions of the natives of this continent. See Father Barthol. Du Casis's History.—Freneau's note.

Here follow lines 72-131 above, with the following variations: line 75, "trident of the sea"; 76, "of artillery"; 79, "everlasting hum"; 80, "But senseless as the echo of a drum"; 81, "his ample chair supplies"; 82, "in studious guise"; 83, "to grant the world to see"; 87-90,

"His arm and pen of equal strength we call,
This kills with dullness, just like that with hall."

91, "O conscious muse"; 93, "the Hero"; 95, "How should"; 97, "as Sol descending to repose"; 98, "the furious Captain"; 100, "'mongst those who find it"; 104, "His forked tongue hiss'd nothing else but Zounds!"; 105, "his army's fatal doom"; 106, "Ceas'd to beseech"; 107-108,

"(How could the skies refuse the pious man
When half the pray'r was blood! and death! and damn!)"

110, "sleeveless errand to a distant land"; 113, "the Pandemonian crew"; 114, "a pension'd few"; 116, "In dreams of Indian gold and Indian state;" 118, "hungry as hell"; 121, "a secondary band"; 123, "assail'd the crowd"; 124, "Black as the horrors of a wintry cloud"; 125, "for doubts had place to grow"; 126, "or no"; 127-131,

Gage starts, rebounding from his ample seat,
Swears thrice, and cries—"Ye furies, are we beat?
Thrice are we drubb'd?—Pray gentles let me know,
Whether it be the fault of fate or you?"
He ceas'd, the anger flash'd from both his eyes,
While Percy to his query thus replies,—
"Let gods and men attest the words I say,
Our soldiers flinch'd not from the dubious fray,
Had each a head of tempered steel possest,
A heart of brass, and admantine breast,
More courage ne'er had urg'd them to the fray,
More true-born valour made them scorn dismay."
"Whoe'er," said Greaves, "their cowardice denies,
Or Lord, or Knight, or 'Squire. I say he lies:
How could the wretches help but marching on,
When at their backs your swords were ready drawn,
To pierce the man that flinch'd a single pace,
From all hell's light'ning blazing in his face?
Death on my life! My Lord, had I been there,
I'd sent New-England's army thro' the air,
Wrench'd their black hearts from this infernal brood,
And turn'd their streams to Oliverian blood.

Here follow lines 131-200 above, with the following variations: 131, "but toys"; 132, "to be conquer'd thus"; 134, "this play-thing army"; 135, "Five thousand to five hundred"; 136, "And fourteen hundred"; 139, "Indeed," cries Gage, "'tis twice we have been beat"; 141, "You 'scap'd my very blood"; 147, "So spoke the Hero"; 148, "The brilliant Peer replies"; 149, 150, not in the original version; 151, "old Styx's shore"; 153, "his sable sail"; 154, "the lazy gale"; 157, "Farewell Quadrille, that helps out life's short span"; following 158,

"Farewell my steeds that stretch across the plain,
More swift than navies bounding o'er the main."

160, "dull Medusa"; 163, 164, not in original version; 165-168,

"Since then, this truth is by mankind confess'd,
That ev'ry Lord must yet be Pluto's guest."

170, "And leave his coursers starting for the race"; 172, "aloof from Styx"; 174, "Than leaky vessels;" 177, "thy ghastly sight restrains;" following 178,

"May no gay flowers or vernal blooming tree
Scent thy vile air or shade the face of thee!"

180, "nodded o'er Britannia's troops"; 183, "to your breast"; 185, "has fix'd us here"; 186, "Pray query"; 189, "fluent Percy"; 194, "our conduct down"; 196, "more brave"; 199, "my bloody stand." In place of lines 201-208, the 1775 version has the following:

'Till met the strength of each opposing force,
Like blazing-stars in their etherial course
That all on fire with rapid swiftness fly,
Then clash and shake the concave of the sky.
Twice we gave way, twice shunn'd the infernal rout,
And twice you would have cry'd all hell's broke out.
They fought like those who press for death's embrace,
And laugh the grizly monarch in the face.
Putnam's brave troops, your honor would have swore,
Had robb'd the clouds of half their sulph'rous store,
Call'd thunder down whence Jove his vengeance spreads,
And drove it mix'd with lightning on our heads!
What tho' Cop's-hill its black artillery play'd,
Clouding the plains in worse than Stygian shade;
Tho' floating batteries rais'd their dismal roar,
Tho' all the navy bellow'd from the shore,
They roar'd in vain, death claim'd from them no share,
But helpless, spent their force in empty air.
Alas! what scenes of slaughter I beheld,
What sudden carnage flush'd the glutted field!
Heaven gave the foe to thin my warlike train,
For not a musket was discharg'd in vain;
Yes, that short hour, while heaven forbore to smile,
Made many widows in Britannia's isle,
And shewing all what power supreme can do,
Gave many orphans to those widows too.
But Gage arouse, come lift thy languid head,
Full fifty foes we pack'd off to the dead:
Who feeling death, from their hot posts, withdrew,
And Warren with the discontented crew—
Blest be the hand that laid his head so low,
Not fifty common deaths could please me so—
But to be short, so quick our men came in,
The hostile army was so very thin;
We fix'd our bay'nets and resum'd the fray,
Then forc'd their lines and made the dogs give way."
Next rose Burgoyne and rais'd his brazen voice,
And cry'd, "We have no reason to rejoice.
Warren is dead—in that we all agree,
Not fate itself is half so fix'd as he;
But my suspecting heart bids me foredoom
A thousand Warrens rising in his room—
Heaven knows I left my native country's air,
In full belief of things that never were;
Deceiv'd by Grant, I've sail'd thus far in vain,
And like a fool may now sail back again—
Grant call'd them cowards—curse the stupid ass,
Their sides are Iron and their hearts are brass—
Cowards he said, and lest that should not do,
He pawn'd his oath and swore that they were so:
O, were he here, I'd make him change his note,
Disgorge his lie or cut the rascal's throat.

Here follow lines 209-252 above, with the following variations: 209, "But Captains"; 213, 214, not in original version; 215, "to make his law obey'd"; 216, "ten thousand Russians to our aid"; 218, "form the ocean shore"; 219, "commands my heart"; 225, "strikes three"; 230, "I've eat no fresh provision, but in dreams"; 231, "to my eyes"; 232, "and chew"; 235, "hold a council"; 236, "some consultation how to filch their sheep"; 237, "Unnumbered cattle"; 238, "sheep an undefended prey"; 239, "fit victims"; 240, "if the Gods would act"; 241, "shall glad your hearts"; 242, "on beef we'll dine"; 247, "the chieftain's eye"; 251, 252, "to dullest slumbers deep, And in his arms embrac'd the powers of sleep."

In Boston's southern end there stands a tree
Long sacred held to darling Liberty;
Its branching arms with verdant leaves were crown'd,
Imparting shade and grateful coolness round:
To its fam'd trunk, invisible as air,
I from the sleepy council did repair.
And at its root, fair Freedom's shrine, I paid
My warmest vows, and blest the virtuous shade.
Now shin'd the gay fac'd sun with morning light.
All Nature joy'd exulting at the sight,
When swift as wind, to vent their base-born rage,
The Tory Williams[b] and the Butcher Gage
Rush'd to the tree, a nameless number near,
Tories and Negroes following in the rear—
Each, axe in hand, attack'd the honour'd tree,
Swearing eternal war with Liberty;
Nor ceas'd their strokes, 'till each repeated wound
Tumbled its honours headlong to the ground;
But e'er it fell, not mindless of its wrong,
Aveng'd it took one destin'd head along.
A Tory soldier on its topmost limb—
The Genius of the shade look'd stern at him,
And mark'd him out that self same hour to dine,
Where unsnuff'd lamps burn low at Pluto's shrine,
Then tripp'd his feet from off their cautious stand;
Pale turn'd the wretch—he spread each helpless hand,
But spread in vain, with headlong force he fell,
Nor stopp'd descending 'till he stopp'd in Hell.

Next, curious to explore, I wander'd where
Our injur'd countrymen imprison'd are,
Some closely coop'd in the unwelcome town;
Some in dark dungeons held ignobly down;
Gage holds them there, and all recess denies,
For 'tis in these the coward's safety lies;
Were these once out, how would our troops consign
Each licens'd robber to the gulphy brine,
Or drive them foaming to the ships for aid,
To beg of stormy Greaves to cannonade,
And midnight vengeance point, like Vandeput,
Voiding his hell-hounds to their devilish glut.
A deed like that the muse must blush to name,
And bids me stamp a coward on thy fame;
Rage, ruffian, rage, nor lay thy thunder down,
'Till all our Tories howl and flee the town.
What is a Tory? Heavens and earth reveal!
What strange blind monster does that name conceal?
There! there he stands—for Augury prepare,
Come lay his heart and inmost entrails bare,
I, by the forelock, seize the Stygian hound;
You bind his arms and bind the dragon down.
Surgeon, attend with thy dissecting knife,
Aim well the stroke that damps the springs of life,
Extract his fangs, dislodge his teeth of prey,
Clap in your pincers, and then tear away.—
Soldier, stand by, the monster may resist.
You draw your back-sword, and I'll draw my fist.
Lo! mixt with air his worthless ghost has fled;
Surgeon, his paleness speaks the monster dead;
Part, part the sutures of his brazen scull,
Hard as a rock, impenetrably dull.
Hold out his brain, and let his brethren see
That tortoise brain, no larger than a pea—
Come, rake his entrails, whet thy knife again,
Let's see what evils threat the next campaign,
If ministerial force shall prove too great,
Or if the Congress save their mighty freight:
See on his breast, deep grav'd with iron pen,
"Passive obedience to the worst of men."
There to his lights direct thy searching eyes,
"Slavery I love, and freedom I despise."
View next his heart, his midriff just above,
"To my own country I'll a traitor prove."
Hard by his throat, for utterance meant, I spy,
"I'll fight for tyrants and their ministry."
His crowded guts unnumber'd scrawls contain,
The scandal of our country and the bane;
His bleeding entrails shew some great design,
Which shall abortive prove, as I divine;
But, freedom lost, nor danger do I see,
If we can only with ourselves agree.
How like St. George, invincible I stand,
This home bred dragon stretch'd beneath my hand!
Here may he lie, and let no traveller dare
The grass green hillock o'er his carcase rear,
Or heap up piles of monumental stones,
To shield from Phœbus and the stars his bones.
This feat perform'd, I girt my magic gown,
And march'd, unlicens'd, from the guarded town.
To our fam'd camp I held my eager course,
Curious to view the courage and the force
Of those, whose hearts are flush'd with freedom's flame,
Who yet stand foremost in the field of fame,
And deeply griev'd with their departing laws,
Arm in conviction of a righteous cause.
But e'er I reach'd the great encampment's bound
The friendly Genius on the way I found;
Graceful he smil'd his azure locks he shook,
While from his lips these flowing accents broke:
"O mortal! guided by the fates and me,
To view what thousands wish in vain to see;
Now to my care the magic vest restore,
Chearful return to what thou wast before,
I to the shades this wond'rous mantle bear,
And hang it safe in Fancy's temple there;
Nor let its loss provoke thee to repine,
The vest was Jove's, the will to lend it mine."
So said the God, and blending with the light,
I walk'd conspicuous and reveal'd to sight,
No more impervious to the human view,
But seeing all, and seen by others too.
Now throngs on throngs on ev'ry side surround,
Beneath the burthen groans the heaving ground,
Those fam'd afar to drive the deadly shot,
With truest level to the central spot;
Those whom Virginia's vast dominion sends,
From her chaste streams and intervening lands,
And those who conscious of their country's claim,
From Pennsylvania's happy climate came.
These, and ten thousand more were scatter'd round
In black battalions on the tented ground,
Prepar'd, whene'er the trumpet's iron roar
Should summon forth to all the woes of war,
To hear with joy the loud alarming call,
And rush perhaps to their own funeral.
Just in the center of the camp arose
An elm, whose shade invited to repose;
Thither I rov'd, and at the cool retreat
A brave, tho' rough-cast, soldier chanc'd to meet:
No fop in arms, no feather on his head,
No glittering toys the manly warrior had,
His auburne face the least employ'd his care,
He left it to the females to be fair;
And tho't the men, whom shining trifles sway,
But pageant soldiers for a sun-shine day.
Marking my pensive step, his hand he laid
On his hard breast, and thus the warrior said:
"Stranger, observe, behold these warlike fields,
Mark well the ills, that civil discord yields:
No crimes of our's this vengeful doom require,
Our city ravag'd and our towns on fire,
Troops pour'd on troops to Britain's lasting shame,
That threaten all with universal flame;
These are the kings, the monarchs of the sea,
Exerting power in lawless tyranny,
These, hot for power, and burning for command,
Would rule the ocean and subject the land;
But while this arm the strength of man retains,
While true-born courage revels through my veins,
I'll spill my blood yon' hostile force to quell,
And lawless power by lawful strength repel;
This rough, black cannon shall our cause defend,
This black, rough cannon is my truest friend.
This, arm'd with vengeance, belching death afar,
Confus'd their thousands marching to the war:
Yet, deeply griev'd, the tears bedew my eyes,
For this, the greatest of calamities;
That our keen weapons, meant for other ends,
Should spend their rage on Britons, once our friends;
But Liberty!—no price hast thou below,
And e'en a Briton's life for thee must go.
Come, then, my weapons, rise in Freedom's aid,
Her steps attend and be her call obey'd;
Let Carleton arm his antichristian might,
And sprinkle holy-water 'ere he fight,
And let him have, to shield his limbs from hurt,
St. Stephen's breeches,[c] and St. Stephen's shirt,[c]
Don Quixote's sword, the valiant knight of Spain,
Which now may grace a madman's side again,
St. Bernard's hose,[c] and lest we give too few,
John Faustus' cap, and Satan's cloven shoe;
(These precious relicks may defend their backs,
And good Guy Johnson should, I think, go snacks)
Nay, let him, ere the clashing armies cope,
Procure a pardon from his friend the Pope,
That if his soul should be dislodg'd from hence,
Heaven may with all his scarlet sins dispense,
And place him safe beyond the reach of ball,
Where Abrah'm's bosom may be had for all.
Some powerful cause disarms my heart of fear,
And bids me bring some future battle near,
When crowds of dead shall veil the ghastful plain,
And mighty Lords like Percy, fly again;
When every pulse with treble force shall beat
And each exert his valour to retreat.
And each shall wish his stature may be made,
Long as it seems at Sol's descending shade:
So tallest trees that tour toward the skies,
From simple acorns take their humble rise.
To see from death their boasted valour shrink,
And basely fly, has sometimes made me think,
The true great heart is often found remote
From the gay trappings of a scarlet coat.
Stranger, in pity lend one pensive sigh,
For all that dy'd and all that yet may die,
If wars intestine long their rage retain,
This land must turn a wilderness again.
While civil discord plumes her snaky head,
What streams of human gore most yet be shed,
With sanguine floods shall Mystick's waves be dy'd,
And ting'd the ocean, with her purple tide;
Enough.—The prospect fills my heart with woe;
Back to the heart my freezing spirits flow,
No more remains; no more than this, that all
Must fight like Romans, or like Romans fall:
O heaven-born peace, renew thy wonted charms,
Where Neptune westward spreads his aged arms;
To hostile lands return an honour'd guest,
And bless our crimson shores among the rest;
'Till then may heaven assert our injur'd claims,
And second every stroke Columbia aims,
Direct our counsels and our leaders sway,
Confound our foes and fill them with dismay.
So shall past years, those happy years, return,
And war's red lamp in Boston cease to burn:
Hear and attest the warmest wish I bring,
God save the Congress and reform the King!
Long may Britannia rule our hearts again,
Rule as she rul'd in George the Second's reign;
May ages hence her growing empire see,
And she be glorious, but ourselves be free,
In that just scale an equal balance hold,
And grant these climes a second age of gold."

He ceas'd, and now the sun's declining beam
With fainter radiance shot a trembling gleam,
The thickening stars proclaim'd the day expir'd,
And to their tented mansions all retir'd.

[b] A notable Tory in Boston.—Freneau's note.

[c] Certain well known relicks among the Papists.—Freneau's note.

[87] "Huns."—Ed. 1786.

[88] "Slaughter'd by our Rifle-guns."—Ed. 1786.

[89] "Proud of his soldiership, Burgoyne rated himself higher yet in his character as an author."—Trevelyan. He was a voluminous letter-writer, and his vivid and interesting letters, of which great numbers have been preserved, throw much light upon the period.

[90] This expression belongs to Burgoyne rather than Howe. "Burgoyne took no pains to hide them [his sentiments] in any company. He exclaimed to the first colonist whom he met ... 'Let us get in and we will soon find elbow-room.' The saying caught the public ear, and the time was not far distant when its author learned to his cost that it is more easy to coin a phrase than to recall it from circulation."—Trevelyan, Am. Rev.

[91] "School-boy army."—Ed. 1786.

[92] The first detachment of troops, which left Boston on the night of April 18th, consisted of 800 men; the reinforcements that met them just beyond Lexington consisted of 1,200 men. "On this eventful day, the British lost 273 of their number, while the Americans lost 93."—Fiske's American Revolution.

[93] Lord Percy was at the head of the reinforcements which rescued the British regulars on their retreat from Concord and Lexington, and it was under his leadership that the disastrous retreat was continued to Boston.

[94] "I believe the fact, stripped of all coloring," Washington wrote six weeks later on, "to be plainly this: that if the retreat had not been as precipitate as it was (and God knows it could not have been more so), the ministerial troops must have surrendered or been totally cut off."—Trevelyan's American Revolution.

[95] "In this battle, in which not more than one hour was spent in actual fighting, the British loss in killed and wounded was 1,054.... The American loss, mainly incurred at the rail fence and during the hand-to-hand struggle at the redoubt, was 449."—Fiske's American Revolution.

[96] Burgoyne, in one of his letters, declares that "a pound of fresh mutton could only be bought for its weight in gold."

[97] Gage's inertness and procrastination were a constant source of ridicule both in England and America. No man was ever more severely criticised. Hume even branded him as a contemptible coward.

THE SILENT ACADEMY[98]

Subjected to despotic sway,
Compelled all mandates to obey,
Once in this dome I humbly bowed,
A member of the murmuring crowd,
Where Pedro Blanco held his reign,
The tyrant of a small domain.
By him a numerous herd controuled,
The smart, the stupid, and the bold,
Essayed some little share to gain
Of the vast treasures of his brain;
Some learned the Latin, some the Greek,
And some in flowery style to speak;
Some writ their themes, while others read,
And some with Euclid stuffed the head;
Some toiled in verse, and some in prose,
And some in logick sought repose;
Some learned to cypher, some to draw,
And some began to study law.
But all is ruined, all is done,
The tutor to the shades is gone,
And all his pupils, led astray,
Have each found out a different way.
Some are in chains of wedlock bound,
And some are hanged and some are drowned;
Some are advanced to posts and places,
And some in pulpits screw their faces;
Some at the bar a living gain,
Perplexing what they should explain;
To soldiers turned, a bolder band
Repel the invaders of the land;
Some to the arts of physic bred,
Despatch their patients to the dead;
Some plough the land, and some the sea,
And some are slaves, and some are free;
Some court the great, and some the muse,
And some subsist by mending shoes—
While others—but so vast the throng,
The Cobblers shall conclude my song.

[98] In the 1786 edition the title is "The Desolate Academy." In place of the first six lines above, the 1786 edition had the following:

"Subjected to despotic rule
Once in this dome I went to school,
Where Pedro Passive held his reign,
The tyrant of a small domain."

LINES TO A COASTING CAPTAIN[99]

Shipwrecked and Nearly Drowned on Hatteras Shoals

So long harassed by winds and seas,
'Tis time, at length, to take your ease,
Change ruffian waves for quiet groves[100]
And war's loud blast for sylvan loves.

In all your rounds, 'tis passing strange
No fair one tempts you to a change—
Madness it is, you must agree,
To lodge alone 'till forty-three.

Old Plato said, no blessing here
Could equal Love—if but sincere;
And writings penn'd by heaven, have shown
That man can ne'er be blest alone.

O'er life's meridian have you pass'd;
The night of death advances fast!
No props you plant for your decline,
No partner soothes these cares of thine.

If Neptune's self, who ruled the main,
Kept sea-nymphs there to ease his pain;
Yourself, who skim that empire o'er,
Might surely keep one nymph on shore.

Myrtilla fair, in yonder grove,
Has so much beauty, so much love,
That, on her lip, the meanest fly
Is happier far than you or I.

[99] In the 1786 edition the title is "The Sea-Faring Bachelor;" in 1795 it was changed to "Advice to a Friend."

[100]

"And seek a bride—for few can find
The sea a mistress to their mind."—Ed. 1786.

TO THE AMERICANS[101]

On the Rumoured Approach of the Hessian Forces,
Waldeckers, &c. (Published 1775)

The blast of death! the infernal guns prepare—
"Rise with the storm and all its dangers share."

Occasioned by General Gage's Proclamation that the Provinces were
in a state of Rebellion, and out of the King's protection.[102]

Rebels you are—the British champion[103] cries—
Truth, stand thou forth!—and tell the wretch, He lies:—
Rebels!—and see this mock imperial lord
Already threats these rebels with the cord.[104]
The hour draws nigh, the glass is almost run,
When truth will shine, and ruffians[105] be undone;
When this base miscreant[106] will forbear to sneer,
And curse his taunts and bitter insults here.[107]
If to controul the cunning of a knave,
Freedom respect, and scorn the name of slave;
If to protest against a tyrant's laws,
And arm for vengeance in a righteous cause,
Be deemed Rebellion—'tis a harmless thing:
This bug-bear name, like death, has lost its sting.
Americans! at freedom's fane adore!
But trust to Britain, and her flag,[108] no more;
The generous genius of their isle has fled,
And left a mere impostor in his stead.
If conquered, rebels (their Scotch records show),[109]
Receive no mercy from the parent [A]foe;[110]
Nay, even the grave, that friendly haunt of peace,
(Where Nature gives the woes of man to cease,)
Vengeance will search—and buried corpses there
Be raised, to feast the vultures of the air—
Be hanged on gibbets, such a war they wage—
Such are the devils that swell our souls with rage![111]
If Britain conquers, help us, heaven, to fly:
Lend us your wings, ye ravens of the sky;—
If Britain conquers—we exist no more;
These lands will redden with their children's gore,
Who, turned to slaves, their fruitless toils will moan,
Toils in these fields that once they called their own!
To arms! to arms! and let the murdering sword
Decide who best deserves the hangman's cord:
Nor think the hills of Canada too bleak
When desperate Freedom is the prize you seek;
For that, the call of honour bids you go
O'er frozen lakes and mountains wrapt in snow:[112]
No toils should daunt the nervous and the bold,
They scorn all heat or wave-congealing cold.
Haste!—to your tents in iron fetters bring
These slaves, that serve a tyrant and a king;[113]
So just, so virtuous is your cause, I say,
Hell must prevail if Britain gains the day.

[A] After the battle of Culloden: See Smollett's History of England.—Freneau's note.

[101] The first trace that I can find of this poem is in the Oct. 18, 1775, issue of Anderson's Constitutional Gazette, where it has the title, "Reflections on Gage's Letter to Gen. Washington of Aug. 13." It was published in the 1786 edition with the title, "On the Conqueror of America shut up in Boston. Published in New York, August 1775." The 1795 edition changed the title to "The Misnomer." I have followed the title and text of the 1809 edition.

[102] General Gage's proclamation, issued June 12, 1775, was as follows: "Whereas the infatuated multitudes, who have long suffered themselves to be conducted by certain well-known incendiaries and traitors, in a fatal progression of crimes against the constitutional authority of the state, have at length proceeded to avowed rebellion, and the good effects which were expected to arise from the patience and lenity of the king's government have been often frustrated, and are now rendered hopeless by the influence of the same evil counsels, it only remains for those who are intrusted with the supreme rule, as well for the punishment of the guilty as the protection of the well-affected, to prove that they do not bear the sword in vain."

[103] "The hopeful general."—Constitutional Gazette.

[104] On June 11, Washington had written Gage, among other things, "that the officers engaged in the cause of liberty and their country, who by the fortune of war had fallen into your hands, have been thrown indiscriminately into a common gaol appropriated for felons," and threatening retaliation in like cases, "exactly by the rule you shall observe towards those of ours now in your custody." To this Cage replied, on the 13th: "Britons, ever pre-eminent in mercy, have outgone common examples, and overlooked the criminal in the captive. Upon these principles your prisoners, whose lives, by the law of the land, are destined to the cord, have hitherto been treated with care and kindness," &c.—Duyckinck.

[105] "Gage shall be."—Gazette.

[106] "Black monster."—Gazette.

[107] The Gazette version adds here the lines,

"Nay, with himself, ere freedom sent to quell
Had seen the lowest lurking place of hell."

[108] "British clemency."—Ed. 1786.

[109] "Their past records show."—Ed, 1786. "Gage already lets us know."—Gazette.

[110] "The viper foe."—Gazette.

[111] This and the preceding line not in the earlier versions. In place of them the Gazette has the lines:

"Spoil'd of their shrouds and o'er Canadia's plains
Be hung aloft to terrify in chains."

[112] The Gazette version ends the poem from this point as follows:

"Let Baker's head be snatch'd from infamy,
And Carleton's Popish scull be fixt on high,
And all like him o'er St. John's castle swing,
To show that freedom is no trifling thing."

[113] "Their tyrant of a king."—Ed. 1786.

THE VERNAL AGUE

Where the pheasant[114] roosts at night,
Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,[115]
Where the evening breezes sigh
Solitary, there stray I.

Close along the shaded stream,
Source of many a youthful dream,
Where branchy cedars dim the day,
There I muse, and there I stray.

Yet, what can please amid this bower,
That charmed the eye for many an hour!
The budding leaf is lost to me,
And dead the bloom on every tree.

The winding stream, that glides along,
The lark, that tunes her early song,
The mountain's brow, the sloping vale,
The murmuring of the western gale,

Have lost their charms!—the blooms are gone!
Trees put a darker aspect on,
The stream disgusts that wanders by,
And every zephyr brings a sigh.

Great guardian of our feeble kind!
Restoring Nature, lend thine aid!
And o'er the features of the mind
Renew those colours, that must fade,
When vernal suns forbear to roll,
And endless winter chills the soul.

[114] "Blackbird."—Ed. 1786.

[115] "In groves of half distinguish'd light."—Ib.

GENERAL GAGE'S CONFESSION[116]

Being the Substance of His Excellency's Last Conference with his
Ghostly Father, Father Francis

Compassion!—'tis a stranger to my heart,
Or if it comes—unwelcome guest depart,—
Boston, farewell, thy final doom is pass'd,
North hears my prayers, and I'm recall'd at last;[117]
Sailor on high thy canvas wings display,
Howl, ye west winds, and hurry me away;
Rise, boisterous clouds, and bellowing from on high,
Whisk me along, ye tyrants of the sky—
Quick! let me leave these friendless shores that shed
Ten thousand curses on my hated head.—
But why so swift, why ask I gales so strong,
Since conscience, cruel conscience, goes along?
Must conscience rack my bosom o'er the deep?
I live in hell while she forbears to sleep;
Come, Father Francis, be my heart display'd,
My burden'd conscience asks thy pious aid;
Come, if confession can discharge my sin,
I will confess till hell itself shall grin,
And own the world has found in me again
A second Nero; nay, another Cain.

Friar

Why swells thy breast with such distressing woe?
Your honour surely has the sense to know
Your sins are venial—trust me when I say
Your deepest sins may all be purged away.—
But if misfortunes rouse this nightly grief,
Sure Friar Francis can afford relief:
I thought e're this that leaders of renown
Would scorn to bow to giddy fortune's frown;
See yon bright star (the dewy eve begun)
Walks his gay round and sparkles in the sun;
Faints not, encircled by the ambient blaze,
Tho' pestering clouds may sometimes blunt his rays;
But come, confession makes the conscience light,
Confess, my son, and be absolv'd this night.

Gage

First of the first, I tell it in your ear
(For tho' we whisper, heaven, you know, can hear)
This faultless country ne'er deserv'd my hate;
Just are its pleas; unmerited its fate.
When North ordained me to this thankless place,
My conscience rose and star'd me in the face,
And spite of all I did to quench its flame,
Convinc'd me I was wrong before I came.—
But what, alas, can mortal heroes do,
They are but men, as sacred writings shew,—
Tho' I refus'd, they urged me yet the more,
Nay, even the king descended to implore,
And often with him in his closet pent,
Was plagu'd to death to rule this armament;
Who could a monarch's favourite wish deny?
I yielded just for peace—ay, faith did I—
If this be sin, O tell me, reverend sage,
What will, alas, become of guilty Gage?

Friar

If this be sin—'tis sin, I make no doubt,
But trust me, honour'd sir, I'll help you out,
Even tho' your arms had rag'd from town to town,
And mow'd like flags these rebel nations down,
And joyful bell return'd the murdering din,
And you yourself the master butcher been,—
All should be well—from sins like this, I ween,
A dozen masses shall discharge you clean;
Small pains in purgatory you'll endure,
And hell, you know, is only for the poor,
Pay well the priest and fear no station there,
For heaven must yield to vehemence of prayer.

Gage

Heaven grant that this may be my smallest sin;
Alas, good friar, I'm yet deeper in—
Come round my bed, with friendly groans condole,
To gratify my paunch, I've wrong'd my soul;
Arms I may wield and murder by command,
Spread devastation thro' a guiltless land,
Whole ranks to hell with howling cannon sweep—
But what had I to do with stealing sheep?[118]
I've read my orders, conn'd them o'er with care,
But not a word of stealing sheep is there;
Come, holy friar, can you make a shift
To help a sinner at so dead a lift?
Or must I onward to perdition go,
With theft and murder to complete my woe?

Friar

Murder—nay, hold!—your honour is too sad,
Things are not yet, I hope, become so bad,
Murder, indeed—you've stole, and that I know,
But, sir, believe me, you've not struck a blow;
Some few Americans have bled, 'tis true,
But 'twas the soldiers killed them, and not you.

Gage

Well said, but will this subtile reasoning stand?
Did not the soldiers murder by command,
By my command?—Friar, they did, I swear,
And I must answer for their deeds, I fear.

Friar

Let each man answer for his proper deed,
From sins of murder I pronounce you freed,
And this same reasoning will your honour keep
From imputations of purloining sheep:
Wallace for this to Rome shall post away,
And for this crying sin severely pay,
And tho' his zeal may think his penance slight,
Hair cloth and logs shall be his bed at night,
Coarse fare by day—till his repeated groans
Convince the world he for this sin atones.

Gage

Alas, poor Wallace, how I pity thee!—
But let him go—'tis better him than me;
Yes, let him harbour in some convent there,
And fleas monastic bite him till he swear;
But, friar, have you patience for the rest?
Half my transgressions are not yet confest.

Friar

Not half!—you are a harmless man, I'm told—
Pray, cut them short—the supper will be cold.

Gage

Some devil, regardless of exalted station,
In evil hour assail'd me with temptation,
To issue forth a damned proclamation,
What prince, what king, from Belzebub is free,
He tempted Judas, and has tempted me!
This, this, O friar, was a deadly flaw,
This for the civil founded martial law,[119]
This crime will Gage to Lucifer consign,
And purgatory must for this be mine.
Next—and for this I breathe my deepest sigh,
Ah cruel, flinty, hard, remorseless I!—
How could I crowd my dungeons dark and low
With wounded captives of our injur'd foe?
How could my heart, more hard than hardened steel,
Laugh at the pangs that mangled captives feel?
Why sneer'd I at my fellow men distrest,
Why banished pity from this iron breast!
O friar, could heaven approve my acting so,
Heaven still to mercy swift, to vengeance slow?—
O no—you say, then cease your soothing chat,
Cowards are cruel, I can instance that.—
But hold! why did I, when the fact was done,
Deny it all to gallant Washington?
Why did I stuff the epistolary page
With vile invectives only worthy Gage?[120]
Come, friar, help—shall I recant and say
I writ my letter on a drunken day?
How will it sound, if men should chance to tell
A drunken hero can compose so well?

Friar

Your fears are groundless, give me all the blame,
I writ the letter, you but sign'd your name,
Nor let the proclamation cloud your mind,
'Twas I compos'd it and you only sign'd.—
I, Friar Francis—papist tho' I be,
You private papists can't but value me;
Your sins in Lethe shall be swallowed up,
I'll clear you, if you please, before we sup.

Gage

Nay, clear me not—tho' I should cross the brine,
And pay my vows in distant Palestine,
Or land in Spain, a stranger poor and bare,
And rove on foot a wretched pilgrim there,
And let my eyes in streams perpetual flow,
Where great Messiah dy'd so long ago,
And wash his sacred footsteps with my tears,
And pay for masses fifty thousand years,
All would not do—my monarch I've obey'd,
And now go home, perhaps to lose my head;—
Pride sent me here, pride blasted in the bud,
Which, if it can, will build its throne in blood,
With slaughter'd millions glut its tearless eyes,
And make all nature fall that it may rise;—
Come, let's embark, your holy whining cease,
Come, let's away, I'll hang myself for peace:
So Pontius Pilate for his murder'd Lord
In his own bosom sheath'd the deadly sword—
Tho' he confess'd and wash'd his hands beside,
His heart condemn'd him and the monster dy'd.

[116] "General Gage's Confession" was printed in pamphlet form in 1775. As far as I can ascertain, there exists but a single copy of this publication, that in the possession of the Library Company of Philadelphia. A manuscript note upon this copy, unquestionably the handwriting of Freneau, is as follows: "By Gaine. Published October 25, 1775." The poem was manifestly written after Gage's recall. The poet never reprinted it.

[117] On July 28, 1775, George III. wrote to Lord North: "I have desired Lord Dartmouth to acquaint Lt. G. Gage that as he thinks nothing further can be done this campaign in the province of Massachusetts Bay that he is desired instantly to come over, that he may explain the various wants for carrying on the next campaign." "It was a kindly pretext devised to spare the feelings of an unprofitable but a faithful and a brave servant."—Trevelyan. General Gage embarked at Boston for England, Oct. 12, 1775.

[118] The scarcity of provisions in the British camp during the siege of Boston has been already alluded to. "When marauding expeditions," says Bancroft, "returned with sheep and hogs and cattle captured from islands, the bells were rung as for victory."

[119] Alluding to the proclamation of June 12, five days before Bunker Hill, which established martial law throughout Massachusetts and proscribed Hancock and Samuel Adams. By this proclamation, all who were in arms about Boston, every member of the State Government and of the Continental Congress, were threatened with condign punishment as rebels and traitors.

[120] Washington had written to Gage, remonstrating against the cruel treatment of certain American officers, who were denied the privileges and immunities due their rank. Almost the last official act of Gage was to reply through Burgoyne in a letter addressed to "George Washington, Esqr.," that "Britons, ever pre-eminent in mercy, have overlooked the criminal in the captive. Your prisoners, whose lives by the law of the land are destined to the cord, have hitherto been treated with care and kindness;—indiscriminately, it is true, for I acknowledge no rank that is not derived from the King."

THE DISTREST SHEPHERDESS[121]

or, Mariana's Complaint for the Death of Damon

Written 1775

What madness compell'd my dear shepherd to go
To the siege of Quebec, and distract me with woe!
My heart is so full, it would kill me to tell
How he died on the banks of the river Sorel.

O river Sorel! Thou didst hear him complain,
When dying he languish'd, and called me in vain!
When, pierc'd by the Briton he went to repel,
He sunk on the shores of the river Sorel.

O cruel misfortune, my hopes to destroy:
He has left me alone with my Colin, his boy;
With sorrow I see him, with tears my eyes swell;
Shall we go, my sweet babe, to the river Sorel?

But why should I wander, and give him such pain?
My Damon will ne'er see his Colin again:
To wander so far where the wild Indians dwell,
We should faint ere we came to the river Sorel.

But even to see the pale corpse of my dear
Would give me such rapture, such pleasure sincere!
I'll go, my dear boy, and my grief I will tell
To the willows that grow by the river Sorel.

How shall I distinguish my shepherd's dear grave
Amidst the long forest that darkens the wave:—
Perhaps they could give him no tomb when he fell;
Perhaps he is sunk in the river Sorel.

He was a dear fellow!—O, had he remain'd!
For he was uneasy whene'er I complain'd;
He call'd me his charmer, and call'd me his belle,
What a folly to die on the banks of Sorel!

Then let me remain in my lonely retreat;
My shepherd departed I never shall meet—
Here's Billy O'Bluster—I love him as well,
And Damon may stay at the river Sorel.

[121] This poem is unique in the 1788 edition of Freneau's works. It is evidently an earlier version of the "Mars and Hymen" below.

MARS AND HYMEN[122]

Occasioned by the separation of a young widow from a young military lover, of the troops sent to attack Fort Chamblee, in Canada; in which expedition he lost his life [1775]

Persons of the Poem—Lucinda, Damon, Thyrsis

Damon

Why do we talk of shaded bowers,
When frosts, my fair one, chill the plain,
And nights are cold, and long the hours
That damp the ardour of the swain,
Who, parting from his rural fire,
All pleasure doth forego—
And here and there,
And everywhere,
Pursues the invading foe.

Yes, we must rest on frosts and snows!
No season shuts up our campaign!
Hard as the rocks, we dare oppose
The autumnal, or the wintery reign.
Alike to us, the winds that blow
In summer's season, gay,
Or those that rave
On Hudson's wave,
And drift his ice away.

Winter and war may change the scene!
The ball may pierce, the frost may chill;
And dire misfortunes intervene,
But freedom must be powerful still,
To drive these Britons from our shore,
Who come with sail, who come with oar,
So cruel and unkind,
With servile chain, who strive in vain,
Our freeborn souls to bind.                         [Exit]

Lucinda (two months after)

They scold me, and tell me I must not complain,
To part a few weeks with my favourite swain!
He goes to the battle!—and leaves me to mourn—
And tell me—and tell me—and will he return?[123]
When he left me, he kiss'd me—and said, My sweet dear,
In less than a month I again will be here;
But still I can hardly my sorrows adjourn—
You may call me a witch—if ever I return.[124]
I said, My dear soldier, I beg you would stay;
But he, with his farmers,[125] went strutting away—
With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
And I wept—for I thought he would never return.[126]

Thyrsis

Fairest of the female train,
You must seek another swain,
Damon will not come again!
All his toils are over!
As you prized him, to excess,
Your loss is great, I will confess,
But, lady, yield not to distress—
I will be your lover.

Lucinda

Not all the swains the land can shew,
(If Damon is not living now)[127]
Can from my bosom drive my woe,
Or bid a second passion glow;—
For Damon has possession;
Not all the gifts that wealth can bring,
Nor all the airs that you can sing,
Nor all the music of the string
Can banish his impression.

Thyrsis

Wedlock and death too often prove
Pernicious to the fires of Love:
With equal strength they both combine
Hearts best united[128] to disjoin:
Hence ardent loves too soon remit;
Thus die the fires that Cupid lit.
Female tears and April snow
Sudden come and sudden go.
Since his head is levelled low,
Cease remembrance of your woe.
Can it be in reason found
To be crazy for Love's wound?[129]
Must you live in sorrows drowned
For a lover under ground?

Lucinda

What a picture have I seen!
What can all these visions mean!
Wintry groves and vacant halls,
Coffins hid by sable palls,
Monuments and funerals!
Forms terrific to the sight,
Ghastly phantoms clad in white;
Streams that ever seemed to freeze,
Shaded o'er by willow trees,[130]
Ever drooping—hardly green—
What a vision have I seen!
One I saw of angel kind,
From the dregs of life refined;
On her visage such a smile,[131]
And she talk'd in such a style!
All was heaven upon her brow;—
Yes, I think I see her now!
All in beams of light arrayed;
And these cheering words she said:
Fair Lucinda, come to me;
What has grief to do with thee?
O forsake your wretched shore,
Crimsoned with its children's gore![132]
Could you but a moment stray
In the meadows where I play,
You would die to come away.
Come away, and speed your wing—[133]
Here we love, and here we sing!

Thyrsis

You will not yet forget your glooms,
The heavy heart, the downcast eye,
The cheek that scarce a smile assumes,
The never-ending sigh![134]

Lucinda

Had you the secret cause to grieve—
That in this breast doth lie,
Instead of wishing to relieve
You would be just as I.

Thyrsis

What secret cause have you to grieve?—
A lover gone astray?—[135]
If one was able to deceive,
Perhaps another may.

Lucinda

My lover has not me deceived,
An act he would disdain;
Oh! he is gone—and I am grieved—
He'll never come again!
He'll never come again!

Thyrsis

The turtle on yon' withered bough
Who lately moaned her murdered mate,
Has found another partner now,—
Such changes all await.
Again her drooping plume is dress'd,
Again she wishes to be bless'd,
And takes a husband to her nest.
If nature has decreed it so
With some above, and all below,
Let us, Lucinda, banish woe,[136]
Nor be perplext with sorrow:
If I should leave your arms this night,
And die before the morning light,
I would advise you—and you might
Wed again to-morrow.

Lucinda

The turtle on yon' withered tree!—
That turtle never felt like me!
Her grief is but a moment's date,
Another day, another mate:
And true it is, the feathered race
Hold many a partner no disgrace.
How would the world my fault display,
What would censorious Sally[137] say?
Would say, while grinning malice sneers,—[138]
She made a conquest by her tears!

Thyrsis

My Polly!—once the pride of all,
That shepherd lads their charmers call,
Too early parted with her bloom,
And sleeps in yonder sylvan tomb:
Her death has set me free—
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
But what is that to me!
Since all must bow to fate's arrest,[139]
No love deceased shall rack my breast—
Come, then, Lucinda, and be blest.

Lucinda

My Damon! Oh, can I forget
The hour you left these moistened eyes,
O'er northern lakes to wander far
To colder climes and dreary skies!
There, vengeful, in their wastes of snow
The Britons guard the frozen shore,
And Damon there is perished now,
The swain that shall return no more!

Thyrsis

Weep, weep no more, my Jersey lass,[140]
The pang is past that fixed his doom—
They, too, shall to destruction pass,
Perhaps—and hardly find a tomb.
Refrain your tears—enough are shed—
They, too, shall have their share of woe:
Fled is their fame, their honours fled;
And Washington shall lay them low.

Lucinda

If you had but yon' sergeant's size,
His mien and looks, so debonaire,
You might seem lovely in my eyes,
Nor should you quite despair.[141]
There's something in your looks, I find,
Recalling Damon to my mind—
He is dead, and I must be resigned!
His lively step, his sun-burnt face,
His nervous arm in you I trace—
Indeed,—I think you no disgrace.[142]

Thyrsis

On this dismal, cloudy day,[143]
In these fighting times, I say,
Will you Yea, or will you Nay?

Lucinda

Oh! I will not tell you Nay,
You have such a coaxing way!

Thyrsis

Call the music!—half is done
That my heart could count upon—
From the grave I seize a prize!
Here she is, and where he lies,
She or I but little care!
O, what animals we are!
For you!—I would forego all ease,[144]
And traverse sands or travel seas.
Of all they sent us from above,
Nothing, nothing is like love!
Happiest passion of the mind,
Sent from heaven to bless mankind,
Though at variance with your charms,
Fate's eternal mandate stands;
Hymen, come!—unite our hands,
And give Lucinda to my arms!

[122] This poem seems first to have appeared in the edition of 1786, where it bore the title, "Female Frailty. Written November 1775." Freneau made use of the opening speeches of Damon and Lucinda in his drama, The Spy. He omitted the poem from the 1795 edition of his works, retaining, however, the opening lyric, which he entitled "The Northern Soldier." The poem was reprinted in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have used. The poet edited the earlier version with great care, making verbal variations in almost every line, and adding lines and even stanzas. I have marked only a few of the more notable changes.

[123] "And, say what you please, he will never return."—Ed. 1786.

[124]

"With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
And I wept, being sure he would never return."—Ib.

[125] "With his soldiers."—Ib.

[126]

"Then why should I longer my sorrows adjourn?—
You may call me a fool if he ever return."—Ib.

[127] Not in the earliest version.

[128] "Hearts once united."—Ed. 1786.

[129]

"Never yet was reason found
So distracted with love's wound
As to be in sorrow drown'd."—Ib.

[130] "Planted round with cypress trees."—Ed. 1786.

[131] Four lines beginning with this not in original version.

[132] "Shrouded all with darkness o'er."—Ib.

[133]

"'Come away! and speed thy flight,
All with me is endless light.'"—Ib.

[134] "The breast that heaves a sigh."—Ed. 1786.

[135] "A lover gone away?"—Ib.

[136]

"Let us, like them, forget our woe,
And not be kill'd with sorrow."—Ed. 1786.

[137] "Censorious Chloe."—Ib.

[138] "While laughing folly hears."—Ib.

[139] "Death's arrest."—Ed. 1786.

[140] "My lovely lass."—Ib.

[141]

"If you had once a soldier's guise,
The splendid coat, the sprightly air,
You might seem charming in these eyes,
Nor would I quite despair."—Ed. 1786.

[142]

"His handsome shape, his manly face,
His youthful step in you I trace—
All, all I wish for, but the lace."—Ib.

[143] The following eleven lines not in the original version.

[144] The 1786 version ended as follows:

Thyrsis

For you I would forego my ease,
And traverse lakes, or ravage seas,
And dress in lace, or what you please.

This enchanting month of May,
So bright, so bloomy, and so gay,
Claims our nuptials on this day.

For her vernal triumphs, we
Tune the harp to symphony—
Conquest has attended me.

Brightest season for the mind,
Vigorous, free, and unconfin'd,
Golden age of human kind.

Still at variance with thy charms
Death's eternal empire stands—
Hymen, come—while rapture warms,
And give Lucinda to my arms.

MAC SWIGGEN[145]

A Satire

Written 1775

Long have I sat on this disast'rous shore,
And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
To Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say,
Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may;
But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell
I think I may defer my voyage as well;
Why should I far in search of honour roam,
And dunces leave to triumph here at home?
Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave.
And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave,
Hence came these rhimes, with truth ascrib'd to me,
That swell thy little soul to jealousy:[146]
If thus, tormented at these flighty lays,
You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise,
How will you bear the more exalted rhime,
By labour polish'd, and matur'd by time?
Devoted madman! what inspir'd thy rage,
Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage?
Against a wind-mill would'st thou try thy might,
Against a giant[147] would a pigmy fight?
What could thy slanderous pen with malice arm
To injure him, who never did thee harm?[148]
Have I from thee been urgent to attain
The mean ideas of thy barren brain?
Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine,
And, when detected, swear by Jove they're mine?
O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose,
From thy own envy thy destruction flows!
Bless'd be our western world—its scenes conspire
To raise a poet's fancy and his fire,
Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend!
Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend!
See mighty streams meandering to the main!
See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain!
The spotted herds in flowery meadows see!
But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee?—
You find no charms in all that nature yields,
Then leave to me the grottoes and the fields:
I interfere not with your vast design—
Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine,
Pursue, well pleas'd, your theologic schemes,
Attend professors, and correct your themes,
Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent,
Or prove from scripture what it never meant,
Or far through law, that land of scoundrels, stray,
And truth disguise through all your mazy way;
Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze,
And by long cheating, learn to live at ease;
If but in Wood or Littleton well read,
The devil shall help you to your daily bread.
O waft me far, ye muses of the west—
Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest—
Thrice happy in those dear retreats to find
A safe retirement from all human kind.
Though dire misfortunes every step attend,
The muse, still social, still remains a friend—
In solitude her converse gives delight,
With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,
She aids me, shields me, bears me on her wings,
In spite of growling whelps, to high, exalted things,
Beyond the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.
Hail, great Mac Swiggen![149] foe to honest fame,[150]
Patron of dunces, and thyself the same,
You dream of conquest—tell me, how, or whence?
Act like a man and combat me with sense—
This evil have I known, and known but once,[151]
Thus to be gall'd and slander'd by a dunce,
Saw rage and weakness join their dastard plan
To crush the shadow, not attack the man.
What swarms of vermin from the sultry south
Like frogs surround thy pestilential mouth—
Clad in the garb of sacred sanctity,
What madness prompts thee to invent a lie?
Thou base defender of a wretched crew,
Thy tongue let loose on those you never knew,
The human spirit with the brutal join'd,
The imps of Orcus in thy breast combin'd,
The genius barren, and the wicked heart,
Prepar'd to take each trifling scoundrel's part,
The turn'd up nose, the monkey's foolish face,
The scorn of reason, and your sire's disgrace—
Assist me, gods, to drive this dog of rhime
Back to the torments of his native clime,
Where dullness mingles with her native earth,[152]
And rhimes, not worth the pang that gave them birth!
Where did he learn to write or talk with men?—
A senseless blockhead, with a scribbling pen—
In vile acrostics thou may'st please the fair,[153]
Not less than with thy looks and powder'd hair,
But strive no more with rhime to daunt thy foes,
Or, by the flame that in my bosom glows,
The muse on thee shall her worst fury spend,
And hemp, or water, thy vile being end.
Aspers'd like me, who would not grieve and rage!
Who would not burn, Mac Swiggen to engage?
Him and his friends, a mean, designing race,
I, singly I, must combat face to face—
Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouth'd train,[154]
Assisted by no poets of the plain,
Whose timerous Muses cannot swell their theme
Beyond a meadow or a purling stream.—
Were not my breast impervious to despair,
And did not Clio reign unrivall'd there,
I must expire beneath the ungenerous host,
And dullness triumph o'er a poet lost.
Rage gives me wings, and fearless prompts me on
To conquer brutes the world should blush to own;
No peace, no quarter to such imps I lend,
Death and perdition on each line I send;
Bring all the wittlings that your host supplies,
A cloud of nonsense and a storm of lies—
Your kitchen wit—Mac Swiggen's loud applause,
That wretched rhymer with his lanthorn jaws—
His deep-set eyes forever on the wink,
His soul extracted from the public sink—
All such as he, to my confusion call—
And tho' ten myriads—I despise them all.
Come on, Mac Swiggen, come—your muse is willing,
Your prose is merry, but your verse is killing—
Come on, attack me with that whining prose,
Your beard is red, and swine-like is your nose,
Like burning brush your bristly head of hair,
The ugliest image of a Greenland bear—
Come on—attack me with your choicest rhimes,
Sound void of sense betrays the unmeaning chimes—
Come, league your forces; all your wit combine,
Your wit not equal to the bold design—
The heaviest arms the Muse can give, I wield,
To stretch Mac Swiggen floundering on the field,
'Swiggen, who, aided by some spurious Muse,
But bellows nonsense, and but writes abuse,
'Swiggen, immortal and unfading grown,[155]
But by no deeds or merits of his own.—
So, when some hateful monster sees the day,
In spirits we preserve it from decay,
But for what end, it is not hard to guess—
Not for its value, but its ugliness.
Now, by the winds which shake thy rubric mop,
(That nest of witches, or that barber's shop)
Mac Swiggen, hear—Be wise in times to come,
A dunce by nature, bid thy muse be dumb,
Lest you, devoted to the infernal skies,
Descend, like Lucifer, no more to rise.—
Sick of all feuds, to Reason I appeal[156]
From wars of paper, and from wars of steel,
Let others here their hopes and wishes end,
I to the sea with weary steps descend,
Quit the mean conquest that such swine might yield,
And leave Mac Swiggen to enjoy the field—
In distant isles some happier scene I'll choose,
And court in softer shades the unwilling Muse,
Thrice happy there, through peaceful plains to rove,
Or the cool verdure of the orange grove,
Safe from the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.

[145] I can find only two versions of this poem: that in the 1786 edition of the poet, which I have reproduced, and that in the 1809 edition, in which the title is changed to "A Satire in Answer to a Hostile Attack. [First written, and published 1775.]" From the nature of the concluding lines of the poem, it may be inferred that it was the last work done by the poet before starting on his voyage to the West Indies, late In November. I have not been able to find a trace of the hostile attack in the newspapers or publications of the period, or of the original publication of "Mac Swiggen." The poem was omitted from the 1795 edition, only the first eight lines being used in the short poem "To Shylock Ap-Shenken." The poet made many verbal changes for the later edition, but I have marked only the most significant.

[146] "Urge your little soul to cruelty."—Ed. 1809.

[147] "Castle."—Ed. 1809.

[148] "Meant you harm."—Ib.

[149] "Thou bright genius." In each case where Mac Swiggen is used in the earlier version, it is changed later.—"This giant," "Sangrado," "dear satirist," "a green goose," "scribbler," and "insect," are supplied in its place.

[150] Of the ninety-four remaining lines of the poem, fifty were taken from the satires written by the poet while in college, in the war between the Whig and Cliosophic Societies. Many of the lines were much changed. The portion used by Freneau may be said to comprise all of the three early satires that could be quoted with decency.

[151] This line and the one following not in the Clio-Whig satires.

[152] This line and the one following not in the Clio-Whig satires.

[153] This line and the seven following not in the Clio-Whig satires.

[154] This line and the seven following not in the Clio-Whig satires.

[155] Six lines not in Clio-Whig satires.

[156] The remainder of the poem not in the Clio-Whig satires.

THE HOUSE OF NIGHT[157]

A Vision

Advertisement—This Poem is founded upon the authority of Scripture, inasmuch as these sacred books assert, that the last enemy that shall be conquered is Death. For the purposes of poetry he is here personified, and represented as on his dying bed. The scene is laid at a solitary palace, (the time midnight) which, tho' before beautiful and joyous, is now become sad and gloomy, as being the abode and receptacle of Death. Its owner, an amiable, majestic youth, who had lately lost a beloved consort, nevertheless with a noble philosophical fortitude and humanity, entertains him in a friendly manner, and by employing Physicians, endeavours to restore him to health, altho' an enemy; convinced of the excellence and propriety of that divine precept, If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink. He nevertheless, as if by a spirit of prophecy, informs this (fictitiously) wicked being of the certainty of his doom, and represents to him in a pathetic manner the vanity of his expectations, either of a reception into the abodes of the just, or continuing longer to make havock of mankind upon earth. The patient finding his end approaching, composes his epitaph, and orders it to be engraved on his tombstone, hinting to us thereby, that even Death and Distress have vanity; and would be remembered with honour after he is no more, altho' his whole life has been spent in deeds of devastation and murder. He dies at last in the utmost agonies of despair, after agreeing with an avaricious Undertaker to intomb his bones. This reflects upon the inhumanity of those men, who, not to mention an enemy, would scarcely cover a departed friend with a little dust, without certainty of reward for so doing. The circumstances of his funeral are then recited, and the visionary and fabulous part of the poem disappears. It concludes with a few reflections on the impropriety of a too great attachment to the present life, and incentives to such moral virtue as may assist in conducting us to a better.

1

Trembling I write my dream, and recollect
A fearful vision at the midnight hour;
So late, Death o'er me spread his sable wings,
Painted with fancies of malignant power!

2

Such was the dream the sage Chaldean saw5
Disclos'd to him that felt heav'n's vengeful rod,
Such was the ghost, who through deep silence cry'd,
Shall mortal man—be juster than his God?

3

Let others draw from smiling skies their theme,
And tell of climes that boast unfading light,10
I draw a darker scene, replete with gloom,
I sing the horrors of the House of Night.

4

Stranger, believe the truth experience tells,
Poetic dreams are of a finer cast
Than those which o'er the sober brain diffus'd,15
Are but a repetition of some action past.

5

Fancy, I own thy power—when sunk in sleep
Thou play'st thy wild delusive part so well
You lift me into immortality,
Depict new heavens, or draw the scenes of hell.20

6

By some sad means, when Reason holds no sway,
Lonely I rov'd at midnight o'er a plain
Where murmuring streams and mingling rivers flow
Far to their springs, or seek the sea again.

7

Sweet vernal May! tho' then thy woods in bloom25
Flourish'd, yet nought of this could Fancy see,
No wild pinks bless'd the meads, no green the fields,
And naked seem'd to stand each lifeless tree:

8

Dark was the sky, and not one friendly star
Shone from the zenith or horizon, clear,30
Mist sate upon the woods, and darkness rode
In her black chariot, with a wild career.

9

And from the woods the late resounding note
Issued of the loquacious Whip-poor-will,[A]
Hoarse, howling dogs, and nightly roving wolves35
Clamour'd from far off cliffs invisible.

[A] A Bird peculiar to America, of a solitary nature, who never sings but in the night. Her note resembles the name given to her by the country people.—Freneau's note.

10

Rude, from the wide extended Chesapeke
I heard the winds the dashing waves assail,
And saw from far, by picturing fancy form'd,
The black ship travelling through the noisy gale.40

11

At last, by chance and guardian fancy led,
I reach'd a noble dome, rais'd fair and high,
And saw the light from upper windows flame,
Presage of mirth and hospitality.

12

And by that light around the dome appear'd45
A mournful garden of autumnal hue,
Its lately pleasing flowers all drooping stood
Amidst high weeds that in rank plenty grew.

13

The Primrose there, the violet darkly blue,
Daisies and fair Narcissus ceas'd to rise,50
Gay spotted pinks their charming bloom withdrew,
And Polyanthus quench'd its thousand dyes.

14

No pleasant fruit or blossom gaily smil'd,
Nought but unhappy plants or trees were seen,
The yew, the myrtle, and the church-yard elm,55
The cypress, with its melancholy green.

15

There cedars dark, the osier, and the pine,
Shorn tamarisks, and weeping willows grew,
The poplar tall, the lotos, and the lime,
And pyracantha did her leaves renew.60

16

The poppy there, companion to repose,
Display'd her blossoms that began to fall,
And here the purple amaranthus rose
With mint strong-scented, for the funeral.

17

And here and there with laurel shrubs between65
A tombstone lay, inscrib'd with strains of woe,
And stanzas sad, throughout the dismal green,
Lamented for the dead that slept below.

18

Peace to this awful dome!—when strait I heard
The voice of men in a secluded room,70
Much did they talk of death, and much of life,
Of coffins, shrouds, and horrors of a tomb.

19

Pathetic were their words, and well they aim'd
To explain the mystic paths of providence,
Learn'd were they all, but there remain'd not I75
To hear the upshot of their conference.

20

Meantime from an adjoining chamber came
Confused murmurings, half distinguish'd sounds,
And as I nearer drew, disputes arose
Of surgery, and remedies for wounds.80

21

Dull were their feuds, for they went on to talk
Of Anchylosis,[B] and the shoulder blade,
Os Femoris,[B] Trochanters[B]—and whate'er
Has been discuss'd by Cheselden or Meade:

[B] Anchylosis—a morbid contraction of the joints. Os Femoris—the thigh bone. Trochanters—two processes in the upper part of the thigh bone, otherwise called rotator major et minor, in which the tendons of many muscles terminate.—Freneau's notes.

22

And often each, to prove his notion true,85
Brought proofs from Galen or Hippocrates—
But fancy led me hence—and left them so,
Firm at their points of hardy No and Yes.

23

Then up three winding stairs my feet were brought
To a high chamber, hung with mourning sad,90
The unsnuff'd candles glar'd with visage dim,
'Midst grief, in ecstacy of woe run mad.

24

A wide leaf'd table stood on either side,
Well fraught with phials, half their liquids spent,
And from a couch, behind the curtain's veil,95
I heard a hollow voice of loud lament.

25

Turning to view the object whence it came,
My frighted eyes a horrid form survey'd;
Fancy, I own thy power—Death on the couch,
With fleshless limbs, at rueful length, was laid.100

26

And o'er his head flew jealousies and cares,
Ghosts, imps, and half the black Tartarian crew,
Arch-angels damn'd, nor was their Prince remote,
Borne on the vaporous wings of Stygian dew.

27

Around his bed, by the dull flambeaux' glare,105
I saw pale phantoms—Rage to madness vext,
Wan, wasting grief, and ever musing care,
Distressful pain, and poverty perplext.

28

Sad was his countenance, if we can call
That countenance, where only bones were seen110
And eyes sunk in their sockets, dark and low,
And teeth, that only show'd themselves to grin.

29

Reft was his scull of hair, and no fresh bloom
Of chearful mirth sate on his visage hoar:
Sometimes he rais'd his head, while deep-drawn groans115
Were mixt with words that did his fate deplore.

30

Oft did he wish to see the daylight spring,
And often toward the window lean'd to hear,
Fore-runner of the scarlet-mantled morn,
The early note of wakeful Chanticleer.120

31

Thus he—But at my hand a portly youth
Of comely countenance, began to tell,
"That this was Death upon his dying bed,
"Sullen, morose, and peevish to be well;

32

"Fixt is his doom—the miscreant reigns no more125
"The tyrant of the dying or the dead;
"This night concludes his all-consuming reign,
"Pour out, ye heav'ns, your vengeance on his head.

33

"But since, my friend (said he), chance leads you here,
"With me this night upon the sick attend,130
"You on this bed of death must watch, and I
"Will not be distant from the fretful fiend.

34

"Before he made this lofty pile his home,
"In undisturb'd repose I sweetly slept,
"But when he came to this sequester'd dome,135
"'Twas then my troubles came, and then I wept:

35

"Twice three long nights, in this sad chamber, I,
"As though a brother languish'd in despair,
"Have 'tended faithful round his gloomy bed,
"Have been content to breathe this loathsome air.140

36

"A while relieve the languors that I feel,
"Sleep's magic forces close my weary eyes;
"Soft o'er my soul unwonted slumbers steal,
"Aid the weak patient till you see me rise.

37

"But let no slumbers on your eye-lids fall,145
"That if he ask for powder or for pill
"You may be ready at the word to start,
"And still seem anxious to perform his will.

38

"The bleeding Saviour of a world undone
"Bade thy compassion rise toward thy foe;150
"Then, stranger, for the sake of Mary's son,
"Thy tears of pity on this wretch bestow.

39

"'Twas he that stole from my adoring arms
"Aspasia, she the loveliest of her kind,
"Lucretia's virtue, with a Helen's charms,155
"Charms of the face, and beauties of the mind.

40

"The blushy cheek, the lively, beaming eye,
"The ruby lip, the flowing jetty hair,
"The stature tall, the aspect so divine,
"All beauty, you would think, had center'd there.160

41

"Each future age her virtues shall extol,
"Nor the just tribute to her worth refuse;
"Fam'd, to the stars Urania bids her rise,
"Theme of the moral, and the tragic Muse.

42

"Sweet as the fragrance of the vernal morn,165
"Nipt in its bloom this faded flower I see;
"The inspiring angel from that breast is gone,
"And life's warm tide forever chill'd in thee!

43

"Such charms shall greet my longing soul no more,
"Her lively eyes are clos'd in endless shade,170
"Torpid, she rests on yonder marble floor;
"Approach, and see what havock Death has made.

44

"Yet, stranger, hold—her charms are so divine,
"Such tints of life still on her visage glow,
"That even in death this slumbering bride of mine175
"May seize thy heart, and make thee wretched too.

45

"O shun the sight—forbid thy trembling hand
"From her pale face to raise the enshrouding lawn,—
"Death claims thy care, obey his stern command,
"Trim the dull tapers, for I see no dawn!"180

46

So said, at Death's left side I sate me down,
The mourning youth toward his right reclin'd;
Death in the middle lay, with all his groans,
And much he toss'd and tumbled, sigh'd and pin'd.

47

But now this man of hell toward me turn'd,185
And strait, in hideous tone, began to speak;
Long held he sage discourse, but I forebore
To answer him, much less his news to seek.

48

He talk'd of tomb-stones and of monuments,
Of Equinoctial climes and India shores,190
He talk'd of stars that shed their influence,
Fevers and plagues, and all their noxious stores.

49

He mention'd, too, the guileful calenture,[C]
Tempting the sailor on the deep sea main,
That paints gay groves upon the ocean floor,195
Beckoning her victim to the faithless scene.

[C] Calenture—an inflammatory fever, attended with a delirium, common in long voyages at sea, in which the diseased persons fancy the sea to be green fields and meadows, and, if they are not hindered, will leap overboard.—Freneau's note.

50

Much spoke he of the myrtle and the yew,
Of ghosts that nightly walk the church-yard o'er,
Of storms that through the wint'ry ocean blow
And dash the well-mann'd galley on the shore,200

51

Of broad-mouth'd cannons, and the thunderbolt,
Of sieges and convulsions, dearth and fire,
Of poisonous weeds—but seem'd to sneer at these
Who by the laurel o'er him did aspire.

52

Then with a hollow voice thus went he on:205
"Get up, and search, and bring, when found, to me,
"Some cordial, potion, or some pleasant draught,
"Sweet, slumb'rous poppy, or the mild Bohea.

53

"But hark, my pitying friend!—and, if you can,
"Deceive the grim physician at the door—210
"Bring half the mountain springs—ah! hither bring
"The cold rock water from the shady bower.

54

"For till this night such thirst did ne'er invade,
"A thirst provok'd by heav'n's avenging hand;
"Hence bear me, friends, to quaff, and quaff again215
"The cool wave bubbling from the yellow sand.

55

"To these dark walls with stately step I came,
"Prepar'd your drugs and doses to defy;
"Smit with the love of never dying fame,
"I came, alas! to conquer—not to die!"220

56

Glad, from his side I sprang, and fetch'd the draught,
Which down his greedy throat he quickly swills,
Then on a second errand sent me strait,
To search in some dark corner for his pills.

57

Quoth he, "These pills have long compounded been,225
"Of dead men's bones and bitter roots, I trow;
"But that I may to wonted health return,
"Throughout my lank veins shall their substance go."

58

So down they went.—He rais'd his fainting head
And oft in feeble tone essay'd to talk;230
Quoth he, "Since remedies have small avail,
"Assist unhappy Death once more to walk."

59

Then slowly rising from his loathsome bed,
On wasted legs the meagre monster stood,
Gap'd wide, and foam'd, and hungry seem'd to ask,235
Tho' sick, an endless quantity of food.

60

Said he, "The sweet melodious flute prepare,
"The anthem, and the organ's solemn sound,
"Such as may strike my soul with ecstacy,
"Such as may from yon' lofty wall rebound.240

61

"Sweet music can the fiercest pains assuage,
"She bids the soul to heaven's blest mansions rise,
"She calms despair, controuls infernal rage
"And deepest anguish, when it hears her, dies.

62

"And see, the mizzling, misty midnight reigns,245
"And no soft dews are on my eye-lids sent!—
"Here, stranger, lend thy hand; assist me, pray,
"To walk a circuit of no large extent."—

63

On my prest shoulders leaning, round he went,
And could have made the boldest spectre flee,250
I led him up stairs, and I led him down,
But not one moment's rest from pain got he.

64

Then with his dart, its cusp unpointed now,
Thrice with main strength he smote the trembling floor;
The roof resounded to the fearful blow,255
And Cleon started, doom'd to sleep no more.

65

When thus spoke Death, impatient of controul,
"Quick, move, and bring from yonder black bureau
"The sacred book that may preserve my soul
"From long damnation, and eternal woe.260

66

"And with it bring—for you may find them there,
"The works of holy authors, dead and gone,
"The sacred tome of moving Drelincourt,
"Or what more solemn Sherlock mus'd upon:

67

"And read, my Cleon, what these sages say,265
"And what the sacred Penman hath declar'd,
"That when the wicked leaves his odious way,
"His sins shall vanish, and his soul be spar'd."

68

But he, unmindful of the vain command,
Reason'd with Death, nor were his reasonings few:270
Quoth he—"My Lord, what frenzy moves your brain,
"Pray, what, my Lord, can Sherlock be to you,

69

"Or all the sage divines that ever wrote,
"Grave Drelincourt, or heaven's unerring page;
"These point their arrows at your hostile breast,275
"And raise new pains that time must ne'er assuage.

70

"And why should thus thy woe disturb my rest?
"Much of Theology I once did read,
"And there 'tis fixt, sure as my God is so,
"That Death shall perish, tho' a God should bleed.280

71

"The martyr, doom'd the pangs of fire to feel,
"Lives but a moment in the sultry blast;
"The victim groans, and dies beneath the steel,
"But thy severer pains shall always last.

72

"O miscreant vile, thy age has made thee doat—285
"If peace, if sacred peace were found for you,
"Hell would cry out, and all the damn'd arise
"And, more deserving, seek for pity too.

73

"Seek not for Paradise—'tis not for thee,
"Where high in heaven its sweetest blossoms blow,290
"Nor even where, gliding to the Persian main,
"Thy waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow!

74

"Bloody has been thy reign, O man of hell,
"Who sympathiz'd with no departing groan;
"Cruel wast thou, and hardly dost deserve295
"To have Hic Jacet stampt upon thy stone.

75

"He that could build his mansion o'er the tombs,
"Depending still on sickness and decay,
"May dwell unmov'd amidst these drowsier glooms,
"May laugh the dullest of these shades away.300

76

"Remember how with unrelenting ire
"You tore the infant from the unwilling breast—
"Aspasia fell, and Cleon must expire,
"Doom'd by the impartial God to endless rest:

77

"In vain with stars he deck'd yon' spangled skies,305
"And bade the mind to heaven's bright regions soar,
"And brought so far to my admiring eyes
"A glimpse of glories that shall blaze no more!

78

"Even now, to glut thy devilish wrath, I see
"From eastern realms a wasteful army rise:310
"Why else those lights that tremble in the north?
"Why else yon' comet blazing through the skies?

79

"Rejoice, O fiend; Britannia's tyrant sends
"From German plains his myriads to our shore.
"The fierce Hibernian with the Briton join'd—315
"Bring them, ye winds!—but waft them back no more.

80

"To you, alas! the fates in wrath deny
"The comforts to our parting moments due,
"And leave you here to languish and to die,
"Your crimes too many, and your tears too few.320

81

"No cheering voice to thee shall cry, Repent!
"As once it echoed through the wilderness—
"No patron died for thee—damn'd, damn'd art thou
"Like all the devils, nor one jot the less.

82

"A gloomy land, with sullen skies is thine,325
"Where never rose or amaranthus grow,
"No daffodils, nor comely columbine,
"No hyacinths nor asphodels for you.

83

"The barren trees that flourish on the shore
"With leaves or fruit were never seen to bend,330
"O'er languid waves unblossom'd branches hang,
"And every branch sustains some vagrant fiend.

84

"And now no more remains, but to prepare
"To take possession of thy punishment;
"That's thy inheritance, that thy domain,335
"A land of bitter woe, and loud lament.

85

"And oh that He, who spread the universe,
"Would cast one pitying glance on thee below!
"Millions of years in torments thou might'st fry,
"But thy eternity!—who can conceive its woe!"340

86

He heard, and round with his black eye-balls gaz'd,
Full of despair, and curs'd, and rav'd, and swore:
"And since this is my doom," said he, "call up
"Your wood-mechanics to my chamber door:

87

"Blame not on me the ravage to be made;345
"Proclaim,—even Death abhors such woe to see;
"I'll quit the world, while decently I can,
"And leave the work to George my deputy."

88

Up rush'd a band, with compasses and scales
To measure his slim carcase, long and lean—350
"Be sure," said he, "to frame my coffin strong,
"You, master workman, and your men, I mean:

89

"For if the Devil, so late my trusty friend,
"Should get one hint where I am laid, from you,
"Not with my soul content, he'd seek to find355
"That mouldering mass of bones, my body, too!

90

"Of hardest ebon let the plank be found,
"With clamps and ponderous bars secur'd around,
"That if the box by Satan should be storm'd,
"It may be able for resistance found."360

91

"Yes," said the master workman, "noble Death,
"Your coffin shall be strong—that leave to me—
"But who shall these your funeral dues discharge?
"Nor friends nor pence you have, that I can see."

92

To this said Death—"You might have ask'd me, too,365
"Base caitiff, who are my executors,
"Where my estate, and who the men that shall
"Partake my substance, and be call'd my heirs.

93

"Know, then, that hell is my inheritance,
"The devil himself my funeral dues must pay—370
"Go—since you must be paid—go, ask of him,
"For he has gold, as fabling poets say."

94

Strait they retir'd—when thus he gave me charge,
Pointing from the light window to the west,
"Go three miles o'er the plain, and you shall see375
"A burying-yard of sinners dead, unblest.

95

"Amid the graves a spiry building stands
"Whose solemn knell resounding through the gloom
"Shall call thee o'er the circumjacent lands
"To the dull mansion destin'd for my tomb.380

96

"There, since 'tis dark, I'll plant a glimmering light
"Just snatch'd from hell, by whose reflected beams
"Thou shalt behold a tomb-stone, full eight feet,
"Fast by a grave, replete with ghosts and dreams.

97

"And on that stone engrave this epitaph,385
"Since Death, it seems, must die like mortal men;
"Yes—on that stone engrave this epitaph,
"Though all hell's furies aim to snatch the pen.

98

"Death in this tomb his weary bones hath laid,
"Sick of dominion o'er the human kind—390
"Behold what devastations he hath made,
"Survey the millions by his arm confin'd.

99

"Six thousand years has sovereign sway been mine,
"None, but myself, can real glory claim;
"Great Regent of the world I reign'd alone,395
"And princes trembled when my mandate came.

100

"Vast and unmatch'd throughout the world, my fame
"Takes place of gods, and asks no mortal date—
"No; by myself, and by the heavens, I swear,
"Not Alexander's name is half so great.400

101

"Nor swords nor darts my prowess could withstand,
"All quit their arms, and bowd to my decree,
"Even mighty Julius died beneath my hand,
"For slaves and Cæsars were the same to me!

102

"Traveller, wouldst thou his noblest trophies seek,405
"Search in no narrow spot obscure for those;
"The sea profound, the surface of all land
"Is moulded with the myriads of his foes."

103

Scarce had he spoke, when on the lofty dome
Rush'd from the clouds a hoarse resounding blast—410
Round the four eaves so loud and sad it play'd
As though all musick were to breathe its last.

104

Warm was the gale, and such as travellers say
Sport with the winds on Zaara's barren waste;
Black was the sky, a mourning carpet spread,415
Its azure blotted, and its stars o'ercast!

105

Lights in the air like burning stars were hurl'd,
Dogs howl'd, heaven mutter'd, and the tempest blew,
The red half-moon peeped from behind a cloud
As if in dread the amazing scene to view.420

106

The mournful trees that in the garden stood
Bent to the tempest as it rush'd along,
The elm, the myrtle, and the cypress sad
More melancholy tun'd its bellowing song.

107

No more that elm its noble branches spread,425
The yew, the cypress, or the myrtle tree,
Rent from the roots the tempest tore them down,
And all the grove in wild confusion lay.

108

Yet, mindful of his dread command, I part
Glad from the magic dome—nor found relief;430
Damps from the dead hung heavier round my heart,
While sad remembrance rous'd her stores of grief.

109

O'er a dark field I held my dubious way
Where Jack-a-lanthorn walk'd his lonely round,
Beneath my feet substantial darkness lay,435
And screams were heard from the distemper'd ground.

110

Nor look'd I back, till to a far off wood,
Trembling with fear, my weary feet had sped—
Dark was the night, but at the inchanted dome
I saw the infernal windows flaming red.440

111

And from within the howls of Death I heard,
Cursing the dismal night that gave him birth,
Damning his ancient sire, and mother sin,
Who at the gates of hell, accursed, brought him forth.

112

[For fancy gave to my enraptur'd soul445
An eagle's eye, with keenest glance to see,
And bade those distant sounds distinctly roll,
Which, waking, never had affected me.]

113

Oft his pale breast with cruel hand he smote,
And tearing from his limbs a winding sheet,450
Roar'd to the black skies, while the woods around,
As wicked as himself, his words repeat.

114

Thrice tow'rd the skies his meagre arms he rear'd,
Invok'd all hell, and thunders on his head,
Bid light'nings fly, earth yawn, and tempests roar,455
And the sea wrap him in its oozy bed.

115

"My life for one cool draught!—O, fetch your springs,
"Can one unfeeling to my woes be found!
"No friendly visage comes to my relief,
"But ghosts impend, and spectres hover round.460

116

"Though humbled now, dishearten'd and distrest,
"Yet, when admitted to the peaceful ground,
"With heroes, kings, and conquerors I shall rest,
"Shall sleep as safely, and perhaps as sound."

117

Dim burnt the lamp, and now the phantom Death465
Gave his last groans in horror and despair—
"All hell demands me hence,"—he said, and threw
The red lamp hissing through the midnight air.

118

Trembling, across the plain my course I held,
And found the grave-yard, loitering through the gloom,470
And, in the midst, a hell-red, wandering light,
Walking in fiery circles round the tomb.

119

Among the graves a spiry building stood,
Whose tolling bell, resounding through the shade,
Sung doleful ditties to the adjacent wood,475
And many a dismal drowsy thing it said.

120

This fabrick tall, with towers and chancels grac'd,
Was rais'd by sinners' hands, in ages fled;
The roof they painted, and the beams they brac'd,
And texts from scripture o'er the walls they spread:480

121

But wicked were their hearts, for they refus'd
To aid the helpless orphan, when distrest,
The shivering, naked stranger they mis-us'd,
And banish'd from their doors the starving guest.

122

By laws protected, cruel and prophane,485
The poor man's ox these monsters drove away;—
And left Distress to attend her infant train,
No friend to comfort, and no bread to stay.

123

But heaven look'd on with keen, resentful eye,
And doom'd them to perdition and the grave,490
That as they felt not for the wretch distrest,
So heaven no pity on their souls would have.

124

In pride they rais'd this building tall and fair,
Their hearts were on perpetual mischief bent,
With pride they preach'd, and pride was in their prayer,495
With pride they were deceiv'd, and so to hell they went.

125

At distance far approaching to the tomb,
By lamps and lanthorns guided through the shade,
A coal-black chariot hurried through the gloom,
Spectres attending, in black weeds array'd,500

126

Whose woeful forms yet chill my soul with dread,
Each wore a vest in Stygian chambers wove,
Death's kindred all—Death's horses they bestrode,
And gallop'd fiercely, as the chariot drove.

127

Each horrid face a grizly mask conceal'd,505
Their busy eyes shot terror to my soul
As now and then, by the pale lanthorn's glare,
I saw them for their parted friend condole.

128

Before the hearse Death's chaplain seem'd to go,
Who strove to comfort, what he could, the dead;510
Talk'd much of Satan, and the land of woe,
And many a chapter from the scriptures read.

129

At last he rais'd the swelling anthem high,
In dismal numbers seem'd he to complain;
The captive tribes that by Euphrates wept,515
Their song was jovial to his dreary strain.

130

That done, they plac'd the carcase in the tomb,
To dust and dull oblivion now resign'd,
Then turn'd the chariot tow'rd the House of Night,
Which soon flew off, and left no trace behind.520

131

But as I stoop'd to write the appointed verse,
Swifter than thought the airy scene decay'd;
Blushing the morn arose, and from the east
With her gay streams of light dispell'd the shade.

132

What is this Death, ye deep read sophists, say?—525
Death is no more than one unceasing change;
New forms arise, while other forms decay,
Yet all is Life throughout creation's range.

133

The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine,
The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow,530
The Apalachian and the Ararat
Sooner or later must to ruin go.

134

Hills sink to plains, and man returns to dust,
That dust supports a reptile or a flower;
Each changeful atom by some other nurs'd535
Takes some new form, to perish in an hour.

135

Too nearly join'd to sickness, toils, and pains,
(Perhaps for former crimes imprison'd here)
True to itself the immortal soul remains,
And seeks new mansions in the starry sphere.540

136

When Nature bids thee from the world retire,
With joy thy lodging leave, a fated guest;
In Paradise, the land of thy desire,
Existing always, always to be blest.

[157] The text is from the edition of 1786, which contains the only complete version. The poem was first published in the August number of The United States Magazine, 1779, which also contained the following note: "'The House of Night', a poem in the present number of the Magazine, is from a young gentleman who has favoured us with several original pieces in the course of this work; and readers of taste will no doubt be pleased with it, as perfectly original both in the design and manner of it." It bore the title "The House of Night; or, Six Hours Lodging with Death, A Vision," and the quotation:

"Felix qui potiut rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorable Fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari.
Virg. Georg. II., v. 490."

As printed in the magazine it consisted of seventy-three stanzas, which coincide with the following numbers of the 1786 edition: 3, 4, 6-10, 12, 14, 18, 20-26, 28, 29, 31, 32, 47-54, 58, 59, 65, 66, 68, 69, 72, 74, 75, 78, 79, 86, 87, 94, 96-100, 102-106, 111, 113-115, 117, 118, 125-127, 130, 131. Following are the variations:

Line 10, "eternal light"; 11, "a deeper scene"; 21, "the mind cannot recall"; 23, "where Chesapeque's deep rivers upward flow"; 25, "Though then the woods, in fairest vernal bloom"; 28, "childless tree"; 29, "a friendly star"; 35, "Hoarse roaring wolves, and nightly roving bears"; 37, "Fierce from the loudly sounding Chesapeque"; 45, 46, "When to my view a pile of buildings stood, And near, a garden of autumnal hue"; 55, "The yew, the willow"; 69, "Peace to those buildings; when at once I heard"; 70, "in a remoter dome"; 77, "a superior chamber"; 78, "Confused murmurs, scarce distinguish'd sounds"; 81, "Long were their feuds, for they design'd to talk"; 95, "And from a bed behind a curtain veil"; 97, "Turning to view from whence the murmur came"; 99, "Death, dreary death, upon the gloomy couch"; 100, "in rueful form"; 101, "High o'er his head"; 109, 110, "Sad was his aspect, if we so can call, That aspect where but skin and bones were seen"; 111, "deep and low"; 121, 122, "Then at my hand I saw a comely youth, Of port majestic, who began to tell"; 126, "The monarch"; 127, "melancholy reign"; 185, "the man"; 186, "with frightful tone"; 188, "To answer, and"; 192, "their sickly stores"; 194, "the placid main"; 195, "fine groves"; 196, "Beckoning his footsteps"; 198, "The summer winds, and of the church-yard hoar"; 202, "Of fevers and contagions"; 206, "Arise, make search"; 229, 230, "But now refresh'd, the phantoms rais'd his head, And writhing, seem'd to aim once more to talk"; 232, "expiring death"; 234, "the monstrous spectre"; 257, "Now to the anxious youth his speech he turn'd"; 274, "inspired page"; 275, "harden'd breast"; 285, "Wicked old man"; 295, 296, "nor dost thou now deserve To have 'here lies' engrav'd"; 299, 300, "Might dwell unmov'd amidst November's glooms, And laugh the dullest of his shades away"; 309, "thy savage rage"; 310, "a bloody army"; 315, "The Caledonian with the Albion join'd." Here in the 1779 version occur the following stanzas:

"Why runs thy stream dejected to the main,
O Hudson, Hudson, dreary, dull and slow?
Seek me no more along that mountain stream,
For on his banks is heard the sound of woe.

Sword, famine, thirst, and pining sickness there,
Shall people half the realms this monster owns;
He like the cruel foe, accursed he,
Laughs at our pains, rejoices in our groans.

Now wilt you tremble if you hear your fate,
Out of the dread Apocalypse your doom,
That death and hell must perish in the lake
Of fire, dispelling half hell's ancient gloom."

341, "black optics"; 348, "And leave the business to some deputy"; 373, "Now thus the drooping victim gave me charge"; 381, "A quivering light"; 383, "by whose far glimmering beams"; 384, "arrayed with ghosts"; 388, "furies snatch the engraving pen"; 390-392,

"Tir'd of his long continued victory:
What glory can there be to vanquish those
Who all beneath his stroke are sure to die?"

398, "Is borne secure, and rides aloft in state"; 399, "No, the stars"; 410, "Burst from the skies the fury of a blast"; 411, "Round the four eaves"; 414, "Sport with the sands"; 417, "Lights through the air like blazing stars"; 420, "As if afraid the fearful"; 424, "its dreary song"; 441, "Now from within"; 451, "Roar'd like a devil; while the woods around"; 458-460,

"Haste, seize the wretch who my request denies.
Tophet receive him to thy lowest pit,
Chain'd midst eternal oaths and blasphemies."

470, "And found the cœmetery in the gloom"; 471, "a hell-red waving light"; 472, "horrid circles"; 497, 498, "to the grave"; 499, 500, "A sable chariot drove with wild career, And following close a gloomy cavalcade"; 501, "Whose spectre forms"; 502, "by Pluto's consort wove"; 507, "lanthorn's beam"; 517, "Now deep was plac'd"; 520, "The sable steeds went swifter than the wind"; 523, 524, "Blooming the morn arose, and in the east Stalk'd gallantly in her sun-beam parade." The poem closes in the 1779 version with the following stanzas:

"Waking I found my weary night a dream;
Dreams are perhaps forebodings of the soul;
Learn'd sages tell why all these whims arose,
And from what source such mystic visions roll.

Do they portend approaching death, which tells
I soon must hence my darksome journey go?
Sweet Cherub Hope! Dispel the clouded dream
Sweet Cherub Hope, man's guardian god below.

Stranger, who'er thou art, who this shall read,
Say does thy nightly fancy rove like mine;
Transport thee o'er wide lands and wider seas
Now underneath the pole and now the burning line?

Poet, who thus dost rove, say, shall thou fear
New Jordan's stream prefigured by the old?
It will but waft thee where thy fathers are
The bards with long eternity enroll'd.

It will but waft thee where thy Homer shrouds
His laurell'd head in some Elysian grove,
And on whose skirts perhaps in future years,
At awful distance you and I may rove.

Enough—when God and nature give the word,
I'll tempt the dusky shore and narrow sea:
Content to die, just as it be decreed,
At four score years, or now at twenty-three."

In the edition of 1795, Freneau used only stanzas 3-17, 119-124 of the poem, giving it the title "The Vision of the Night. A Fragment." In this there are some sixteen variations from the earlier text, nearly all minor verbal changes not always for the better. Several, however, are significant, for instance, line 12 is made to read, "I sing the horrors and the shades of night"; line 32 is changed to "with her ebon spear"; line 478 to "raised by churchmen's hands"; and 480 to "texts from Moses."

The poet used the 1786 edition as a sort of quarry for his later editions. He used thirteen stanzas for "The Sexton's Sermon," q.v.; stanzas 39-43 were reprinted in the 1809 edition in connection with stanzas 35-38 of "Santa Cruz" and entitled "Elegiac Lines"; stanza 79 became stanza one and 55 stanza two of the "Hessian Embarkation," and stanza 49 was inserted after stanza 90 of the 1809 version of "Santa Cruz."

THE JAMAICA FUNERAL[158]

1776

1

Alcander died—the rich, the great, the brave;
Even such must yield to heaven's severe decree,
Death, still at hand, conducts us to the grave,
And humbles monarchs as he humbled thee.

2

When, lingering, to his end Alcander drew,
Officious friends besieg'd his lofty door,
Impatient they the dying man to view
And touch that hand they soon must touch no more.

3

"Alas, he's gone!" the sad attendants cry,
Fled is the breath that never shall return—
"Alas! he's gone!" his tearful friends reply,
"Spread the dark crape, and round his pale corpse mourn.

4

"Ye that attend the pompous funeral, due,
"In sable vestments let your limbs be clad,
"For vulgar deaths a common sorrow shew,
"But costly griefs are for the wealthy dead.

5

"Prepare the blessings of the generous vine,
"Let bulls and oxen groan beneath the steel,
"Throughout the board let choicest dainties shine,
"To every guest a generous portion deal."

6

A mighty crowd approach'd the mourning dome,
Some came to hear the sermon and the prayer,
Some came to shun Xantippe's voice at home,
And some with Bacchus to relieve their care.

7

A Levite came, and sigh'd among the rest,
A rusty band and tatter'd gown he wore,
His leaves he tumbled, and the house he blest,
And conn'd his future sermon o'er and o'er.

8

And oft a glance he cast towards the wine
That briskly sparkled in the glassy vase,
And often drank, and often wish'd to dine,
And red as Phœbus glow'd his sultry face.

9

Much did he chatter, and on various themes,
He publish'd news that came from foreign climes,
He told his jests, and told his last year's dreams,
And quoted dull stuff from lord Wilmot's rhymes.

10

And dunn'd the mourners for his parish dues
With face of brass, and scrutinizing eye,
And threaten'd law-suits if they dar'd refuse
To pay his honest earnings punctually.

11

An honest sire, who came in luckless hour
To hear the sermon and to see the dead,
Presuming on this consecrated hour,
Ventur'd to check the parson on that head.

12

Quoth he, "My priest, such conduct is not fit,
"For other speech this solemn hour demands:
"What if your parish owes its annual debt,
"Your parish ready to discharge it stands."

13

No more he said—for charg'd with wounds and pain,
The parson's staff, like Jove's own lightning, flew,
Which cleft his jaw-bone and his cheek in twain,
And from their sockets half his grinders drew.

14

Nor less deceas'd some moments lay the sire
Than if from heav'n the forked lightnings thrown
Had pierc'd him with their instantaneous fire,
And sent him smoking to the world unknown.

15

At last he mov'd, and, weltering in his gore.
Thus did the rueful, wounded victim say,
"Convey me hence—so bloody and so sore
"I cannot wait to hear the parson pray;

16

"And if I did, what pleasure could be mine—
"Can he allure me to the world of bliss—
"Can he present me at the heavenly shrine
"Who breaks my bones, and knocks me down in this?

17

"The scripture says—the text I well recall—
"A Priest or Bishop must no striker be,
"Then how can such a wicked priest but fall,
"Who at a funeral thus has murdered me?"

18

Thus he—But now the sumptuous dinner came,
The Levite; boldly seiz'd the nobler place,
Beside him sate the woe-struck widow'd dame,
Who help'd him drain the brimful china vase.

19

Which now renew'd, he drank that ocean too,
Like Polypheme, the boon Ulysses gave;
Another came, nor did another do,
For still another did the monster crave.

20

With far-fetch'd dainties he regal'd his maw,
And prais'd the various meats that crown'd the board:
On tender capons did the glutton gnaw,
And well his platter with profusion stor'd.

21

But spoke no words of grace—I mark'd him well,
I fix'd my eye upon his brazen brow—
He look'd like Satan aiming to rebel,
Such pride and madness were his inmates now.

22

But not contented with this hectoring priest,
Sick of his nonsense, softly I withdrew,
And at a calmer table shar'd the feast,
To sorrow sacred, and to friendship due.

23

Which now atchiev'd, the tolling bell remote
Summon'd the living and the dead to come,
And through the dying sea-breeze swell'd the note,
Dull on the ear, and lengthening through the gloom.

24

The bier was brought, the costly coffin laid,
And prayers were mutter'd in a doleful tone,
While the sad pall, above the body spread,
From many a tender breast drew many a groan.

25

The Levite, too, some tears of Bacchus shed—
Reeling before the long procession, he
Strode like a general at his army's head,
His gown in tatters, and his wig—ah me!

26

The words of faith in both his hands he bore,
Prayers, cut and dry, by ancient prelates made,
Who, bigots while they liv'd, could do no more
Than leave them still by bigots to be said.

27

But he admir'd them all!—he read with joy
St. Athanasius in his thundering creed,
And curs'd the men whom Satan did employ
To make King Charles, that heav'n-born martyr, bleed.

28

At last they reach'd the spiry building high,
And soon they enter'd at the eastern gate—
The parson said his prayers most learnedly,
And mutter'd more than memory can relate.

29

Then through the temple's lengthy aisles they went,
Approaching still the pulpit's painted door,
From whence, on Sundays, many a vow was sent,
And sermons plunder'd from some prelate's store.

30

Here, as of right, the priest prepar'd to rise,
And leave the corpse and gaping crowd below,
Like sultry Phœbus glar'd his flaming eyes,
Less fierce the stars of Greenland evenings glow.

31

Up to the pulpit strode he with an air,
And from the Preacher thus his text he read:
"More I esteem, and better is by far
"A dog existing than a lion dead.

32

"Go, eat thy dainties with a joyful heart,
"And quaff thy wine with undissembled glee,
"For he who did these heavenly gifts impart
"Accepts thy prayers, thy gifts, thy vows, and thee."

The Sermon

33

These truths, my friends, congenial to my soul,
Demand a faithful and attentive ear—
No longer for your 'parted friend condole,
No longer shed the tributary tear.

34

Curs'd be the sobs, these useless floods of woe
That vainly flow for the departed dead—
If doom'd to wander on the coasts below,
What are to him these seas of grief you shed?

35

If heaven in pleasure doth his hours employ—
If sighs and sorrows reach a place like this,
They blast his glories, and they damp his joy,
They make him wretched in the midst of bliss.

36

And can you yet—and here he smote his breast—
And can you yet bemoan that torpid mass
Which now for death and desolation drest,
Prepares the deep gulph of the grave to pass.

37

You fondly mourn—I mourn Alcander too,
Alcander late the living, not the dead;
His casks I broach'd, his liquors once I drew,
And freely there on choicest dainties fed.

38

But vanish'd are they now!—no more he calls,
No more invites me to his plenteous board;
No more I caper at his splendid balls,
Or drain his cellars, with profusion stor'd.

39

Then why, my friends, for yonder senseless clay,
That ne'er again befriends me, should I mourn?
Yon' simple slaves that through the cane-lands stray
Are more to me than monarchs in the urn.

40

The joys of wine, immortal as my theme,
To days of bliss the aspiring soul invite;
Life, void of this, a punishment I deem,
A Greenland winter, without heat or light.

41

Count all the trees that crown Jamaica's hills,
Count all the stars that through the heavens you see.
Count every drop that the wide ocean fills;
Then count the pleasures Bacchus yields to me.

42

The aids of wine for toiling man were meant;
I prize the smiling Caribbean bowl—
Enjoy those gifts that bounteous nature lent,
Death to thy cares, refreshing to the soul.

43

Here fixt to-day in plenty's smiling vales,
Just as the month revolves we laugh or groan,
September comes, seas swell with horrid gales,
And old Port Royal's fate may be our own.

44

A few short years, at best, will bound our span,
Wretched and few, the Hebrew exile said;
Live while you may, be jovial while you can,
Death as a debt to nature must be paid.

45

When nature fails, the man exists no more,
And death is nothing but an empty name,
Spleen's genuine offspring at the midnight hour,
The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream.

46

You ask me where these mighty hosts have fled,
That once existed on this changeful ball?—
If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,
Where, ere their birth they were, they now are all.[A]

[A]

"Quæris, quo jaceas post obitum loco?—
Quo non nata jacent."—Senec. Troas.—Freneau's note.

47

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 darkness all return again.

48

Then envy not, ye sages too precise,
The drop from life's gay tree, that damps our woe,
Noah himself, the wary and the wise,
A vineyard planted, and the vines did grow:

49

Of social soul was he—the grape he press'd,
And drank the juice oblivious to his care;
Sorrow he banish'd from his place of rest,
And sighs and sobbing had no entrance there.

50

Such bliss be ours through every changing scene;
The glowing face bespeaks the glowing heart;
If heaven be joy, wine is to heaven a-kin,
Since wine, on earth, can heavenly joys impart.

51

Mere glow-worms are we all, a moment shine;
I, like the rest, in giddy circles run,
And Grief shall say, when I this life resign,
"His glass is empty, and his frolics done!"

52

He said, and ceas'd—the funeral anthem then
From the deep choir and hoarse-ton'd organ came;
Such are the honours paid to wealthy men,
But who for Irus would attempt the same?

53

Now from the church returning, as they went,
Again they reach'd Alcander's painted hall,
Their sighs concluded, and their sorrows spent,
They to oblivion gave the Funeral.

54

The holy man, by bishops holy made,
Tun'd up to harmony his trembling strings,
To various songs in various notes he play'd,
And, as he plays, as gallantly he sings.

55

The widow'd dame, less pensive than before,
To sprightly tunes as sprightly did advance,
Her lost Alcander scarce remember'd more;
And thus the funeral ended in a dance.

[158] As far as I can discover, this poem occurs only in the edition of 1786. Freneau seems deliberately to have abandoned it after this edition. A few stanzas from this poem are scattered through the poem entitled "The Sexton's Sermon," q.v. Stanza 43 was inserted after stanza 15 of the later versions of "Santa Cruz."

THE BEAUTIES OF SANTA CRUZ[A][159]

1776

Sweet orange grove, the fairest of the isle,
In thy soft shade luxuriously reclin'd,
Where, round my fragrant bed, the flowrets smile,
In sweet delusions I deceive my mind.

But Melancholy's glooms assail my breast,
For potent nature reigns despotic here;—
A nation ruin'd, and a world oppress'd,
Might rob the boldest Stoic of a tear.

[A] Or St. Croix, a Danish island (in the American Archipelago), commonly, tho' erroneously included in the cluster of the Virgin Islands; belonging to the crown of Denmark.—Freneau's note [Ed. 1809].

1

Sick of thy northern glooms, come, shepherd, seek
More equal climes, and a serener sky:
Why shouldst thou toil amid thy frozen ground,
Where half year's snows, a barren prospect lie,

2

When thou mayst go where never frost was seen,
Or north-west winds with cutting fury blow,
Where never ice congeal'd the limpid stream,
Where never mountain tipt its head with snow?

3

Twice seven days prosperous gales thy barque shall bear
To isles that flourish in perpetual green,
Where richest herbage glads each shady vale,
And ever verdant plants on every hill are seen.

4

Nor dread the dangers of the billowy deep,
Autumnal winds shall safely waft thee o'er;
Put off the timid heart, or, man unblest,
Ne'er shalt thou reach this gay enchanting shore.

5

Thus Judah's tribes beheld the promis'd land,
While Jordan's angry waters swell'd between;
Thus trembling on the brink I see them stand,
Heav'n's type in view, the Canaanitish green.

6

Thus, some mean souls, in spite of age and care,
Are so united to this globe below,
They never wish to cross death's dusky main,
That parting them and happiness doth flow.

7

Though reason's voice might whisper to the soul
That nobler climes for man the gods design—
Come, shepherd, haste—the northern breezes blow,
No more the slumbering winds thy barque confine.

8

From the vast caverns of old ocean's bed,
Fair Santa Cruz, arising, laves her waist,
The threat'ning waters roar on every side,
For every side by ocean is embrac'd.

9

Sharp, craggy rocks repel the surging brine,
Whose cavern'd sides by restless billows wore,
Resemblance claim to that remoter isle                         [Eolia
Where once the winds' proud lord the sceptre bore.

10

Betwixt old Cancer and the mid-way line,
In happiest climate lies this envied isle,
Trees bloom throughout the year, streams ever flow,
And fragrant Flora wears a lasting smile.

11

Cool, woodland streams from shaded clifts descend,
The dripping rock no want of moisture knows,
Supply'd by springs that on the skies depend,
That fountain feeding as the current flows.

12

Such were the isles which happy Flaccus sung,
Where one tree blossoms while another bears,
Where spring forever gay, and ever young,
Walks her gay round through her unwearied years.

13

Such were the climes which youthful Eden saw
Ere crossing fates destroy'd her golden reign—
Reflect upon thy loss, unhappy man,
And seek the vales of Paradise again.

14

No lowering skies are here—the neighbouring sun
Clear and unveil'd, his brilliant journey goes,
Each morn emerging from the ambient main,
And sinking there each evening to repose.

15

In June's fair month the spangled traveller gains
The utmost limits of his northern way,
And blesses with his beams cold lands remote,
Sad Greenland's coast, and Hudson's frozen bay.

16

The shivering swains of those unhappy climes
Behold the side-way monarch through the trees,
We feel his fiercer heat, his vertic beams,
Temper'd with cooling winds and trade-wind breeze.

17

Yet, though so near heav'n's blazing lamp doth run,
We court the beam that sheds the golden day,
And hence are called the children of the sun,
Who, without fainting, bear his downward ray.

18

No threatening tides upon our island rise,
Gay Cynthia scarce disturbs the ocean here,
No waves approach her orb, and she, as kind,
Attracts no water to her silver sphere.

19

The happy waters boast, of various kinds,
Unnumber'd myriads of the scaly race,
Sportive they glide above the delug'd sand,
Gay as their clime, in ocean's ample vase.

20

Some streak'd with burnish'd gold, resplendent glare,
Some cleave the limpid deep, all silver'd o'er,
Some, clad in living green, delight the eye,
Some red, some blue; of mingled colours more.

21

Here glides the spangled Dolphin through the deep,
The giant-carcas'd whales at distance stray.
The huge green turtles wallow through the wave,
Well pleas'd alike with land or water, they.

22

The Rainbow cuts the deep, of varied green,
The well fed Grouper lurks remote, below,
The swift Bonetta coasts the watry scene,
The diamond coated Angels kindle as they go.

23

Delicious to the taste, salubrious food,
Which might some temperate studious sage allure
To curse the fare of his abstemious school,
And turn, for once, a cheerful Epicure.

24

Unhurt, may'st thou this luscious food enjoy,
To fulness feast upon the scaly kind;
These, well selected from a thousand more,
Delight the taste, and leave no plague behind.

25

Nor think Hygeia[B] is a stranger here;
To sensual souls the climate may fatal prove,
Anguish and death attend, and pain severe,
The midnight revel, and licentious love.

[B] Goddess of Health.—Freneau's note.

26

Full many a swain, in youth's serenest bloom,
Is borne untimely to this alien clay,
Constrain'd to slumber in a foreign tomb,
Far from his friends, his country far away.

27

Yet, if devoted to a sensual soul,
If fondly their own ruin they create,
These victims to the banquet and the bowl
Must blame their folly only, not their fate.

28

But thou, who first drew breath in northern air,
At early dawn ascend the sloping hills,
And oft' at noon to lime tree shades repair,
Where some soft stream from neighbouring groves distils.

29

And with it mix the liquid of the lime,
The old ag'd essence of the generous cane,
And sweetest syrups of this liquorish clime,
And drink, to cool thy thirst, and drink again.

30

This happy beverage, joy inspiring bowl,
Dispelling far the shades of mental night,
Wakes bright ideas on the raptur'd soul,
And sorrow turns to pleasure and delight.

31

Sweet verdant isle, through thy dark woods I rove,
And learn the nature of each native tree,
The fustick hard, the poisonous manchineel,
Which for its fragrant apple pleaseth thee:

32

Alluring to the smell, fair to the eye,
But deadliest poison in the taste is found—
O shun the dangerous tree, nor taste, like Eve,
This interdicted fruit in Eden's ground.

33

The lowly mangrove, fond of watry soil,
The white bark'd gregory, rising high in air,
The mastick in the woods you may descry,
Tamarind, and lofty plumb-trees flourish there.

34

Sweet orange groves in lonely vallies rise
And drop their fruits, unnotic'd and unknown,
And cooling acid limes in hedges grow,
The juicy lemons swell in shades their own.

35

Once in these groves divine Aurelia stray'd!—
Then, conscious nature, smiling, look'd more gay;
But soon she left the dear delightful shade,
The shade, neglected, droops and dies away,

36

And pines for her return, but pines in vain,
In distant isles belov'd Aurelia died,
Pride of the plains, ador'd by every swain,
Sweet warbler of the woods, and of the woods the pride.

37

Philander early left this rural maid,
Nor yet return'd, by fate compell'd to roam,
But absent from the heavenly girl he stray'd,
Her charms forgot, forgot his native home.

38

O fate severe, to seize the nymph so soon,
The nymph, for whom a thousand shepherds sigh,
And in the space of one revolving moon
To doom the fair one and her swain to die!

39

Sweet, spungy plumbs on trees wide spreading hang,
Bell-apples here, suspended, shade the ground,
Plump grenadilloes and güavas grey,
With melons in each plain and lawn abound.

40

The conic form'd cashew, of juicy kind,
Which bears at once an apple and a nut;
Whose poisonous coat, indignant to the lip,
Doth in its cell a wholesome kernel shut.

41

The prince of fruits, whom some jayama call,
Anana some, the happy flavour'd pine;
In which unite the tastes and juices all
Of apple, peach, quince, grape, and nectarine,

42

Grows to perfection here, and spreads his crest;
His diadem toward the parent sun;
His diadem, in fiery blossoms drest,
Stands arm'd with swords from potent nature won.

43

Yon' cotton shrubs with bursting knobs behold,
Their snow white locks these humble groves array;
On slender trees the blushing coffee hangs
Like thy fair cherry, and would tempt thy stay.

44

Safe from the winds, in deep retreats, they rise;
Their utmost summit may thy arm attain;
Taste the moist fruit, and from thy closing eyes
Sleep shall retire, with all his drowsy train.

45

The spicy berry, they güava call,
Swells in the mountains on a stripling tree;
These some admire, and value more than all,
My humble verse, besides, unfolds to thee.

46

The smooth white cedar, here, delights the eye,
The bay-tree, with its aromatic green,
The sea-side grapes, sweet natives of the sand,
And pulse, of various kinds, on trees are seen.

47

Here mingled vines that downward shadows cast,
Here, cluster'd grapes from loaded boughs depend,
Their leaves no frosts, their fruits no cold winds blast,
But, rear'd by suns, to time alone they bend.

48

The plantane and banana flourish here,
Of hasty growth, and love to fix their root
Where some soft stream of ambling water flows,
To yield full moisture to their cluster'd fruit.

49

No other trees so vast a leaf can boast,
So broad, so long—through these refresh'd I stray,
And though the noon-sun all his radiance shed,
These friendly leaves shall shade me all the way,

50

And tempt the cooling breeze to hasten there,
With its sweet odorous breath to charm the grove;
High shades and verdant seats, while underneath
A little stream by mossy banks doth rove,

51

Where once the Indian dames slept with their swains,
Or fondly kiss'd the moon-light eves away;
The lovers fled, the tearful stream remains,
And only I console it with my lay.

52

Among the shades of yonder whispering grove
The green palmittoes mingle, tall and fair,
That ever murmur, and forever move,
Fanning with wavy bough the ambient air.

53

Pomegranates grace the wild, and sweet-sops there
Ready to fall, require thy helping hand,
Nor yet neglect the papaw or mamee
Whose slighted trees with fruits unheeded stand.

54

Those shaddocks juicy shall thy taste delight,
And yon' high fruits, the richest of the wood,
That cling in clusters to the mother tree,
The cocoa-nut; rich, milky, healthful food.

55

O grant me, gods, if yet condemn'd to stray,
At least to spend life's sober evening here,
To plant a grove where winds yon' shelter'd bay,
And pluck these fruits that frost nor winter fear.

56

Cassada shrubs abound—transplanted here
From every clime, exotic blossoms blow;
Here Asia plants her flowers, here Europe seeds,
And hyperborean plants, un-winter'd, grow.

57

Here, a new herbage glads the generous steed,
Mules, goats, and sheep enjoy these pastures fair,
And for thy hedges, nature has decreed,
Guards of thy toils, the date and prickly pear.

58

But chief the glory of these Indian isles
Springs from the sweet, uncloying sugar-cane,
Hence comes the planter's wealth, hence commerce sends
Such floating piles to traverse half the main.

59

Whoe'er thou art that leav'st thy native shore,
And shall to fair West India climates come,
Taste not the enchanting plant—to taste forbear,
If ever thou wouldst reach thy much lov'd home.

60

Ne'er through the Isle permit thy feet to rove,
Or, if thou dost, let prudence lead the way,
Forbear to taste the virtues of the cane,
Forbear to taste what will complete thy stay.

61

Whoever sips of this enchanting juice,
Delicious nectar, fit for Jove's own hall,
Returns no more from his lov'd Santa Cruz,
But quits his friends, his country, and his all.

62

And thinks no more of home—Ulysses so
Dragg'd off by force his sailors from that shore
Where lotos grew, and, had not strength prevail'd,
They never would have sought their country more.

63

No annual toil inters this thrifty plant,
The stalk lopt off, the freshening showers prolong,
To future years, unfading and secure,
The root so vigorous, and the juice so strong.

64

Unnumber'd plants, besides, these climates yield,
And grass peculiar to the soil, that bears
Ten thousand varied herbs, array the field,
This glads thy palate, that thy health repairs.

65

Along the shore a wondrous flower is seen,
Where rocky ponds receive the surging wave,
Some drest in yellow, some array'd in green,
Beneath the water their gay branches lave.

66

This mystic plant, with its bewitching charms,
Too surely springs from some enchanted bower;
Fearful it is, and dreads impending harms,
And Animal the natives call the flower.

67

From the smooth rock its little branches rise,
The objects of thy view, and that alone,
Feast on its beauties with thy ravish'd eyes,
But aim to touch it, and—the flower is gone.

68

Nay, if thy shade but intercept the beam
That gilds their boughs beneath the briny lake,
Swift they retire, like a deluding dream,
And even a shadow for destruction take.

69

Warn'd by experience, seek not thou to gain
The magic plant thy curious hand invades;
Returning to the light, it mocks thy pain,
Deceives all grasp, and seeks its native shades.

70

On yonder steepy hill, fresh harvests rise,
Where the dark tribe from Afric's sun-burnt plain
Oft o'er the ocean turn their wishful eyes
To isles remote high looming o'er the main,

71

And view soft seats of ease and fancied rest,
Their native groves new painted on the eye,
Where no proud misers their gay hours molest,
No lordly despots pass unsocial by.

72

See yonder slave that slowly bends this way,
With years, and pain, and ceaseless toil opprest,
Though no complaining words his woes betray,
The eye dejected proves the heart distrest.

73

Perhaps in chains he left his native shore,
Perhaps he left a helpless offspring there,
Perhaps a wife, that he must see no more,
Perhaps a father, who his love did share.

74

Curs'd be the ship that brought him o'er the main,
And curs'd the hands who from his country tore,
May she be stranded, ne'er to float again,
May they be shipwreck'd on some hostile shore—

75

O gold accurst, of every ill the spring,
For thee compassion flies the darken'd mind,
Reason's plain dictates no conviction bring,
And passion only sways all human kind.

76

O gold accurst! for thee we madly run
With murderous hearts across the briny flood,
Seek foreign climes beneath a foreign sun,
And there exult to shed a brother's blood.

77

But thou, who own'st this sugar-bearing soil,
To whom no good the great First Cause denies,
Let freeborn hands attend thy sultry toil,
And fairer harvests to thy view shall rise.

78

The teeming earth shall mightier stores disclose
Than ever struck thy longing eyes before,
And late content shall shed a soft repose,
Repose, so long a stranger at thy door.

79

Give me some clime, the favourite of the sky,
Where cruel slavery never sought to rein—
But shun the theme, sad muse, and tell me why
These abject trees lie scatter'd o'er the plain?

80

These isles, lest nature should have prov'd too kind,
Or man have sought his happiest heaven below,
Are torn with mighty winds, fierce hurricanes,
Nature convuls'd in every shape of woe.

81

Nor scorn yon' lonely vale of trees so reft;
There plantane groves late grew of lively green,
The orange flourish'd, and the lemon bore,
The genius of the isle dwelt there unseen.

82

Wild were the skies, affrighted nature groan'd
As though approach'd her last decisive day,
Skies blaz'd around, and bellowing winds had nigh
Dislodg'd these cliffs, and tore yon' hills away.

83

O'er the wild main, dejected and afraid,
The trembling pilot lash'd his helm a-lee,
Or, swiftly scudding, ask'd thy potent aid,
Dear pilot of the Galilëan sea.

84

Low hung the clouds, distended with the gale
The clouds dark brooding wing'd their circling flight,
Tremendous thunders join'd the hurricane,
Daughter of chaos and eternal night.

85

And how, alas! could these fair trees withstand
The wasteful madness of so fierce a blast,
That storm'd along the plain, seiz'd every grove,
And delug'd with a sea this mournful waste.

86

That plantane grove, where oft I fondly stray'd,
Thy darts, dread Phœbus, in those glooms to shun,
Is now no more a refuge or a shade,
Is now with rocks and deep sands over-run.

87

Those late proud domes of splendour, pomp and ease
No longer strike the view, in grand attire;
But, torn by winds, flew piece-meal to the seas,
Nor left one nook to lodge the astonish'd squire.

88

But other groves the hand of Time shall raise,
Again shall nature smile, serenely gay,
So soon each scene revives, why should I leave
These green retreats, o'er the dark seas to stray?

89

For I must go where the mad pirate roves,
A stranger on the inhospitable main,
Torn from the scenes of Hudson's sweetest groves,
Led by false hope, and expectation vain.

90

There endless plains deject the wearied eye,
And hostile winds incessant toil prepare;
And should loud bellowing storms all art defy,
The manly heart alone must conquer there.

91

On these blue hills, to pluck the opening flowers,
Might yet awhile the unwelcome task delay,
And these gay scenes prolong the fleeting hours
To aid bright Fancy on some future day.

92

Thy vales, Bermuda, and thy sea-girt groves,
Can never like these southern forests please;
And, lash'd by stormy waves, you court in vain
The northern shepherd to your cedar trees.

93

Not o'er those isles such equal planets rule,
All, but the cedar, dread the wintry blast:
Too well thy charms the banish'd Waller sung;
Too near the pilot's star thy doom is cast.

94

Far o'er the waste of yonder surgy field
My native climes in fancied prospect lie,
Now hid in shades, and now by clouds conceal'd,
And now by tempests ravish'd from my eye.

95

There, triumphs to enjoy, are, Britain, thine,
There, thy proud navy awes the pillag'd shore;
Nor sees the day when nations shall combine
That pride to humble and our rights restore.

96

Yet o'er the globe shouldst thou extend thy reign,
Here may thy conquering arms one grotto spare;
Here—though thy conquest vex—in spite of pain,
I quaff the enlivening glass, in spite of care.

97

What, though we bend to a tyrannic crown;
Still Nature's charms in varied beauty shine—
What though we own the proud imperious Dane,
Gold is his sordid care, the Muses mine.

98

Winter, and winter's glooms are far remov'd;
Eternal spring with smiling summer join'd;—
Absence and death, and heart-corroding care,
Why should they cloud the sun-shine of the mind?

99

But, shepherd, haste, and leave behind thee far
Thy bloody plains, and iron glooms above,
Quit the cold northern star, and here enjoy,
Beneath the smiling skies, this land of love.

100

The drowsy pelican wings home his way,
The misty eve sits heavy on the sea,
And though yon' sail drags slowly o'er the main,
Say, shall a moment's gloom discourage thee?

101

To-morrow's sun now paints the faded scene,
Though deep in ocean sink his western beams,
His spangled chariot shall ascend more clear,
More radiant from the drowsy land of dreams.

102

Of all the isles the neighbouring ocean bears,
None can with this their equal landscapes boast:
What could we do on Saba's cloudy height;
Or what could please on 'Statia's barren coast?

103

Couldst thou content on rough Tortola stray,
Confest the fairest of the Virgin train;
Or couldst thou on these rocky summits play
Where high St. John stands frowning o'er the main?

104

Haste, shepherd, haste—Hesperian fruits for thee,
And cluster'd grapes from mingled boughs depend—
What pleasure in thy forests can there be
That, leafless now, to every tempest bend?

105

To milder stars, and skies of clearer blue,
Sworn foe to arms, at least a-while repair,
And, till to mightier force proud Britain bends,
Despise her triumphs, and deceive thy care.

106

Soon shall the genius of the fertile soil
A new creation to thy view unfold;
Admire the works of Nature's magic hand,
But scorn that vulgar bait, all potent gold.

107

Yet, if persuaded by no lay of mine,
You still admire your climes of frost and snow,
And pleas'd, prefer above our southern groves
The darksome forests, that around thee grow:

108

Still there remain—thy native air enjoy,
Repell the tyrant who thy peace invades,
While, pleas'd, I trace the vales of Santa Cruz,
And sing with rapture her inspiring shades.

[159] Text from the edition of 1786. The poem was first published in the February (1779) issue of the United States Magazine, as a part of an extended article, with the title, "Account of the Island of Santa Cruz: Containing an original Poem on the Beauties of that Island. In a letter to A. P. Esq." The poem is introduced as follows: "I believe the best thing I can do with the rest of this paper is to transcribe a few dull heavy lines which I composed near two years ago on the spot." The poem consisted of fifty-two stanzas, corresponding to the following above: 1-4, 6-10, 14-16, 18-23, 31-34, 39, 40, 48-51, 53, 54, 56, 58-63, 70, 79-82, 85, 88, 96, 98, 100, 101, 104, 106-108. Freneau revised it with a careful hand for his edition of 1786. Some of the lines changed most notably are as follows:

Stanza     1.
"Less rigorous climes, and a more friendly sky."

6.
"So some dull minds, in spite of age and care,
Are grown so wedded to this globe below."

39.
"Sweet spungy plumbs on trees wide spreading hang,
The happy flavour'd pine grows crested from the ground."

51.
"Where once the Indian dames inchanted slept."

56.
"Cassada shrubs abound, whose poison root,
Supplies the want of snow-white Northern flour;
This grated fine, and steep'd in water fair,
Forsakes each particle of noxious power."

70.
"On yonder peaked hill fresh harvests rise,
Where wretched he—the Ethiopian swain."

79.
"He pants a land of freedom and repose,
Where cruel slavery never sought to reign,
O quit thee them, my muse, and tell me why."

88.
"But now the winds are past, the storm subsides,
All nature smiles again serenely gay,
The beauteous groves renew'd—how shall I leave
My green retreat at Butler's verdant bay."

96.
"Fain would I view my native climes again,
But murder marks the cruel Briton there—
Contented here I rest, in spite of pain,
And quaff the enlivening juice in spite of care."

100.
"The misty night sits heavy on the sea,
Yon lagging sail drags slowly o'er the main,
Night and its kindred glooms are nought to me."

104.
"Then shepherd haste, and leave behind thee far
The bloody plains and iron glooms above,
Quit thy cold northern star, and here enjoy,
Beneath the smiling skies this land of love."

Each of the later editions passed under the revising pen of Freneau, but the variations consisted largely of verbal changes. As a sample of his revision, note the following:

Stanza 3, 1779, "Two weeks, with prosperous gales"; 1786, "Twice seven days prosperous gales"; 1809, "Twice ten days prosperous gales"; 26, 1779, "And tho' fierce Sol his beams directly shed"; 1786, "And though the noon-sun all his radiance shed"; 1795, "The noon sun his fierce radiance shed"; 30, 1779, "fruits that over-top the wood"; 1786, "fruits, the richest of the wood"; 1795, "fruits the noblest of the wood"; 38, 1779, "peaked hill"; 1786, "steepy hill"; 1795, "blue-brow'd hill"; 41, 1779, "lovely green"; 1786, "lively green"; 1795, "liveliest green." Freneau added three stanzas to the later versions. After stanza 16 above, be added the following:

"The native here, in golden plenty blest,
Bids from the soil the verdant harvests spring;
Feasts in the abundant dome, the joyous guest;
Time short,—life easy,—pleasure on the wing."

Following this he added stanza 43 of "The Jamaica Funeral." Stanza 49 of "The House of Night" was interpolated between 90 and 91. Stanzas 35-38 were omitted from the 1786 version, and in connection with stanzas 39-43 of "The House of Night," became the "Elegiac Lines" of the later editions. The text of the 1795 version was almost unrevised for the 1809 edition.

ON A HESSIAN DEBARKATION[160]

1776

There is a book, tho' not a book of rhymes,
Where truth severe records a nation's crimes;—
To check such monarchs as with brutal might
Wanton in blood, and trample on the right.

Rejoice, O Death!—Britannia's tyrant sends
From German plains his myriads to our shore;
The Caledonian with the English joined:—
Bring them, ye winds, but waft them back no more.

To these far climes with stately step they come,
Resolved all prayers, all prowess to defy;
Smit with the love of countries not their own,
They come, indeed, to conquer—not to die.

In the slow breeze (I hear their funeral song,)
The dance of ghosts the infernal tribes prepare:
To hell's dark mansions haste, ye abandoned throng,
Drinking from German sculls old Odin's beer.

From dire Cesarea[A] forced, these slaves of kings,
Quick, let them take their way on eagle's wings:
To thy strong posts, Manhattan's isle, repair,
To meet the vengeance that awaits them there!

[A] The old Roman name of Jersey.—Freneau's note.

[160] This poem first appears in the 1795 edition, though the opening stanzas had formed a part of "The House of Night" in the 1786 edition. It must have been composed after this edition was published. I have inserted it here on account of its historical significance. Text is from the edition of 1809.

THE JEWISH LAMENTATION AT
EUPHRATES[161]

By Babel's streams we sate and wept,
When Sion bade our sorrows flow;
Our harps on lofty willows slept
That near those distant waters grow:
The willows high, the waters clear,
Beheld our toils and sorrows there.

The cruel foe, that captive led
Our nation from their native soil,
The tyrant foe, by whom we bled,
Required a song, as well as toil:
"Come, with a song your sorrows cheer,
"A song, that Sion loved to hear."

How shall we, cruel tyrant, raise
A song on such a distant shore?—
If I forget my Sion's praise,
May my right hand assume no more
To strike the silver sounding string,
And thence the slumbering music bring.

If I forget that happy home,
My perjured tongue, forbear to move!
My eyes, be closed in endless gloom—
My joy, my rapture, and my love!
No rival grief my mind can share,
For thou shalt reign unrivalled there.

Remember, Lord, that hated foe
(When conquered Sion drooped her head)
Who laughing at our deepest woe,
Thus to our tears and sorrows said,
"From its proud height degrade her wall,
"Destroy her towers—and ruin all."

Thou, Babel's offspring, hated race,
May some avenging monster seize,
And dash your venom in your face
For crimes and cruelties like these:
And, deaf to pity's melting moan,
With infant blood stain every stone.

[161] First published in the United States Magazine for September, 1779, under the title, "Psalm CXXXVII Imitated. By Philip Freneau, a young gentleman to whom in the course of this work we are greatly indebted." Signed, "Monmouth, Sept. 10, 1779." In the 1786 edition it bore the title, "Psalm CXXXVII Versified."

AMERICA INDEPENDENT

and Her Everlasting Deliverance from British Tyranny
and Oppression[162]

First published in Philadelphia, by Mr. Robert Bell, in 1778

To him who would relate the story right,
A mind supreme should dictate, or indite.—
Yes!—justly to record the tale of fame,
A muse from heaven should touch the soul with flame,
Some powerful spirit, in superior lays,
Should tell the conflicts of these stormy days!

'Tis done! and Britain for her madness sighs—
Take warning, tyrants, and henceforth be wise,
If o'er mankind man gives you regal sway,
Take not the rights of human kind away.
When God from chaos gave this world to be,
Man then he formed, and formed him to be free,
In his own image stampt the favourite race—
How darest thou, tyrant, the fair stamp deface!
When on mankind you fix your abject chains,
No more the image of that God remains;
O'er a dark scene a darker shade is drawn,
His work dishonoured, and our glory gone!
When first Britannia sent her hostile crew
To these far shores, to ravage and subdue,
We thought them gods, and almost seemed to say
No ball could pierce them, and no dagger slay—
Heavens! what a blunder—half our fears were vain;
These hostile gods at length have quit the plain,
On neighbouring isles the storm of war they shun,
Happy, thrice happy, if not quite undone.
Yet soon, in dread of some impending woe,
Even from these islands shall these ruffians go—
This be their doom, in vengeance for the slain,
To pass their days in poverty and pain;
For such base triumphs, be it still their lot
To triumph only o'er the rebel Scot,
And to their insect isle henceforth confined
No longer lord it o'er the human kind.—
But, by the fates, who still prolong their stay,
And gather vengeance to conclude their day,
Yet, ere they go, the angry Muse shall tell
The treasured woes that in her bosom swell:—
Proud, fierce, and bold, O Jove! who would not laugh
To see these bullies worshipping a calf:
But they are slaves who spurn at Reason's rules;
And men, once slaves, are soon transformed to fools.—
To recommend what monarchies have done,
They bring, for witness, David and his son;
How one was brave, the other just and wise,
And hence our plain Republics they despise;
But mark how oft, to gratify their pride,
The people suffered, and the people died;
Though one was wise, and one Goliah slew,
Kings are the choicest curse that man e'er knew!
Hail, worthy Briton!—how enlarged your fame;
How great your glory, terrible your name;
"Queen of the isles, and empress of the main,"—
Heaven grant you all these mighty things again;
But first insure the gaping crowd below
That you less cruel, and more just may grow:
If fate, vindictive for the sins of man,
Had favour shown to your infernal plan,
How would your nation have exulted here,
And scorned the widow's sigh, the orphan's tear!
How had your prince, of all bad men the worst,
Laid worth and virtue prostrate in the dust!
A second Sawney[A] had he shone to-day,
A world subdued, and murder but his play;
How had that prince, contemning right or law,
Glutted with blood his foul, voracious maw:
In him we see the depths of baseness joined,
Whate'er disgraced the dregs of human kind;
Cain, Nimrod, Nero—fiends in human guise,
Herod, Domitian—these in judgment rise,
And, envious of his deeds, I hear them say
None but a George could be more vile than they.
Swoln though he was with wealth, revenge, and pride,
How could he dream that heaven was on his side—
Did he not see, when so decreed by fate,
They placed the crown upon his royal pate,
Did he not see the richest jewel fall—[B]
Dire was the omen, and astonished all.—
That gem no more shall brighten and adorn;
No more that gem by British kings be worn,
Or swell to wonted heights of fair renown
The fading glories of their boasted crown.
Yet he to arms, and war, and blood inclined,
(A fair-day warrior with a feeble mind,
Fearless, while others meet the shock of fate,
And dare that death, which clips his thread too late.)
He to the fane (O hypocrite!) did go,
While not an angel there but was his foe,
There did he kneel, and sigh, and sob, and pray,
Yet not to lave his thousand sins away,
Far other motives swayed his spotted soul;
'Twas not for those the secret sorrow stole
Down his pale cheek—'twas vengeance and despair
Dissolved his eye, and planted sorrow there;—
How could he hope to bribe the impartial sky
By his base prayers, and mean hypocrisy?—
Heaven still is just, and still abhors all crimes,
Not acts like George, the Nero of our times.
What were his prayers—his prayers could be no more
Than a thief's wishes to recruit his store:—
Such prayers could never reach the worlds above;
They were but curses in the ear of Jove;—
You prayed that conquest might your arms attend,
And crush that freedom virtue did defend,
That the fierce Indian, rousing from his rest,
Might these new regions with his flames invest,
With scalps and tortures aggravate our woe,
And to the infernal world dismiss your foe.
No mines of gold our fertile country yields,
But mighty harvests crown the loaded fields,
Hence, trading far, we gained the golden prize,
Which, though our own, bewitched their greedy eyes—
For that they ravaged India's climes before,
And carried death to Asia's utmost shore—
Clive was your envied slave, in avarice bold—
He mowed down nations for his dearer gold;
The fatal gold could give no true content,
He mourned his murders, and to Tophet went.
Led on by lust of lucre and renown,
Burgoyne came marching with his thousands down,
High were his thoughts, and furious his career,
Puffed with self-confidence, and pride severe,
Swoln with the idea of his future deeds,
Onward to ruin each advantage leads:
Before his hosts his heaviest curses flew,
And conquered worlds rose hourly to his view:
His wrath, like Jove's, could bear with no controul,
His words bespoke the mischief in his soul;
To fight was not this general's only trade,
He shined in writing, and his wit displayed—
To awe the more with titles of command
He told of forts he ruled in Scottish land;—
Queen's colonel as he was, he did not know
That thorns and thistles, mixed with honours, grow;
In Britain's senate, though he held a place,
All did not save him from one long disgrace,
One stroke of fortune that convinced them all
That men could conquer, and lieutenants fall.
Foe to the rights of man, proud plunderer, say
Had conquest crowned you on that mighty day
When you, to Gates, with sorrow, rage, and shame
Resigned your conquests, honours, arms, and fame,
When at his feet Britannia's wreathes you threw,
And the sun sickened at a sight so new;
Had you been victor—what a waste of woe!
What souls had vanished to where souls do go!
What dire distress had marked your fatal way,
What deaths on deaths disgraced that dismal day!
Can laurels flourish in a soil of blood,
Or on those laurels can fair honours bud—
Cursed be that wretch who murder makes his trade,
Cursed be all wars that e'er ambition made!
What murdering Tory now relieves your grief,
Or plans new conquests for his favourite chief;
Designs still dark employ that ruffian race,
Beasts of your choosing, and our own disgrace,
So vile a crew the world ne'er saw before,
And grant, ye pitying heavens, it may no more:
If ghosts from hell infest our poisoned air,
Those ghosts have entered their base bodies here;
Murder and blood is still their dear delight—
Scream round their roofs, ye ravens of the night!
Whene'er they wed, may demons and despair,
And grief and woe, and blackest night be there;
Fiends leagued from hell the nuptial lamp display,
Swift to perdition light them on their way,
Round the wide world their devilish squadrons chace,
To find no realm, that grants one resting place.
Far to the north, on Scotland's utmost end
An isle there lies, the haunt of every fiend,
No shepherds there attend their bleating flocks,
But withered witches rove among the rocks;
Shrouded in ice, the blasted mountains show
Their cloven heads, to daunt the seas below;
The lamp of heaven in his diurnal race
There scarcely deigns to unveil his radiant face,
Or if one day he circling treads the sky
He views this island with an angry eye,
Or ambient fogs their broad, moist wings expand,
Damp his bright ray, and cloud the infernal land;
The blackening winds incessant storms prolong,
Dull as their night, and dreary as my song;
When stormy winds and gales refuse to blow,
Then from the dark sky drives the unpitying snow;
When drifting snows from iron clouds forbear,
Then down the hail-stones rattle through the air—
There screeching owls, and screaming vultures rest,
And not a tree adorns its barren breast;
No peace, no rest, the elements bestow,
But seas forever rage, and storms forever blow.
There, Loyals, there, with loyal hearts retire,
There pitch your tents, and kindle there your fire;
There desert Nature will her stings display,
And fiercest hunger on your vitals prey,
And with yourselves let John Burgoyne retire
To reign the monarch, whom your hearts admire.
Britain, at last to arrest your lawless hand,
Rises the genius of a generous land,
Our injured rights bright Gallia's prince defends,
And from this hour that prince and we are friends;
Feuds, long upheld, are vanished from our view.
Once we were foes—but for the sake of you—
Britain, aspiring Briton, now must bend—
Can she at once with France and us contend,
When we alone, remote from foreign aid,
Her armies captured, and distressed her trade?
Britain and we no more in combat join,
No more, as once, in every sea combine;
Dead is that friendship which did mutual burn,
Fled is the sceptre, never to return;
By sea and land, perpetual foes we meet,
Our cause more honest, and our hearts as great;
Lost are these regions to Britannia's reign,
Nor need these strangers of their loss complain,[163]
Since all, that here with greedy eyes they view,
From our own toil to wealth and empire grew.
Our hearts are ravished from our former queen
Far as the ocean God hath placed between,
They strive in vain to join this mighty mass
Torn by convulsions from its native place.
As well might men to flaming Hecla join
The huge high Alps, or towering Appenine:
In vain they send their half-commissioned tribe,
And whom they cannot conquer, strive to bribe;
Their pride and madness burst our union chain,
Nor shall the unwieldy mass unite again.
Nor think that France sustains our cause alone;
With gratitude her helping hand we own,
But hear, ye nations—Truth herself can say
We bore the heat and danger of the day:
She calmly viewed the tumult from afar,
We braved each insult, and sustained the war:
Oft drove the foe, or forced their hosts to yield,
Or left them more than once a dear bought field—
'Twas then, at last, on Jersey plains distrest,
We swore to seek the mountains of the west,
There a free empire for our seed obtain,
A terror to the slaves that might remain.[164]
Peace you demand, and vainly wish to find
Old leagues renewed, and strength once more combined—
Yet shall not all your base dissembling art
Deceive the tortures of a bleeding heart—
Yet shall not all your mingled prayers that rise
Wash out your crimes, or bribe the avenging skies;
Full many a corpse lies mouldering on the plain
That ne'er shall see its little brood again:
See, yonder lies, all breathless, cold, and pale,
Drenched in her gore, Lavinia of the vale;[C]
The cruel Indian seized her life away,
As the next morn began her bridal day!—
This deed alone our just revenge would claim,
Did not ten thousand more your sons defame.
Returned, a captive, to my native shore,
How changed I find those scenes that pleased before!
How changed those groves where fancy loved to stray,
When spring's young blossoms bloom'd along the way;
From every eye distils the frequent tear,
From every mouth some doleful tale I hear!
Some mourn a father, brother, husband, friend:
Some mourn, imprisoned in their native land,
In sickly ships what numerous hosts confin'd
At once their lives and liberties resigned:
In dreary dungeons woeful scenes have passed,
Long in the historian's page the tale will last,
As long as spring renews the flowery wood,
As long as breezes curl the yielding flood!—
Some sent to India's sickly climes afar,
To dig, with slaves, for buried diamonds there,
There left to sicken in a land of woe
Where o'er scorched hills infernal breezes blow,
Whose every blast some dire contagion brings,
Fevers or death on its destructive wings,
'Till fate relenting, its last arrows drew,
Brought death to them, and infamy to you.
Pests of mankind! remembrance shall recall
And paint these horrors to the view of all;
Heaven has not turned to its own works a foe
Nor left to monsters these fair realms below,
Else had your arms more wasteful vengeance spread,
And these gay plains been dyed a deeper red.
O'er Britain's isle a thousand woes impend,
Too weak to conquer, govern, or defend,
To liberty she holds pretended claim—
The substance we enjoy, and they the name;
Her prince, surrounded by a host of slaves,
Still claims dominion o'er the vagrant waves:
Such be his claims o'er all the world beside,—
An empty nothing—madness, rage and pride.
From Europe's realms fair freedom has retired,
And even in Britain has the spark expired—
Sigh for the change your haughty empire feels,
Sigh for the doom that no disguise conceals!
Freedom no more shall Albion's cliffs survey;
Corruption there has centered all her sway,
Freedom disdains her honest head to rear,
Or herd with nobles, kings, or princes there;[165]
She shuns their gilded spires and domes of state,
Resolved, O Virtue, at thy shrine to wait;
'Midst savage woods and wilds she dares to stray,
And bids uncultured nature bloom more gay.
She is that glorious and immortal sun,
Without whose ray this world would be undone,
A mere dull chaos, sunk in deepest night,
An abject something, void of form and light,
Of reptiles, worst in rank, the dire abode,
Perpetual mischief, and the dragon's brood.
Let Turks and Russians glut their fields with blood,
Again let Britain dye the Atlantic flood,
Let all the east adore the sanguine wreathe
And gain new glories from the trade of death—
America! the works of peace be thine,
Thus shalt thou gain a triumph more divine—
To thee belongs a second golden reign,
Thine is the empire o'er a peaceful main;
Protect the rights of human kind below,
Crush the proud tyrant who becomes their foe,
And future times shall own your struggles blest,
And future years enjoy perpetual rest.
Americans! revenge your country's wrongs;
To you the honour of this deed belongs,
Your arms did once this sinking land sustain,
And saved those climes where Freedom yet must reign—
Your bleeding soil this ardent task demands,
Expel yon' thieves from these polluted lands,
Expect no peace till haughty Britain yields,
'Till humbled Britons quit your ravaged fields—
Still to the charge that routed foe returns,
The war still rages, and the battle burns—
No dull debates, or tedious counsels know,
But rush at once, embodied, on your foe;
With hell-born spite a seven years' war they wage,
The pirate Goodrich, and the ruffian Gage.
Your injured country groans while yet they stay,
Attend her groans, and force their hosts away;
Your mighty wrongs the tragic muse shall trace,
Your gallant deeds shall fire a future race;
To you may kings and potentates appeal,
You may the doom of jarring nations seal;
A glorious empire rises, bright and new!
Firm be the structure, and must rest on you!—
Fame o'er the mighty pile expands her wings,
Remote from princes, bishops, lords, and kings,
Those fancied gods, who, famed through every shore,
Mankind have fashioned, and like fools, adore.
Here yet shall heaven the joys of peace bestow,
While through our soil the streams of plenty flow,
And o'er the main we spread the trading sail,
Wafting the produce of the rural vale.

[A] Alexander the Great.—Freneau's note.

[B] A real event of that day: See Remembrancer of 1777.—Freneau's note.

[C] Miss M'Crea. See histories of the revolutionary war.—Freneau's note.

"A most pathetic story was told of one Jenny M'Rea, murdered by Indians near Fort Edward. Her family were Loyalists; she herself was engaged to be married to a Loyalist officer. She was dressed to receive her lover when a party of Indians burst into the house, carried off the whole family to the woods, and there murdered, scalped, and mangled them in a most horrible manner."—Hildreth's United States. See also Irving's Life of Washington. Barlow, in the sixth book of the Columbiad, has given a poetic version of the story.

[162] From the edition of 1809. The poem was written, according to the edition of 1786, in August, 1778. It was first published in conjunction with a work entitled "Travels of the Imagination," by Robert Bell of Philadelphia, and reissued twice by him during the same year. In this edition it bore the title, "American Independence an Everlasting Deliverance from British Tyranny. A Poem." Later were added the words. "By Philip F——u."

[163]

"Nor shall these upstarts of their loss complain,
Since all the debt we owe to Britain's throne
Was mere idea, and the rest our own."—Ed. 1786.

[164] "In this dark day of peril to the cause and to himself (at the close of 1776) Washington remained firm and undaunted. In casting about for some stronghold where he might make a desperate stand for the liberties of his country, his thoughts reverted to the mountain regions of his early campaigns. General Mercer was at hand, who had shared his perils among those mountains, and his presence may have contributed to bring them to his mind. 'What think you.' said Washington, 'if we should retreat to the back parts of Pennsylvania, would the Pennsylvanians support us?' 'If the lower counties give up, the back counties will do the same,' was the discouraging reply. 'We must then retire to Augusta County, in Virginia,' said Washington. 'Numbers will repair to us for safety, and we will try a predatory war. If overpowered, we must cross the Alleghanies.' Such was the indomitable spirit, rising under difficulties and buoyant in the darkest moment, that kept our tempest-tossed cause from foundering."—Irving's Washington, II, 448.

[165] "To herd with North, or Bute, or Mansfield there,"—Ed. 1786.

ON AMANDA'S SINGING BIRD[166]

A native of the Canary Islands, confined in a small cage

Happy in my native grove,
I from spray to spray did rove,
Fond of music, full of love.

Dressed as fine as bird could be,
Every thing that I did see,
Every thing was mirth to me.

There had I been, happy still,
With my mate to coo and bill
In the vale, or on the hill.

But the cruel tyrant, man,
(Tyrant since the world began)
Soon abridged my little span.

How shall I the wrong forget!
Over me he threw a net;
And I am his prisoner yet.

To this rough Bermudian shore
Ocean I was hurried o'er,
Ne'er to see my country more!

To a narrow cage confined,
I, who once so gaily shined,
Sing to please the human kind.

Dear Amanda!—leave me free,
And my notes will sweeter be;
On your breast, or in the tree![167]

On your arm I would repose—
One—oh make me—of your beaus—
There I would relate my woes.

Now, all love, and full of play,
I so innocently gay,
Pine my little life away.

Thus to grieve and flutter here,
Thus to pine from year to year;
This is usage too severe.

From the chiefs who rule your isle,
I will never court a smile;
All, with them, is prison style.[168]

But from your superior mind
Let me but my freedom find,
And I will be all resigned.

Then your kiss will hold me fast—
If but once by you embraced,
In your 'kerchief I will rest.

Gentle shepherds of the plain,
Who so fondly hear my strain;
Help me to be free again.

'Tis a blessing to be free:—
Fair Amanda![169]—pity me,
Pity him who sings for thee.

But if, cruel, you deny
That your captive bird should fly,
Here detained so wrongfully,

Full of anguish, faint with woe,
I must, with my music, go
To the cypress groves below.

[166] Published in the Freeman's Journal, July 3, 1782, under the title "On a Lady's Singing Bird, a native of the Canary Islands, confined in a very small cage. Written in Bermuda, 1778."

[167] This stanza and the next original in the edition of 1809.

[168] This stanza and the two following original in the edition of 1809.

[169] "Belinda."—Ed. 1786.

ON THE NEW AMERICAN FRIGATE
ALLIANCE[170]

As Neptune traced the azure main
That owned, so late, proud Britain's reign,
A floating pile approached his car,
The scene of terror and of war.

As nearer still the monarch drew
(Her starry flag displayed to view)
He asked a Triton of his train
"What flag was this that rode the main?

"A ship of such a gallant mien
"This many a day I have not seen,
"To no mean power can she belong,
"So swift, so warlike, stout, and strong.

"See how she mounts the foaming wave—
"Where other ships would find a grave,
"Majestic, aweful, and serene,
"She sails the ocean, like its queen."—

"Great monarch of the hoary deep,
"Whose trident awes the waves to sleep,
(Replied a Triton of his train)
"This ship, that stems the western main,

"To those new, rising States belongs,
"Who, in resentment of their wrongs,
"Oppose proud Britain's tyrant sway,
"And combat her, by land and sea.

"This pile, of such superior fame,
"From their strict union takes her name,
"For them she cleaves the briny tide,
"While terror marches by her side.

"When she unfurls her flowing sails,
"Undaunted by the fiercest gales,
"In dreadful pomp, she ploughs the main,
"While adverse tempests rage in vain.

"When she displays her gloomy tier,
"The boldest foes congeal with fear,
"And, owning her superior might,
"Seek their best safety in their flight.

"But when she pours the dreadful blaze,
"And thunder from her cannon plays,
"The bursting flash that wings the ball,
"Compells those foes to strike, or fall.

"Though she, with her triumphant crew,
"Might to their fate all foes pursue,
"Yet, faithful to the land that bore,
"She stays, to guard her native shore.

"Though she might make the cruisers groan
"That sail within the torrid zone,
"She kindly lends a nearer aid,
"Annoys them here, and guards the trade.

"Now, traversing the eastern main,
"She greets the shores of France and Spain;
"Her gallant flag, displayed to view,
"Invites the old world to the new.

"This task atchieved, behold her go
"To seas congealed with ice and snow,
"To either tropic, and the line,
"Where suns with endless fervour shine.

"Not, Argo, on thy decks were found
"Such hearts of brass, as here abound;
"They for their golden fleece did fly,
"These sail—to vanquish tyranny."

[170] "Built up the River Merrimack at Salisbury, Massachusetts, she was first sailed in the spring of 1778, soon after her being launched, and was then commanded by Capt. Landais, a Frenchman, who was preferred to the command as a compliment to his nation and the alliance made with us, a new people."

"As Philadelphians we are entitled to some preeminence for our connection with this peculiar frigate. After the close of the War of Independence, she was owned in our city and employed as a merchant ship. When no longer seaworthy, she has been stretched upon the margin of Petty's Island to remain for a century to come, a spectacle to many river passengers."—Watson's Annals, III, 338.

The Alliance was the only one of our first navy, of the class of frigates, which escaped capture or destruction during the war. She was during the Revolution what "Old Ironsides" became in later years, the idol of the American people. She was in many engagements and was always victorious.

Freneau's poem first appeared, as far as I can find, in the 1786 edition. It was probably written shortly after the launch of the frigate.

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN NICHOLAS
BIDDLE[171]

Commander of the Randolph Frigate, Blown up near Barbadoes, 1776

What distant thunders rend the skies,
What clouds of smoke in columns rise,
What means this dreadful roar?
Is from his base Vesuvius thrown,
Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down,
Or Etna's self no more!

Shock after shock torments my ear;
And lo!—two hostile ships appear,
Red lightnings round them glow:
The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four,
The Randolph thirty-two—no more—
And will she fight this foe!

The Randolph soon on Stygian streams
Shall coast along the land of dreams,
The islands of the dead!
But Fate, that parts them on the deep,
May save the Briton yet to weep
His days of victory fled.[172]

Say, who commands that dismal blaze,
Where yonder starry streamer plays?
Does Mars with Jove engage!
'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires,
Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires,
With more than mortal rage.

Tremendous flash!—and hark, the ball
Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all;
Her bravest sons expire;
Did Mars himself approach so nigh,
Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly
The Randolph's fiercer fire.

The Briton views his mangled crew,
"And shall we strike to thirty-two?—
(Said Hector, stained with gore)
"Shall Britain's flag to these descend—
"Rise, and the glorious conflict end,
"Britons, I ask no more!"

He spoke—they charged their cannon round,
Again the vaulted heavens resound,
The Randolph bore it all,
Then fixed her pointed cannons true—
Away the unwieldy vengeance flew;
Britain, thy warriors fall.

The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay,
Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away,
Her boldest heroes dead—
She saw amidst her floating slain
The conquering Randolph stem the main—
She saw, she turned—and fled!

That hour, blest chief, had she been thine,
Dear Biddle, had the powers divine
Been kind as thou wert brave;
But Fate, who doomed thee to expire,
Prepared an arrow, tipt with fire,
And marked a watery grave.

And in that hour, when conquest came,
Winged at his ship a pointed flame,
That not even he could shun—
The battle ceased, the Yarmouth fled,
The bursting Randolph ruin spread,
And left her task undone![173]

[171] This poem was first published as a pamphlet in 1781, by Francis Bailey of Philadelphia, in connection with "The Prison Ship."

Nicholas Biddle, born in Philadelphia in 1750, was a sailor from his boyhood. At one time he served beside Nelson in the British navy. In 1776, when the new frigate Randolph, of thirty-two guns, was launched at Philadelphia, he was made commander, and after several unimportant cruises he was placed over a small fleet of war vessels, with the Randolph as flagship. In March, 1779, he fell in with the British ship Yarmouth, and after a vigorous action of twenty minutes, the Randolph was blown up by her own magazine, only four men escaping with their lives.

Freneau has made several minor errors. The date 1776, which is found on all the versions of the poem, should manifestly be 1779. The Yarmouth did not attempt flight, nor did Biddle die at the moment of victory, as the poet represents. In the words of Cooper, "Victory was almost hopeless, even had all his vessels behaved equally well with his own ship." Captain Vincent had only five men killed and twelve wounded at the time of the explosion, yet the gallantry and skill of Biddle in the face of great odds justify all the praise that Freneau gives him.

[172] "His ancient honours fled."—Ed. 1786. This stanza was omitted from the 1795 edition, but returned again in 1809.

[173] "And lost what honour won."—Ed. 1786. "And lost what courage won."—Ed. 1795.

CAPTAIN JONES'S INVITATION[174]

Thou, who on some dark mountain's brow
Hast toil'd thy life away till now,
And often from that rugged steep
Beheld the vast extended deep,
Come from thy forest, and with me
Learn what it is to go to sea.

There endless plains the eye surveys
As far from land the vessel strays;
No longer hill nor dale is seen,
The realms of death intrude between,
But fear no ill; resolve, with me
To share the dangers of the sea.

But look not there for verdant fields—
Far different prospects Neptune yields;
Green seas shall only greet the eye,
Those seas encircled by the sky.
Immense and deep—come then with me
And view the wonders of the sea.

Yet sometimes groves and meadows gay
Delight the seamen on their way;
From the deep seas that round us swell
With rocks the surges to repel
Some verdant isle, by waves embrac'd,
Swells, to adorn the wat'ry waste.

Though now this vast expanse appear
With glassy surface, calm and clear;
Be not deceiv'd—'tis but a show,
For many a corpse is laid below—
Even Britain's lads—it cannot be—
They were the masters of the sea!

Now combating upon the brine,
Where ships in flaming squadrons join,
At every blast the brave expire
'Midst clouds of smoke, and streams of fire;
But scorn all fear; advance with me—
'Tis but the custom of the sea.

Now we the peaceful wave divide,
On broken surges now we ride,
Now every eye dissolves with woe
As on some lee-ward coast we go—
Half lost, half buried in the main
Hope scarcely beams on life again.

Above us storms distract the sky,
Beneath us depths unfathom'd lie,
Too near we see, a ghastly sight,[175]
The realms of everlasting night,
A wat'ry tomb of ocean green
And only one frail plank between!

But winds must cease, and storms decay,
Not always lasts the gloomy day,
Again the skies are warm and clear,
Again soft zephyrs fan the air,
Again we find the long lost shore,
The winds oppose our wish no more.

If thou hast courage to despise
The various changes of the skies,
To disregard the ocean's rage,
Unmov'd when hostile ships engage,
Come from thy forest, and with me
Learn what it is to go to sea.

[174] From the 1786 edition. In the 1795 edition the title was changed to "The Invitation."

Captain John Paul Jones sailed from Isle de Groaix, France, on his memorable cruise, August 14, 1779. To secure a crew for his fleet had been the work of many months.

[175] "Disheartening sight."—Ed. 1795.

THE SEA VOYAGE[176]

From a gay island green and fair,
With gentle blasts of southern air,
Across the deep we held our way,
Around our barque smooth waters played,
No envious clouds obscur'd the day,
Serene came on the evening shade.

Still farther to the north we drew,
And Porto Rico's mountains blue,
Were just decaying on the eye,
When from the main arose the sun;
Before his ray the shadows fly,
As we before the breezes run.

Now northward of the tropic pass'd,
The fickle skies grew black at last;
The ruffian winds began to roar,
The sea obey'd their tyrant force,
And we, alas! too far from shore,
Must now forsake our destin'd course.

The studding sails at last to hand,
The vent'rous captain gave command;
But scarcely to the task went they
When a vast billow o'er us broke,
And tore the sheets and tacks away,
Nor could the booms sustain the stroke.

Still vaster rose the angry main.
The winds through every shroud complain;
The topsails we could spread no more,
Though doubly reef'd, the furious blast
Away the fluttering canvas bore,
And vow'd destruction to the mast.

When now the northern storm was quell'd,
A calm ensued—but ocean swell'd
Beyond the towering mountain's height,
Till from the south new winds arose;
Our sails we spread at dead of night,
And fair, though fierce, the tempest blows.

When morning rose, the skies were clear
The gentle breezes warm and fair,
Convey'd us o'er the wat'ry road;
A ship o'ertook us on the way,
Her thousand sails were spread abroad,
And flutter'd in the face of day.

At length, through many a climate pass'd,
Cæsaria's hills we saw at last,
And reach'd the land of lovely dames;
My charming Cælia there I found,
'Tis she my warmest friendship claims,
The fairest maid that treads the ground.

[176] Unique in the October number of the United States Magazine, 1779. The poem doubtless describes the poet's voyage home from the West Indies, in June and July, 1778.

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poems of Philip Freneau, Volume II (of
III), by Philip Freneau

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Title: The Poems of Philip Freneau, Volume II (of III)

Author: Philip Freneau

Editor: Fred Lewis Pattee

Release Date: January 8, 2012 [EBook #38529]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU, V.II ***

Produced by David Starner, Stephen Hope and the Online
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POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU

Volume II

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 ENGLISH LITERATURE" ETC.

Volume II

Princeton, N. J.
The University Library
1903

Copyright 1902 by
The Princeton University Library

C. S. Robinson & Co. University Press
Princeton N. J.

CONTENTS

VOLUME II

PAGE

PART II Continued
The First Poetic Period.       1775-1781

George the Third's Soliloquy
3

Sir Harry's Invitation
7

Dialogue between his Britannic Majesty and Mr. Fox
9

The British Prison Ship
18

The Spy
39

PART III
Era of the Freeman's Journal.       1781-1790

On the Memorable Victory of Paul Jones
75

An Address
81

A New-York Tory
84

To Lord Cornwallis
86

A London Dialogue
87

Lord Cornwallis to Sir Henry Clinton
89

The Vanity of Existence
91

On the Fall of General Earl Cornwallis
92

To the Memory of the Brave Americans
101

Arnold's Departure
103

Plato to Theon
104

Prologue to a Theatrical Entertainment
108

Ruins of a Country Inn
110

The Royal Adventurer
112

Lord Dunmore's Petition
114

Epigram
116

A Speech by the King of Britain
117

Rivington's Last Will and Testament
120

Lines Occasioned by Mr. Rivington's New Titular Types
124

Lines on Mr. Rivington's New Engraved King's Arms
125

A Prophecy, Written 1782
126

The Argonaut or Lost Adventurer
128

The Political Balance
130

Dialogue at Hyde Park Corner
140

On the Late Royal Sloop of War General Monk
142

Truth Anticipated
143

Barney's Invitation
147

Song on Captain Barney's Victory
149

On Sir Henry Clinton's Recall
153

Sir Guy Carleton's Address
156

Scandanavian War Song
159

The Projectors
160

On General Robertson's Proclamation
162

A Picture of the Times
165

Prince William Henry's Soliloquy
167

Satan's Remonstrance
169

The Refugees' Petition to Sir Guy Carleton
172

Sir Guy's Answer
173

To a Concealed Royalist
174

To the Concealed Royalist, in Answer to a Second Attack
177

To the Concealed Royalist on his Farewell
179

To the Royalist Unveiled
181

To Shylock Ap-Shenkin
185

The Prophecy of King Tammany
187

Rivington's Reflections
190

New Year's Verses, January 1, 1783
197

New Year's Verses, January 8, 1783
198

Hugh Gaine's Life
201

Stanzas Occasioned by the Departure of the British from Charleston, December 14, 1782
214

On the British King's Speech
217

A New-York Tory's Epistle
219

Manhattan City
223

Verses Occasioned by General Washington's Arrival in Philadelphia
225

Rivington's Confessions
229

A News-Man's Address
238

New Year's Verses, January 7, 1784
240

The Happy Prospect
242

The Dying Indian, Tomo-Chequi
243

Lines Intended for Mr. Peale's Exhibition
246

The Hurricane
250

To the Keeper of the King's Water Works
252

Lines Written at Port Royal
253

To Sir Toby, a Sugar Planter
258

Elegy on Mr. Robert Bell
260

On the First American Ship that Explored the Rout to India
261

The Newsmonger
263

Sketches of American History
269

The Progress of Balloons
276

On the Emigration to America
280

The Seasons Moralized
282

On the Death of Colonel Laurens
283

On the Vicissitudes of Things
284

Pewter-Platter Alley in Philadelphia
287

On the Death of General Joseph Reed
288

A Renegado Epistle
290

The American Siberia
293

Epistle to Sylvius
295

The Departure, 1785
298

A Newsman's Address
301

Literary Importation
303

The Englishman's Complaint
305

The Wild Honey Suckle
306

On a Book Called Unitarian Theology
307

To Zoilus
309

On the Legislature of Great-Britain Prohibiting the Sale of Dr. Ramsay's History
312

The Death Song of a Cherokee Indian
313

Stanzas Written at the Foot of Monte Souffriere
314

On the Crew of a Certain Vessel
317

The Bermuda Islands
318

Florio to Amanda
319

Philander: or The Emigrant
321

The Fair Solitary
325

Amanda in a Consumption
326

Elegiac Lines
328

The Insolvent's Release
329

May to April
331

To an Author
332

To Misfortune
335

To Cracovius Putridus
336

Slender's Journey
338

The Hermit of Saba
359

The Indian Burying Ground
369

The Indian Student
371

The Man of Ninety
374

Alcina's Enchanted Island
376

Horace, Lib. I. Ode 15
377

A Subscription Prayer
379

Epistle to the Patriotic Farmer
380

Palemon to Lavinia
381

A Newsman's Address
383

On the Prospect of a Revolution in France
385

To a Dog
387

To Lydia
387

To Cynthia
391

Amanda's Complaint
392

Hatteras
394

St. Catharine's
397

To Mr. Churchman
398

The Procession to Sylvania
399

The Pilgrim's Progress
401

Sangrado's Expedition to Sylvania
402

The Distrest Theatre
404

To Memmius
406

PART II (Continued)

THE FIRST POETIC PERIOD

1775—1781

THE

POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU

GEORGE THE THIRD'S SOLILOQUY[1]

What mean these dreams, and hideous forms that rise
Night after night, tormenting to my eyes—
No real foes these horrid shapes can be,
But thrice as much they vex and torture me.
How cursed is he—how doubly cursed am I—5
Who lives in pain, and yet who dares not die;
To him no joy this world of Nature brings,
In vain the wild rose blooms, the daisy springs.
Is this a prelude to some new disgrace,
Some baleful omen to my name and race!—10
It may be so—ere mighty Cæsar died
Presaging Nature felt his doom, and sighed;
A bellowing voice through midnight groves was heard,
And threatening ghosts at dusk of eve appeared—
Ere Brutus fell, to adverse fates a prey,15
His evil genius met him on the way,
And so may mine!—but who would yield so soon
A prize, some luckier hour may make my own?
Shame seize my crown ere such a deed be mine—
No—to the last my squadrons shall combine,20
And slay my foes, while foes remain to slay,
Or heaven shall grant me one successful day.
Is there a robber close in Newgate hemmed,
Is there a cut-throat, fettered and condemned?
Haste, loyal slaves, to George's standard come,25
Attend his lectures when you hear the drum;
Your chains I break—for better days prepare,
Come out, my friends, from prison and from care,
Far to the west I plan your desperate sway,
There 'tis no sin to ravage, burn, and slay,30
There, without fear, your bloody aims pursue,
And shew mankind what English thieves can do.
That day, when first I mounted to the throne,
I swore to let all foreign foes alone.
Through love of peace to terms did I advance,35
And made, they say, a shameful league with France.[2]
But different scenes rise horrid to my view,
I charged my hosts to plunder and subdue—
At first, indeed, I thought short wars to wage
And sent some jail-birds to be led by Gage,[3]40
For 'twas but right, that those we marked for slaves
Should be reduced by cowards, fools, and knaves;
Awhile directed by his feeble hand,
Whose troops were kicked and pelted through the land,
Or starved in Boston, cursed the unlucky hour45
They left their dungeons for that fatal shore.
France aids them now, a desperate game I play,
And hostile Spain will do the same, they say;
My armies vanquished, and my heroes fled,
My people murmuring, and my commerce dead,50
My shattered navy pelted, bruised, and clubbed,
By Dutchmen bullied, and by Frenchmen drubbed,
My name abhorred, my nation in disgrace,
How should I act in such a mournful case!
My hopes and joys are vanished with my coin,55
My ruined army, and my lost Burgoyne!
What shall I do—confess my labours vain,
Or whet my tusks, and to the charge again!
But where's my force—my choicest troops are fled,
Some thousands crippled, and a myriad dead—60
If I were owned the boldest of mankind,
And hell with all her flames inspired my mind,
Could I at once with Spain and France contend,
And fight the rebels on the world's green end?—
The pangs of parting I can ne'er endure,65
Yet part we must, and part to meet no more!
Oh, blast this Congress, blast each upstart State,
On whose commands ten thousand captains wait;
From various climes that dire Assembly came,
True to their trust, as hostile to my fame,70
'Tis these, ah these, have ruined half my sway,
Disgraced my arms, and led my slaves astray—
Cursed be the day when first I saw the sun,
Cursed be the hour when I these wars begun:
The fiends of darkness then possessed my mind,75
And powers unfriendly to the human kind.
To wasting grief, and sullen rage a prey,
To Scotland's utmost verge I'll take my way,
There with eternal storms due concert keep
And while the billows rage, as fiercely weep—80
Ye highland lads, my rugged fate bemoan,
Assist me with one sympathizing groan,[4]
For late I find the nations are my foes,
I must submit, and that with bloody nose,
Or, like our James, fly basely from the state,85
Or share, what still is worse—old Charles's fate.

[1] From the edition of 1809. The poem was first published in the May number of the United States Magazine, 1779, and much revised and enlarged for the edition of 1786, where it bore the title, "George III. His Soliloquy for 1779." This earliest version, which began with the startling line,

"O Damn this Congress, damn each upstart state,"

was made up as follows, the numbering referring to the above version:

Lines 68-72, 47-64, followed by

"Yet rogues and savage tribes I must employ,
And what I cannot conquer will destroy."

Lines 23-32, followed by

"Ye daring hosts that croud Columbia's shore,
Tremble ye traitors, and exult no more;
Flames I shall hurl with an unceasing hand,
Till fires eternal blaze throughout your land,
And every dome and every town expires,
And traitors perish in the unfeeling fires;
But hold—though this be all my soul's desire,
Will my own towns be proof to rebel fire.
If in revenge my raging foes should come,
And burn my London—it would strike me dumb,
To see my children and my queen in tears,
And these tall piles come tumbling round my ears,
Would to its inmost caverns fright my mind,
And stun ourself, the boldest of mankind."

Lines 73-76, followed by

"My future years I consecrate to woe,
For this great loss my soul in tears shall flow."

Ending with lines 77-82.

[2] Alluding to the peace of 1761 and the forced retirement of Pitt.

[3] "And sent a scoundrel by the name of Gage."—Ed. 1786.

[4]

"O let the earth my rugged fate bemoan,
And give at least one sympathizing groan."
—United States Magazine, 1779.

SIR HARRY'S INVITATION[5]

Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true,
Here are axes and shovels, and something to do!
For the sake of our king,
Come, labour and sing;
You left all you had for his honour and glory,
And he will remember the suffering Tory:
We have, it is true,
Some small work to do;
But here's for your pay
Twelve coppers a day,
And never regard what the rebels may say,
But throw off your jerkins and labour away.

To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall,
To pull down old houses and dig the canal,
To build and destroy—
Be this your employ,
In the day time to work at our fortifications,
And steal in the night from the rebels your rations:
The king wants your aid,
Not empty parade;
Advance to your places
Ye men of long faces,
Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces,
This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.

Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer,
The French and the Rebels are coming next summer,
And forts we must build
Though Tories are kill'd—
Then courage, my jockies, and work for your king,
For if you are taken no doubt you will swing—
If York we can hold
I'll have you enroll'd;
And after you're dead
Your names shall be read
As who for their monarch both labour'd and bled,
And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.

'Tis an honour to serve the bravest of nations,
And be left to be hang'd in their capitulations—
Then scour up your mortars
And stand to your quarters,
'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,
They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;
Their hearts should not fail 'em,
No balls will assail 'em,
Forget your disgraces
And shorten your faces,
For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,
Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.

[5] According to Frank Moore's Songs and Ballads of the Revolution, this poem was first issued as a ballad-sheet in 1779. It was reprinted in the Freeman's Journal, April 17, 1782, and was published in the author's three editions. The text follows the edition of 1795.

Sir Henry Clinton was left in command of New York City, July 5, 1777, when Howe started on his expedition for the capture of Philadelphia. Freneau's poem indicates his treatment of the Tory refugees.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HIS BRITANNIC
MAJESTY AND MR. FOX[6]

Supposed to have passed about the time of the approach of the combined fleets of France and Spain to the British coasts, August, 1779.

King G.

Good master Fox,[7] your counsel I implore,
Still George the third, but potent George no more.
By North conducted to the brink of fate,
I mourn my folly and my pride too late:
The promises he made, when once we met
In Kew's gay shades,[A] I never shall forget,
That at my feet the western world should fall,
And bow to me the potent lord of all—
Curse on his hopes, his councils and his schemes,
His plans of conquest, and his golden dreams,
These have allur'd me to the jaws of hell,
By Satan tempted thus Iscariot fell:
Divested of majestic pomp I come,
My royal robes and airs I've left at home,
Speak freely, friend, whate'er you choose to say,
Suppose me equal with yourself to-day:
How shall I shun the mischiefs that impend?
How shall I make Columbia[B] yet my friend?
I dread the power of each revolted State,
The convex East hangs balanc'd with their weight.
How shall I dare the rage of France and Spain,
And lost dominion o'er the waves regain?
Advise me quick, for doubtful while we stand,
Destruction gathers o'er this wretched land:
These hostile squadrons to my ruin led,
These Gallic thunders fill my soul with dread,
If these should conquer—Britain, thou must fall
And bend, a province, to the haughty Gaul:
If this must be—thou earth, expanding wide,
Unlucky George in thy dark entrails hide—
Ye oceans, wrap me in your dark embrace—
Ye mountains, shroud me to your lowest base—
Fall on my head, ye everlasting rocks—
But why so pensive, my good master Fox?[8]

[A] The royal gardens at Kew.—Freneau's note.

[B] America, so called, by poetical liberty, from its discoverer.—Freneau's note.

Fox

While in the arms of power and peace you lay,
Ambition led your restless soul astray.
Possest of lands extending far and wide,
And more than Rome could boast in all her pride,
Yet, not contented with that mighty store,
Like a true miser, still you sought for more;
And, all in raptures for a tyrant's reign,
You strove your subjects dearest rights to chain:
Those ruffian hosts beyond the ocean sent,
By your commands on blood and murder bent,
With cruel hand the form of man defac'd,
And laid the toils of art and nature waste.
(For crimes like these imperial Britain bends,
For crimes like these her ancient glory ends)
These lands, once truest to your name and race,
Whom the wide ocean's utmost waves embrace,
Your just protection basely you deny'd,
Their towns you plunder'd, and you burnt beside.
Virginia's slaves, without one blush of shame,
Against their lords[9] you arm'd with sword and flame;
At every port your ships of war you laid,
And strove to ruin and distress their trade,
Yet here, ev'n here, your mighty projects fail'd;
For then from creeks their hardy seamen sail'd,
In slender barques they cross'd a stormy main,
And traffick'd for the wealth of France and Spain;
O'er either tropic and the line they pass'd,
And, deeply laden, safe return'd at last:
Nor think they yet had bow'd to Britain's sway,
Though distant nations had not join'd the fray,
Alone they fought your armies and your fleet,
And made your Clintons and your Howes retreat,
And yet while France stood doubting if to join,
Your ships they captur'd, and they took Burgoyne!
How vain is Briton's strength, her armies now
Before Columbia's bolder veterans bow;
Her gallant veterans all our force despise,
Though late from ruin[C] we beheld them rise;
Before their arms our strongest bulwarks fall,
They storm the rampart and they scale the wall;[D]
With equal dread, on either service sent,
They seize a fortress, or they strike a tent.
But should we bow beneath a foreign yoke,
And potent France atchieve the humbling stroke,
Yet every power, and even ourselves, must say,
"Just is the vengeance of the skies to-day:"
For crimes like ours dire vengeance[10] must atone;
Forbear your fasts, and let the skies[11] alone—
By cruel kings, in fierce Britannia bred,
Such seas of blood have first and last been shed,
That now, distrest for each inhuman deed,
Our turn has come—our turn has come to bleed:
Forbear your groans; for war and death array,
March to the foe, and give the fates their way.
Can you[12] behold, without one hearty groan,
The fleets of France superior to your own?
Can you behold, without one poignant pang,
The foreign conquests of the brave D'Estaing?[E]
North is your friend, and now destruction knocks,
Still take his counsel, and regard not Fox.

[C] The Year 1776.—Freneau's note.

[D] Stoney Point, Powles Hook, &c.—Ib.

[E] Grenada, &c.—Ib.

King G.

Ah! speak not thus—your words will break my heart,
Some softer counsel to my ears impart,
How can I march to meet the insulting foe,
Who never yet to hostile plains did go?
When was I vers'd in battles or in blood?
When have I fought upon the faithless flood?
Much better could I at my palace door
Recline and hear the distant cannons roar.
Generals and admirals Britain yet can boast,
Some fight on land, and some defend the coast;
The fame of these throughout the globe resounds,
To these I leave the glory and the wounds;
But since this honour for no blood atones,
I must and will be careful of my bones.
What pleasure to your monarch would it be,
If Lords and Commons could at last agree;
Could North with Fox in firm alliance stand,
And Burke with Sandwich shake the social hand,
Then should we bring the rebels to our feet,
And France and Spain ingloriously retreat,
Her ancient glories to this isle return,
And we no more for lost Columbia mourn.

Fox

Alliance!—what![F]—Your Highness must be mad:
Say, what alliance can with these be had?
Can lambs and wolves in social bands ally?
When these prove friendly, then will North and I.
Alliance! no—I curse the horrid thought;
Ally with those their country's ruin sought!
Who to perdition sold their native land,
Leagu'd with the foe, a close connected band—
Ally with these!—I speak it to your face—
Alliance here is ruin and disgrace.
Angels and devils in such bonds unite,
So hell is ally'd to the realms of light—
Let North or Germaine[13] still my prayers deride,
Let turn-coat Johnston[G] take the courtly side,
Even Pitt, if living, might with these agree;
But no alliance shall they have with me.
But since no shame forbids your tongue to own
A royal coward fills Britannia's throne;
Since our best chiefs must fight your mad campaigns,
And be disgrac'd at last by him who reigns,[H]
No wonder, heaven! such ill success attends!
No wonder North and Mansfield are your friends!
Take my advice, with these to battle go,
These book-learned heroes may confront the foe—
Those first who led us tow'rds the brink of fate,
Should still be foremost when at Pluto's gate;
Let them, grown desperate by our run of woes,
Collect new fury from this host of foes,
And, ally'd with themselves, to ruin steer,
The just conclusion of their mad career.

[F] Alliance!—what, &c. See his speech in the House of Commons, June 22, 1779, in answer to Lord Nugent.—Freneau's note.

[G] Let turn-coat Johnston, &c. The worthy British commissioner, of bribing memory, who, for the sake of a few guineas, belied his own conscience, and sided with the majority.—Freneau's note.

[H] And be disgrac'd at last by him who reigns. As Gage, the Howes, Burgoyne, &c., for not doing impossibilities.—Ib.

King G.

No comfort in these cruel words I find—
Ungrateful words to my tormented mind!
With me alone both France and Spain contend,
And not one nation will be call'd my friend:
Unpitying now the Dutchman sees me fall,
The Russian leaves me to the haughty[14] Gaul,
The German, grown as brutish[15] as the Dane,
Consigns my carcase to the jaws of Spain.
Where are the hosts they promis'd me of yore,
When rich and great they heard my thunders roar,
While yet confess'd the master of the sea,
The Germans drain'd their wide domain for me,
And aiding Britain with a friendly hand,
Helpt to subdue the rebels and their land?[I]
Ah! rebels, rebels! insolent and mad;
My Scottish rebels were not half so bad,[J]
They soon submitted to superior sway;[K]
But these grow stronger as my hosts decay:
What hosts have perish'd on their hostile shore!
They went for conquest, but return'd no more.
Columbia, thou a friend in better times!
Lost are to me thy pleasurable climes.
You wish me buried in eternal night,
You curse the day when first I saw the light—
Thy[16] commerce vanish'd, hostile nations share,
And thus you leave me[17] naked, poor, and bare;
Despised by those who should my[18] cause defend,
And helpless left without one pitying friend.
These dire afflictions shake my changeful throne,
And turn my brain—a very idiot grown:
Of all the isles, the realms with which I part,
Columbia sits the heaviest at my heart,
She, she provokes the deepest, heaviest sigh,
And makes me doubly wretched ere I die.
Some dreary convent's unfrequented gloom
(Like Charles of Spain)[L] had better be my doom:
There while in absence from my crown I sigh,
The[19] Prince of Wales these ills may rectify;
A happier fortune may his crown await,
He yet perhaps may save this sinking state.
I'll to my prayers, my bishops and my beads,[M]
And beg God's pardon for my heinous deeds;
Those streams of blood, that, spilt by my command,
Call out for vengeance on this guilty land.

[I] The Hessians, Waldeckers, Anspachers, &c.—Freneau's note.

[J] The Year 1745.—Ib.

[K] Culloden.—Ib.

[L] Like Charles of Spain, &c. Charles V. who, in 1556, resigning the crown to his son Philip II., shut himself up in the monastery of St. Just, in Spain, where he died two years after.—Ib.

[M] I'll to my prayers, my bishops, and my beads. This is not said without foundation, as he established the Roman Catholic religion in Canada, in 1775.—Freneau's note.

Fox

You ask for mercy—can you cry to God,[20]
Who had no mercy on poor parson Dodd?[N]
No inward image of the power divine,
No gentle feelings warm that soul of thine;
Convents you have—no need to look for new,
Your convents are the brothel and the stew.
One horrid act[O] disgrac'd old Jesse's son,
And that one blemish have you hit upon;
You seiz'd an English Quaker's tempting wife,[P]
And push'd him off to lose his sneaking life;
Even to that coast where freedom sent to quell,
All in their pride the flower of Britain fell.
But ruin'd was your scheme, the plan was vain,
For when were Quakers in a battle slain?
As well might Whales by closing waves expire,
Or Salamanders perish in the fire.
When France and Spain are thund'ring at your doors,
Is this a time for kings to lodge with whores?
In one short sentence take my whole advice,
(It is no time to flatter and be nice)
With all your soul for instant peace contend,
Thus shall you be your country's truest friend—
Peace, heavenly[21] peace, may stay your tottering throne,
But wars and death and blood can profit none.
To Russia[22] send, in humblest guise array'd,
And beg her intercession, not her aid:
Withdraw your armies from th' Americ' shore,
And vex Columbia[23] with your fleets no more;
Vain are their conquests, past experience shews,
For what this hour they gain, the next they lose.
Implore the friendship of these injur'd States;
No longer strive against the stubborn fates.
Since heav'n has doom'd Columbia to be free,
What is her commerce and her wealth to thee?
Since heav'n that land of promise has denied,
Regain by prudence[24] what you lost by pride:
Immediate ruin each delay attends,
Imperial Britain scarce her coast defends;
Hibernia sees the threat'ning foes advance,
And feels an ague at the thoughts of France;
Jamaica mourns her half-protected state,
Barbadoes soon may share Grenada's fate,
And every isle that owns your reign to-day,
May bow to-morrow to great Louis'[25] sway.
Yes—while I speak, your empire, great before,
Contracts its limits, and is great no more.
Unhappy prince! what madness has possest,
What worse than madness seiz'd thy vengeful breast,
When white-rob'd peace before thy portal stood,
To drive her hence, and stain the world with blood?
For this destruction threatens from the skies;
See hostile navies to our ruin rise;
Our fleets inglorious shun the force of Spain,
And France triumphant stems the subject main.

[N] Dr. William Dodd, whose history is well known.—Ib.

[O] In the case of Uriah.—Ib.

[P] "The connection between vice and meanness is a fit object for satire; but when the satire is a fact, it cuts with the irresistible power of a diamond. If a Quaker, in defence of his just rights, his property, and the chastity of his house, takes up a musket, he is expelled the meeting; but the present king of England, who seduced and took into keeping a sister of their society, is reverenced and supported with repeated testimonies, while the friendly noodle from whom she was taken, (and who is now in this city) continues a drudge in the service of his rival, as if proud of being cuckolded by a creature called a king."—American Crisis, No. 3, Printed at Philadelphia, 1777.—Ib.

[6] First published in the United States Magazine, December, 1779. The test follows the edition of 1786.

"Early in June, the French fleet of thirty-one ships of the line, yielding to Spanish importunities, put to sea from Brest; and yet they were obliged to wait off the coast of Spain for the Spaniards. After a loss of two months in the best season of the year, a junction was effected with more than twenty ships of war under the command of ... Count Gaston; and the combined fleet, the largest force that had ever been afloat, sailed for the British Channel.... The united fleet rode unmolested by the British.... On the 16th of August they appeared off Plymouth, but did not attack the town. After two idle days a strong wind drove them to the west; when the gale had abated, the allies rallied, returned up the channel, and the British retreated before them. No harmony existed between the French and Spanish officers. A deadly malady ravaged the French ships and infected the Spanish. The combined fleet never had one chief. The French returned to port and remained there; the Spaniards sailed for Cadiz, execrating their allies."—Bancroft.

[7] "Charly Fox."—Ed. 1795.

[8] Fox's opposition to the American war is too well known to need comment.

[9] "Their cause."—Ed. 1795.

[10] "Sufferings."—Ed. 1809.

[11] "Gods."—Ed. 1795.

[12] "We."—Ib.

[13] "Sackville."—Ed. 1795.

[14] "Thundering."—Ib.

[15] "Careless."—Ib.

[16] "Our."—Ed. 1795.

[17] "Us."—Ib.

[18] "Our."—Ib.

[19] "George."—Ed. 1795.

[20] This and the following seventeen lines omitted from the edition of 1795.

[21] "Instant."—Ed. 1795.

[22] "Catharine."—Ib.

[23] "Her oceans."—Ib.

[24] "Cunning."—Ed. 1809.

[25] "The Frenchman's."—Ed. 1795.

THE BRITISH PRISON SHIP[26]

Written 1780

Canto I.—The Capture

Amid these ills no tyrant dared refuse
My right to pen the dictates of the muse,
To paint the terrors of the infernal place,
And fiends from Europe, insolent as base.

Assist me, Clio! while in verse I tell
The dire misfortunes that a ship befell,
Which outward bound, to St. Eustatia's shore,
Death and disaster through the billows bore.
From Philadelphia's crowded port she came;
For there the builder plann'd her lofty frame,
With wond'rous skill, and excellence of art
He form'd, dispos'd, and order'd every part,
With joy beheld the stately fabric rise
To a stout bulwark of stupendous size,
'Till launch'd at last, capacious of the freight,
He left her to the Pilots, and her fate.
First from her depths the tapering masts ascend,
On whose firm bulk the transverse yards depend,
By shrouds and stays secur'd from side to side
Trees grew on trees, suspended o'er the tide,
Firm to the yards extended, broad and vast
They hung the sails susceptive of the blast,
Far o'er the prow the lengthy bowsprit lay,
Supporting on the extreme the taught Gib-stay,
Twice ten six pounders at their port holes plac'd
And rang'd in rows, stood hostile in the waist:
Thus all prepar'd, impatient for the seas,
She left her station with an adverse breeze,
This her first outset from her native shore,
To seas a stranger, and untry'd before.
From the bright radiance that his glories spread
Ere from the east gay Phœbus lifts his head,
From the sweet morn, a kindred name she won,
Aurora call'd, the offspring of the sun,
Whose form projecting, the broad prow displays,
Far glittering o'er the wave, a mimic blaze.
The gay ship now, in all her pomp and pride,
With sails expanded, flew along the tide;
'Twas thy deep stream, O Delaware, that bore
This pile intended for a southern shore,
Bound to those isles where endless summer reigns,
Fair fruits, gay blossoms, and enamell'd plains;
Where sloping lawns the roving swain invite,
And the cool morn succeeds the breezy night,
Where each glad day a heaven unclouded brings
And sky-topt mountains teem with golden springs.
From Cape Henlopen, urg'd by favouring gales,
When morn emerg'd, we sea-ward spread our sails,
Then east-south-east explor'd the briny way,
Close to the wind, departing from the bay;
No longer seen the hoarse resounding strand,
With hearts elate we hurried from the land,
Escap'd the dangers of that shelvy ground,
To sailors fatal, and for wrecks renown'd.—
The gale increases as we stem the main,
Now scarce the hills their sky-blue mist retain,
At last they sink beneath the rolling wave
That seems their summits, as they sink, to lave;
Abaft the beam the freshening breezes play,
No mists advancing to deform the day,
No tempests rising o'er the splendid scene,
A sea unruffled, and a heaven serene.
Now Sol's bright lamp, the heav'n born source of light,
Had pass'd the line of his meridian height,
And westward hung—retreating from the view
Shores disappear'd, and every hill withdrew,
When, still suspicious of some neighbouring foe,
Aloft the Master bade a Seaman go,
To mark if, from the mast's aspiring height
Through all the round a vessel came in sight.
Too soon the Seaman's glance, extending wide,
Far distant in the east a ship espy'd,
Her lofty masts stood bending to the gale,
Close to the wind was brac'd each shivering sail;
Next from the deck we saw the approaching foe,
Her spangled bottom seem'd in flames to glow
When to the winds she bow'd in dreadful haste
And her lee-guns lay delug'd in the waste:
From her top-gallant flow'd an English Jack;
With all her might she strove to gain our track,
Nor strove in vain—with pride and power elate,
Wing'd on by hell, she drove us to our fate;
No stop no stay her bloody crew intends,
(So flies a comet with its host of fiends)
Nor oaths, nor prayers arrest her swift career,
Death in her front, and ruin in her rear.
Struck at the sight, the Master gave command
To change our course, and steer toward the land—
Swift to the task the ready sailors run,
And while the word was utter'd, half was done:
As from the south the fiercer breezes rise
Swift from her foe alarm'd Aurora flies,
With every sail extended to the wind
She fled the unequal foe that chac'd behind;
Along her decks dispos'd in close array
Each at its port, the grim artillery lay,
Soon on the foe with brazen throat to roar;
But, small their size, and narrow was their bore;
Yet faithful they their destin'd station keep
To guard the barque that wafts them o'er the deep,
Who now must bend to steer a homeward course
And trust her swiftness rather than her force,
Unfit to combat with a powerful foe;
Her decks too open, and her waist too low.
While o'er the wave with foaming prow she flies,
Once more emerging, distant landscapes rise;
High in the air the starry streamer plays,
And every sail its various tribute pays:
To gain the land we bore the weighty blast;
And now the wish'd for cape appear'd at last;
But the vext foe, impatient of delay,
Prepar'd for ruin, press'd upon her prey;
Near, and more near, in aweful grandeur came
The frigate Iris, not unknown to fame;
Iris her name, but Hancock once she bore,
Fram'd and completed on New Albion's shore,
By Manly lost, the swiftest of the train
That fly with wings of canvas o'er the main.
Now, while for combat some with zeal prepare,
Thus to the heavens the Boatswain sent his prayer:
"List, all ye powers that rule the skies and seas!
"Shower down perdition on such thieves as these,
"Fate, strike their hearts with terror and dismay,
"And sprinkle on their powder salt-sea spray!
"May bursting cannon, while his aim he tries,
"Destroy the Gunner, and be-damn his eyes—
"The chief who awes the quarter-deck, may he,
"Tripp'd from his stand, be tumbled in the sea.
"May they who rule the round-top's giddy height
"Be canted headlong to perpetual night;
"May fiends torment them on a leeward coast,
"And help forsake them when they want it most—
"From their wheel'd engines torn be every gun—
"And now, to sum up every curse in one,
"May latent flames, to save us, intervene,
"And hell-ward drive them from their magazine!"—
The Frigate now had every sail unfurl'd,
And rush'd tremendous o'er the wat'ry world;
Thus fierce Pelides, eager to destroy,
Chac'd the proud Trojan to the gates of Troy—
Swift o'er the waves while hostile they pursue
As swiftly from their fangs Aurora flew,
At length Henlopen's cape we gain'd once more,
And vainly strove to force the ship ashore;
Stern fate forbade the barren shore to gain,
Denial sad, and source of future pain!
For then the inspiring breezes ceas'd to blow,
Lost were they all, and smooth the seas below;
By the broad cape becalm'd, our lifeless sails
No longer swell'd their bosoms to the gales;
The ship, unable to pursue her way,
Tumbling about, at her own guidance lay,
No more the helm its wonted influence lends,
No oars assist us, and no breeze befriends;
Meantime the foe, advancing from the sea,
Rang'd her black cannon, pointed on our lee,
Then up she luff'd, and blaz'd her entrails dire,
Bearing destruction, terror, death and fire.
Vext at our fate, we prim'd a piece, and then
Return'd the shot, to shew them we were men.
Dull night at length her dusky pinions spread,
And every hope to 'scape the foe was fled;
Close to thy cape, Henlopen, though we press'd,
We could not gain thy desert, dreary breast;
Though ruin'd trees beshroud thy barren shore
With mounds of sand half hid, or cover'd o'er,
Though ruffian winds disturb thy summit bare,
Yet every hope and every wish was there;
In vain we sought to reach the joyless strand,
Fate stood between, and barr'd us from the land.
All dead becalm'd, and helpless as we lay,
The ebbing current forc'd us back to sea,
While vengeful Iris, thirsting for our blood,
Flash'd her red lightnings o'er the trembling flood,
At every flash a storm of ruin came
'Till our shock'd vessel shook through all her frame—
Mad for revenge, our breasts with fury glow
To wreak returns of vengeance on the foe;
Full at his hull our pointed guns we rais'd,
His hull resounded as the cannon blaz'd;
Through his main top-sail one a passage tore,
His sides re-echo'd to the dreadful roar,
Alternate fires dispell'd the shades of night—
But how unequal was this daring fight!
Our stoutest guns threw but a six-pound ball,
Twelve pounders from the foe our sides did maul,
And, while no power to save him intervenes,
A bullet struck our captain of Marines;
Fierce, though he bid defiance to the foe
He felt his death and ruin in the blow,
Headlong he fell, distracted with the wound,
The deck distain'd, and heart blood streaming round.
Another blast, as fatal in its aim,
Wing'd by destruction, through our rigging came,
And, whistling tunes from hell upon its way,
Shrouds, stays, and braces tore at once away,
Sails, blocks, and oars in scatter'd fragments fly—
Their softest language was—submit, or die!
Repeated cries throughout the ship resound;
Now every bullet brought a different wound;
'Twixt wind and water, one assail'd the side,
Through this aperture rush'd the briny tide—
'Twas then the Master trembled for his crew,
And bade thy shores, O Delaware, adieu!—
And must we yield to yon' destructive ball,
And must our colours to these ruffians fall!—
They fall!—his thunders forc'd our pride to bend,
The lofty topsails with their yards descend,
And the proud foe, such leagues of ocean pass'd,
His wish completed in our woe at last.
Convey'd to York, we found, at length, too late,
That Death was better than the prisoner's fate;
There doom'd to famine, shackles and despair,
Condemn'd to breathe a foul, infected air
In sickly hulks, devoted while we lay,
Successive funerals gloom'd each dismal day—
But what on captives British rage can do,
Another Canto, friend, shall let you know.

Canto II.—The Prison Ship

The various horrors of these hulks to tell,
These Prison Ships where pain and horror dwell,
Where death in tenfold vengeance holds his reign,
And injur'd ghosts, yet unaveng'd, complain;
This be my task—ungenerous Britons, you
Conspire to murder those you can't subdue.—
Weak as I am, I'll try my strength to-day
And my best arrows at these hell-hounds play,
To future years one scene of death prolong,
And hang them up to infamy, in song.
That Britain's rage should dye our plains with gore,
And desolation spread through every shore,
None e'er could doubt, that her ambition knew,
This was to rage and disappointment due;
But that those monsters whom our soil maintain'd,
Who first drew breath in this devoted land,
Like famish'd wolves, should on their country prey,
Assist its foes, and wrest our lives away,
This shocks belief—and bids our soil disown
Such friends, subservient to a bankrupt crown,
By them the widow mourns her partner dead,
Her mangled sons to darksome prisons led,
By them—and hence my keenest sorrows rise,
My friend, my guardian, my Orestes dies;
Still for that loss must wretched I complain,
And sad Ophelia mourn her favourite swain.
Ah! come the day when from this bloody shore
Fate shall remove them to return no more—
To scorch'd Bahama shall the traitors go
With grief and rage, and unremitting woe,
On burning sands to walk their painful round,
And sigh through all the solitary ground,
Where no gay flower their haggard eyes shall see,
And find no shade but from the cypress tree.
So much we suffer'd from the tribe I hate,
So near they shov'd me to the brink of fate,
When two long months in these dark hulks we lay,[27]
Barr'd down by night, and fainting all the day
In the fierce fervours of the solar beam,
Cool'd by no breeze on Hudson's mountain-stream;
That not unsung these threescore days shall fall
To black oblivion that would cover all!—
No masts or sails these crowded ships adorn,
Dismal to view, neglected and forlorn!
Here, mighty ills oppress the imprison'd throng,
Dull were our slumbers, and our nights too long—
From morn to eve along the decks we lay
Scorch'd into fevers by the solar ray;
No friendly awning cast a welcome shade,
Once was it promis'd, and was never made;
No favours could these sons of death bestow,
'Twas endless cursing, and continual woe:
Immortal hatred doth their breasts engage,
And this lost empire swells their souls with rage.
Two hulks on Hudson's stormy bosom lie,
Two, farther south, affront the pitying eye—
There, the black Scorpion at her mooring rides,
There, Strombolo swings, yielding to the tides;
Here, bulky Jersey fills a larger space,
And Hunter, to all hospitals disgrace—
Thou, Scorpion, fatal to thy crowded throng,
Dire theme of horror and Plutonian song,
Requir'st my lay—thy sultry decks I know,
And all the torments that exist below!
The briny wave that Hudson's bosom fills
Drain'd through her bottom in a thousand rills,
Rotten and old, replete with sighs and groans,
Scarce on the waters she sustain'd her bones;
Here, doom'd to toil, or founder in the tide,
At the moist pumps incessantly we ply'd,[28]
Here, doom'd to starve, like famish'd dogs we tore
The scant allowance, that our tyrants bore.
Remembrance shudders at this scene of fears—
Still in my view some English brute appears,
Some base-born Hessian slave walks threat'ning by,
Some servile Scot with murder in his eye
Still haunts my sight, as vainly they bemoan
Rebellions manag'd so unlike their own!
O may I never feel the poignant pain
To live subjected to such fiends again,
Stewards and Mates that hostile Britain bore,
Cut from the gallows on their native shore;[29]
Their ghastly looks and vengeance-beaming eyes
Still to my view in dismal colours rise—
O may I ne'er review these dire abodes,
These piles for slaughter, floating on the floods,—
And you, that o'er the troubled ocean go,
Strike not your standards to this miscreant foe,
Better the greedy wave should swallow all,
Better to meet the death-conducted ball,
Better to sleep on ocean's deepest bed,
At once destroy'd and number'd with the dead,
Than thus to perish in the face of day
Where twice ten thousand deaths one death delay.
When to the ocean dives the western sun,
And the scorch'd Tories fire their evening gun,
"Down, rebels, down!" the angry Scotchmen cry,
"Damn'd dogs, descend, or by our broad swords die!"
Hail, dark abode! what can with thee compare—
Heat, sickness, famine, death, and stagnant air—
Pandora's box, from whence all mischief flew,
Here real found, torments mankind anew!—
Swift from the guarded decks we rush'd along,
And vainly sought repose, so vast our throng:
Three hundred wretches here, denied all light,
In crowded mansions pass the infernal night,
Some for a bed their tatter'd vestments join,
And some on chests, and some on floors recline;[30]
Shut from the blessings of the evening air,
Pensive we lay with mingled corpses there,
Meagre and wan, and scorch'd with heat below,
We loom'd like ghosts, ere death had made us so—
How could we else, where heat and hunger join'd
Thus to debase the body and the mind,
Where cruel thirst the parching throat invades,
Dries up the man, and fits him for the shades.
No waters laded from the bubbling spring
To these dire ships the British monsters bring—
By planks and ponderous beams completely wall'd
In vain for water, and in vain, I call'd—
No drop was granted to the midnight prayer,
To Dives in these regions of despair!—
The loathsome cask a deadly dose contains,
Its poison circling through the languid veins;
"Here, generous Britain, generous, as you say,
"To my parch'd tongue one cooling drop convey,
"Hell has no mischief like a thirsty throat,
"Nor one tormentor like your David Sproat."[A]
Dull flew the hours, till, from the East display'd,
Sweet morn dispells the horrors of the shade;
On every side dire objects meet the sight,
And pallid forms, and murders of the night,
The dead were past their pain, the living groan,
Nor dare to hope another morn their own;
But what to them is morn's delightful ray,
Sad and distressful as the close of day,
O'er distant streams appears the dewy green,
And leafy trees on mountain tops are seen,
But they no groves nor grassy mountains tread,
Mark'd for a longer journey to the dead.
Black as the clouds that shade St. Kilda's shore,
Wild as the winds that round her mountains roar,
At every post some surly vagrant stands,
Pick'd from the British or the Irish bands,
Some slave from Hesse, some hangman's son at least
Sold and transported, like his brother beast—
Some miscreant Tory, puff'd with upstart pride,
Led on by hell to take the royal side;
Dispensing death triumphantly they stand,
Their musquets ready to obey command;
Wounds are their sport, as ruin is their aim;
On their dark souls compassion has no claim,
And discord only can their spirits please:
Such were our tyrants here, and such were these.
Ingratitude! no curse like thee is found
Throughout this jarring world's extended round,
Their hearts with malice to our country swell
Because in former days we us'd them well!—
This pierces deep, too deeply wounds the breast;
We help'd them naked, friendless, and distrest,
Receiv'd their vagrants with an open hand,
Bestow'd them buildings, privilege, and land—
Behold the change!—when angry Britain rose,
These thankless tribes became our fiercest foes,
By them devoted, plunder'd, and accurst,
Stung by the serpents whom ourselves had nurs'd.
But such a train of endless woes abound,
So many mischiefs in these hulks are found,
That on them all a poem to prolong
Would swell too high the horrors of my song—
Hunger and thirst to work our woe combine,
And mouldy bread, and flesh of rotten swine,
The mangled carcase, and the batter'd brain,
The doctor's poison, and the captain's cane,
The soldier's musquet, and the steward's debt,
The evening shackle, and the noon-day threat.
That juice destructive to the pangs of care
Which Rome of old, nor Athens could prepare,
Which gains the day for many a modern chief
When cool reflection yields a faint relief,
That charm, whose virtue warms the world beside,
Was by these tyrants to our use denied,
While yet they deign'd that healthy juice to lade
The putrid water felt its powerful aid;
But when refus'd—to aggravate our pains—
Then fevers rag'd and revel'd through our veins;
Throughout my frame I felt its deadly heat,
I felt my pulse with quicker motions beat:
A pallid hue o'er every face was spread,
Unusual pains attack'd the fainting head,
No physic here, no doctor to assist,
My name was enter'd on the sick man's list;
Twelve wretches more the same dark symptoms took,
And these were enter'd on the doctor's book;
The loathsome Hunter was our destin'd place,
The Hunter, to all hospitals disgrace;
With soldiers sent to guard us on our road,
Joyful we left the Scorpion's dire abode;
Some tears we shed for the remaining crew,
Then curs'd the hulk, and from her sides withdrew.

[A] Commissary of Prisoners at New-York.—Freneau's note.

Canto III.—The Hospital Prison Ship

Now tow'rd the Hunter's gloomy sides we came,
A slaughter-house, yet hospital in name;[31]
For none came there (to pass through all degrees)
'Till half consum'd, and dying with disease;—
But when too near with labouring oars we ply'd,
The Mate with curses drove us from the side;
That wretch who, banish'd from the navy crew,
Grown old in blood, did here his trade renew;
His serpent's tongue, when on his charge let loose,
Utter'd reproaches, scandal, and abuse,
Gave all to hell who dar'd his king disown,
And swore mankind were made for George alone:
Ten thousand times, to irritate our woe,
He wish'd us founder'd in the gulph below;
Ten thousand times he brandish'd high his stick,
And swore as often that we were not sick—
And yet so pale!—that we were thought by some
A freight of ghosts from Death's dominions come—
But calm'd at length—for who can always rage,
Or the fierce war of endless passion wage,
He pointed to the stairs that led below
To damps, disease, and varied shapes of woe—
Down to the gloom I took my pensive way,
Along the decks the dying captives lay;
Some struck with madness, some with scurvy pain'd,
But still of putrid fevers most complain'd!
On the hard floors these wasted objects laid,
There toss'd and tumbled in the dismal shade,
There no soft voice their bitter fate bemoan'd,
And Death strode stately, while the victims groan'd;
Of leaky decks I heard them long complain,
Drown'd as they were in deluges of rain,
Deny'd the comforts of a dying bed,
And not a pillow to support the head—
How could they else but pine, and grieve, and sigh,
Detest a wretched life—and wish to die?
Scarce had I mingled with this dismal band
When a thin spectre seiz'd me by the hand—
"And art thou come, (death heavy on his eyes)
"And art thou come to these abodes," he cries;
"Why didst thou leave the Scorpion's dark retreat,
"And hither haste a surer death to meet?
"Why didst thou leave thy damp infected cell?
"If that was purgatory, this is hell—
"We, too, grown weary of that horrid shade,
"Petitioned early for the doctor's aid;
"His aid denied, more deadly symptoms came,
"Weak, and yet weaker, glow'd the vital flame;
"And when disease had worn us down so low
"That few could tell if we were ghosts or no,
"And all asserted, death would be our fate—
"Then to the doctor we were sent—too late.
"Here wastes away Autolycus the brave,
"Here young Orestes finds a wat'ry grave,
"Here gay Alcander, gay, alas! no more,
"Dies far sequester'd from his native shore;
"He late, perhaps, too eager for the fray,
"Chac'd the vile Briton o'er the wat'ry way
"'Till fortune jealous, bade her clouds appear,
"Turn'd hostile to his fame, and brought him here.
"Thus do our warriors, thus our heroes fall,
"Imprison'd here, base ruin meets them all,
"Or, sent afar to Britain's barbarous shore,
"There die neglected, and return no more:
"Ah! rest in peace, poor, injur'd, parted shade,
"By cruel hands in death's dark weeds array'd,
"But happier climes, where suns unclouded shine,
"Light undisturb'd, and endless peace are thine."—
From Brookland groves a Hessian doctor came,
Not great his skill, nor greater much his fame;
Fair Science never call'd the wretch her son,
And Art disdain'd the stupid man to own;—
Can you admire that Science was so coy,
Or Art refus'd his genius to employ!—
Do men with brutes an equal dullness share,
Or cuts yon' grovelling mole the midway air?
In polar worlds can Eden's blossoms blow?
Do trees of God in barren desarts grow?
Are loaded vines to Etna's summit known,
Or swells the peach beneath the torrid zone?—
Yet still he doom'd his genius to the rack,
And, as you may suppose, was own'd a quack.
He on his charge the healing work begun
With antimonial mixtures, by the tun,
Ten minutes was the time he deign'd to stay,
The time of grace allotted once a day—
He drencht us well with bitter draughts, 'tis true,
Nostrums from hell, and cortex from Peru—
Some with his pills he sent to Pluto's reign,
And some he blister'd with his flies of Spain;
His cream of Tartar walk'd its deadly round,
Till the lean patient at the potion frown'd,
And swore that hemlock, death, or what you will,
Were nonsense to the drugs that stuff'd his bill.—
On those refusing he bestow'd a kick,
Or menac'd vengeance with his walking stick;
Here uncontroul'd he exercis'd his trade,
And grew experienced by the deaths he made;
By frequent blows we from his cane endur'd
He kill'd at least as many as he cur'd;
On our lost comrades built his future fame,
And scatter'd fate, where'er his footsteps came.
Some did not seem obedient to his will,
And swore he mingled poison with his pill,
But I acquit him by a fair confession,
He was no Englishman—he was a Hessian,[32]—
Although a dunce, he had some sense of sin,
Or else the Lord knows where we now had been;
Perhaps in that far country sent to range
Where never prisoner meets with an exchange—
Then had we all been banish'd out of time
Nor I return'd to plague the world with rhyme.
Fool though he was, yet candour must confess
Not chief Physician was this dog of Hesse—
One master o'er the murdering tribe was plac'd,
By him the rest were honour'd or disgrac'd;—
Once, and but once, by some strange fortune led
He came to see the dying and the dead—
He came—but anger so deform'd his eye,
And such a faulchion glitter'd on his thigh,
And such a gloom his visage darken'd o'er,
And two such pistols in his hands he bore!
That, by the gods!—with such a load of steel
He came, we thought, to murder, not to heal—
Hell in his heart, and mischief in his head,
He gloom'd destruction, and had smote us dead,
Had he so dar'd—but fate with-held his hand—
He came—blasphem'd—and turn'd again to land.
From this poor vessel, and her sickly crew
An English ruffian all his titles drew,
Captain, esquire, commander, too, in chief,
And hence he gain'd his bread, and hence his beef,
But, sir, you might have search'd creation round
Ere such another miscreant could be found—
Though unprovok'd, an angry face he bore,
We stood astonish'd at the oaths he swore;
He swore, till every prisoner stood aghast,
And thought him Satan in a brimstone blast;
He wish'd us banish'd from the public light,
He wish'd us shrouded in perpetual night!
That were he king, no mercy would he show,
But drive all rebels to the world below;
That if we scoundrels did not scrub the decks
His staff should break our damn'd rebellious necks;
He swore, besides, that if the ship took fire
We too should in the pitchy flame expire;
And meant it so—this tyrant, I engage,
Had lost his breath to gratify his rage.—
If where he walk'd a captive carcase lay,
Still dreadful was the language of the day—
He call'd us dogs, and would have us'd us so,
But vengeance check'd the meditated blow,
The vengeance from our injur'd nation due
To him, and all the base, unmanly crew.
Such food they sent, to make complete our woes,
It look'd like carrion torn from hungry crows,
Such vermin vile on every joint were seen,
So black, corrupted, mortified, and lean
That once we try'd to move our flinty chief,
And thus address'd him, holding up the beef:
"See, captain, see! what rotten bones we pick,
"What kills the healthy cannot cure the sick:
"Not dogs on such by Christian men are fed,
"And see, good master, see, what lousy bread!"
"Your meat or bread (this man of flint replied)
"Is not my care to manage or provide—
"But this, damn'd rebel dogs, I'd have you know,
"That better than you merit we bestow;
"Out of my sight!"——nor more he deign'd to say,
But whisk'd about, and frowning, strode away.
Each day, at least three carcases we bore,
And scratch'd them graves along the sandy shore;
By feeble hands the shallow graves were made,
No stone memorial o'er the corpses laid;
In barren sands, and far from home, they lie,
No friend to shed a tear, when passing by;
O'er the mean tombs insulting Britons tread,
Spurn at the sand, and curse the rebel dead.
When to your arms these fatal islands fall,
(For first or last they must be conquer'd all)
Americans! to rites sepulchral just,
With gentlest footstep press this kindred dust,
And o'er the tombs, if tombs can then be found,
Place the green turf, and plant the myrtle round.
Americans! a just resentment shew,
And glut revenge on this detested foe;
While the warm blood exults the glowing vein
Still shall resentment in your bosoms reign,
Can you forget the greedy Briton's ire,
Your fields in ruin, and your domes on fire,
No age, no sex from lust and murder free,
And, black as night, the hell born refugee!
Must York forever your best blood entomb,
And these gorg'd monsters triumph in their doom,
Who leave no art of cruelty untry'd;
Such heavy vengeance, and such hellish pride!
Death has no charms—his realms dejected lie
In the dull climate of a clouded sky;
Death has no charms, except in British eyes,
See, arm'd for death, the infernal miscreants rise;
See how they pant to stain the world with gore,
And millions murder'd, still would murder more;
This selfish race, from all the world disjoin'd,
Perpetual discord spread throughout mankind,
Aim to extend their empire o'er the ball,
Subject, destroy, absorb, and conquer all,
As if the power that form'd us did condemn
All other nations to be slaves to them—
Rouse from your sleep, and crush the thievish band,
Defeat, destroy, and sweep them from the land,
Ally'd like you, what madness to despair,
Attack the ruffians while they linger there;
There Tryon sits, a monster all complete,
See Clinton there with vile Knyphausen meet,
And every wretch whom honour should detest
There finds a home—and Arnold with the rest.
Ah! traitors, lost to every sense of shame,
Unjust supporters of a tyrant's claim;
Foes to the rights of freedom and of men,
Flush'd with the blood of thousands you have slain,
To the just doom the righteous skies decree
We leave you, toiling still in cruelty,
Or on dark plans in future herds to meet,
Plans form'd in hell, and projects half complete:
The years approach that shall to ruin bring
Your lords, your chiefs, your miscreant of a king,
Whose murderous acts shall stamp his name accurs'd,
And his last triumphs more than damn the first.

[26] First published in Philadelphia, by Francis Bailey, in 1781. Freneau wrote the poem during the summer of 1780, immediately after his exchange. The original manuscript is in the possession of Miss Adele M. Sweeney, a great-granddaughter of the poet. The text follows the edition of 1786.

On May 25, 1780, Freneau, in the ship Aurora, started from Philadelphia as a passenger for Santa Cruz. The next day, while off Cape Henlopen, the ship was captured by the British frigate Iris, Capt. Hawkes, and the crew and passengers sent to New York as prisoners. For Freneau's account of his capture and captivity, see Some Account of the Capture of the Ship Aurora, 1899.

[27] Freneau was placed on board the Scorpion, June 1, and was exchanged July 12, 1780.

[28] "The weather was very stormy and the river uncommonly rough. The ship rolled considerably, and the water gushed into some of the lower ports, which made some of the landsmen who slept in the cable tier imagine she was sinking. In a moment the alarm became general. 'The ship is sinking! the ship is sinking!' was echoed fore and aft. I expected every moment to feel myself afloat in the berth where I lay; but at the same time considering it would be a folly to drown between decks when I perhaps might get on shore somehow, I jumped up and hurried toward the main hatchway, where a multitude was endeavouring to get out; the sentries at the same time beating on their heads with their drawn swords and marquets without mercy.... Some lamented that they should never see their wives and children again; others begged by the love of God to be let upon deck and they would bind themselves slaves forever on board a man-of-war, or any other service.... After some trouble we got a light, and examining the pump-well, found the ship dry and tight."—Freneau's Journal.

[29] "One, Gauzoo, was steward of the ship—one of the most brutal of mankind, who abused us continually. It is impossible for words to give his character; it seemed as though he could not give any of us a civil word upon the most indifferent occasion. When he was not cursing us, he kept in his cabin in gloomy reserve, the most vile and detestable of mortals."—Freneau's Journal.

[30] "At sundown we were ordered down between the decks, to the number of nearly three hundred of us. The best lodgings I could procure this night was on a chest, almost suffocated with the heat and stench. I expected to die before morning, but human nature can bear more than one would at first suppose."—Freneau's Journal.

[31] "The Hunter had been very newly put to the use of a hospital-ship. She was miserably dirty and cluttered. Her decks leaked to such a degree that the sick were deluged with every shower of rain. Between decks they lay along struggling in the agonies of death; dying with putrid and bilious fevers; lamenting their hard fate to die at such a fatal distance from their friends; others totally insensible, and yielding their last breath in all the horrors of light-headed frenzy.... Our allowance in the Hunter, to those upon full diet, was one pound of bread and one pound of fresh beef per diem; to those upon half diet, one pound of bread and one-half pound of beef or mutton per diem. Every other day we had a cask of spruce beer sent on board. Our fresh meat was generally heads or shanks, and would just answer to make soup."—Freneau's Journal.

[32] "A German doctor attended every morning at eight o'clock and administered such remedies as were thought proper. Thus things went on, two or three dying every day, who were carried on shore and buried in the bank, till three of our crew, who had got pretty hearty, stole the boat one night and made their escape. This occasioned new trouble. The doctor refused to come on board, and as he rowed past us next morning to see somebody in the Jersey, which lay near us, some of the sick calling to him for blisters, he told them to put tar on their backs, which would serve as well as anything, and so rowed away. However, after two or three days his wrath was appeased, and he deigned to come on board again."—Freneau's Journal.

THE SPY[33]

Sir Henry Clinton, Major André, Lucinda, Amelia, Arnold, Gen. Green,
Servants to Arnold, Peasants, Knyphausen, Gen. Robertson.

Scene I.—West Point Fort. Jeffery and Pasquin, servants to Arnold, working in a garden.

Pasq. (Throwing down his spade) Faith, Jeffery, I am weary of toiling among these rocks and precipices. I must e'en give o'er. Our master should have fetched his soil along with him to these savage retreats. We may work till we are gray-headed ere we can produce a turnip or a cabbage for him on these barren, unthrifty rocks.

Jeff. Be not discouraged, Pasquin, we shall have better soil to work in ere long.

Pasq. How know you that?

Jeff. I overheard my master t'other day telling a friend of his, whom, by the by, the people of this country call a Tory, that he had planned matters so that in a little time the war would be over, and then he would purchase one of the most fertile tracts of land in America and entitle it a Manor; that he would settle the same goodly possession with tenants and vassals, and so being master among them, spend the remainder of his days in quiet.

Pasq. I pray for the speedy fulfilling of this design. Our master, I know, is an able general. Why, I suppose he intends to rout the enemy out of New York, retake Charleston, conquer the warships of Britain, kill the king, and so force the English nation to make peace with the Americans.

Jeff. Heaven only knows in what manner he intends to act or what his plan may be, but this I am sure of, he keeps it very secret, and I believe there are not above one or two of his friends that know anything of it.

Pasq. Well, the sooner he gets a new garden for us the better. I have worn out a dozen mattocks and as many spades on these cursed craggy rocks. One's tools to work here should be made of adamant. But, Jeffery, do you not observe how gracious and intimate our master has been for these several months past with some who are called disaffected?

Jeff. I have had it in my mind to make the same observation to you, and do you not perceive that their intimacy daily increases?

Pasq. And then, when our master is at table with some of these chosen favorites, how he sneers and hints ludicrous things against the American officers and army. One would think he heartily despised them, by his behaviour.

Jeff. And what was it he said of the French the other day? Did he not say they were a perfidious nation of knaves, a herd of needy scoundrels who were endeavoring to conquer this country from the king of Britain, that they might add it to their own dominions and make the people here slaves?

Pasq. And when the general gives a dance or an entertainment or a ball, we see none of the true-heart Americans invited. His guests are a lukewarm, half-disaffected sort of people, who say more than for their own sakes I would choose to mention to everybody.

Jeff. Well, this may all be true, and yet I cannot help thinking our master is a hearty friend to his country. He does these things for a feint, under a mask, as it were, to find out secrets from the enemy. In good faith, I am of opinion he will shortly drive every British soldier off the continent and then become possessed of his Lordship or Manor, or what-so you call it.

Pasq. Amen, I say, and so let us work on in hopes of better times.

Scene II.—Scene changes to New York. Sir Henry Clinton and Major André in a private apartment.

Sir Henry.     André, my friend and faithful confidant,
Since Fortune now vouchsafes to smile again,
And stubborn Charlestown bends to Britain's yoke,
What shall we next attempt or next achieve?
I have transmitted home a full account
Of that great capture, that important city
Which long has bid defiance to our arms,
With all particulars and circumstances
Attending on the siege, and in the list
Of British officers with honour mentioned,
You, sir, are not forgot. I must confess,
By your advice I planned that expedition,
Which now shall set me high in royal favor,
By your unconquered spirit and perseverance,
A mind that laughs at toils and difficulties,
I carried on the siege with fire and vigour
Against a foe with hearts of adamant,
And found them to submit—but princely favor
Is like a fire that only burns as long
As you afford it fuel. Before this conquest
Of Charlestown wears away, and hardly leaves
A faint impression on the royal mind,
Let's hatch some great exploit, some daring action
That strikes into the heart of this rebellion,
That one deed, treading on the heels of t'other,
May make us great indeed.

Maj. André. I have been thinking
Some time, Sir Henry, what we should be doing.
'Tis yet but early in the active season;
The summer scarce has finished her career,
And in this mild, this pleasing temperate climate
Three months as yet are open for campaigns;
But then our worn-out, dying, wounded soldiers
Demand our pity. Those who came from Charlestown
Have brought with them a lingering hectic fever
Which hardly one survives. Our soldiers here
Who do the duty of the garrison,
With constant watching, unremitted labor,
Cannot be spared from hence. Were we sufficient
In horse and foot to combat with the foe,
I forthwith would advise your Excellency
Once more to try the force of Washington,
That so, by killing and by captivating
Him and his troops, we totally might ruin
This only stay, this bulwark of rebellion.
But since our circumstances don't allow
With open force t' attack the hostile lines,
Let's try the witching power of bribery.
We read the Prince of Macedon declared
That those strong gates his javelins could not pierce
Nor battering ram effect a breach upon,
Were open still to gold. [Pauses

Sir Henry. Speak on, my friend,
For I approve the motion to my soul
If any project likely to succeed,
Or well-planned scheme thou canst impart to me,
Gold shall not be deficient. Millions lie
Appropriated to this very purpose,
And often have I sent to sound some chiefs
Whose qualities and influence are great
In yonder hostile camp, but their stern souls
Are so well armed with more than Spartan virtue
That there corruption seems to have no power,
And all my schemes and plans are come to nothing.

Maj. André. I know a man
Who, wouldst thou think it, by his chieftain trusted,
And even this moment placed in high command,
And honoured to profusion by his country—
The Americans in truth almost adore him—
That I do correspond with daily. O Britain, Britain,
That one descended from thy true-born sons
Should plot against the soil that gave him birth,
And for the value of a little gold
Betray its dearest rights.
But traitors are the growth of every country
And Arnold is our own!

Sir Henry. What say you? Arnold?
Can Arnold then be bought? I greet you now!
Arnold, in chief command at West Point fort?
Arnold, who galled our sides in Canada?
Arnold, who took and plundered Montreal?
Gold shall not here be scarce if gold can buy him;
Ten thousand sterling pounds are at his service,
And twice ten thousand more if he deliver
This West Point fort with its dependencies
Into the hand of Clinton.

Maj. André.   If we can gain the fort we all things gain,
The country round must at our mercy lie;
Then may our shipping sail to Albany,
Disbark the troops that march for Saratoga,
Who, taking thence the route to Lake Champlain,
May soon reduce the forts, and in a month
Open a new acquaintance with the north,
Communicated free to Canada.—
Another great advantage we shall gain:
By being masters then of Hudson's river,
We shall cut off all intercourse and passage
Between the eastern and the southern states,
Which I conceive will be of consequence
Toward the speedy ending of the war.

Sir Henry.   And so you say that we can buy the fort;
Then happy I—my fame and fortune sure;
This service will be of such eminence
That Britain never can requite Sir Henry.

Maj. André.   I do report that you can buy the fort,
For well I know the man I have to deal with;
For just ten thousand guineas
The troops, the fort, and Arnold are your own.
And to this man, altho' he be a rascal,
You must consider we are obligated.
He quits his friends, his honour, and his country,
The fame of all his great and brilliant actions,
And the encomiums both of France and Spain,
Perhaps all Europe, Britain not excepted,
Sold for ten thousand guineas and to serve us.

Sir Henry.   And obligated we confess ourselves.
This West Point fort—for this a long campaign
I spent along the shores of Hudson's river,
And failed at last with loss of Stony Point,
The works, the stores, and twice three hundred soldiers,
The prime of all my pack;—yes, powerful gold,
I own thy aid in this extremity.
Tho' Britain be the greatest in the world
In ships and men with genius for the sea,
Yet cannot her stout navy take this fort
By open force with all its weight of cannon.
It stands upon a craggy eminence,
All fenced around with towers and battlements,
The works of mighty nature.
To these subjoined the nicest aids of art—
Glacis and bastions, flanks and counter scarps,
Horn works and moat, half moons and covert way,
Trenches and mines, tenaille and battery,
With guns of every size and every bore,
And such a host of desperadoes there,
Who to the last drop of their blood would hold it,
That none but devils, I presume, can take it.
Beside, in sailing up the Hudson river,
When from this fort you're yet a full mile distant,
You turn a point at whose extremity
So high the mountains swell above the flood
That in a moment all your sails are lifeless;
The southern breezes die that blew with vigor,
And there you lie at mercy of the fort,
Your ships raked fore and aft and ruin around you.
But all these difficulties cease if Arnold
Betray the place, as you would fain assure me.
Now tell me, friend, the manner, how and when
You did entice this champion from his duty.

Maj. André.   From some connection I have had with him,
I found the leading feature of his soul
Was avarice. He could feign and counterfeit,
Persuade you black was white or white was black,
And swear, as interest prompted, false or true.
This known, I reasoned thus: If his base soul
Can toil and fret and browbeat death itself,
Endure the summer suns and winter snows
In tedious route through hyperborean wilds,
And sordid wealth alone incites him to it,
Why may not British gold have some effect
On such a slavish soul? I wrote him straight
(Your pardon, sir, it was without your leave)
And by a trusty lad I sent the letter,
Sewed in a jacket, to the following import:
That if he would forego his present station,
Betray the fortress and the garrison,
And he himself come over to our interest,
He should be recompensed in such a manner
That he might sit him down at ease in England,
Up to the eyes in wealth and laugh at rebels.

Sir Henry.   And, pray, what answer did he send to this?

Maj. André.   One that almost outdid my expectation.
He wrote me back that if I would adventure
To trust myself within the Americ lines,
He would, by means of secret friends and passports,
Gain me admittance to his residence;
Or meeting close in personal interview
In some lone place hereafter to be fixed on,
Confer with me upon the fittest means
Of rendering up his charge. He further added
That he was weary of this damned rebellion,
For ten thousand guineas would be yours,
That doing thus he meant his country's good,
And would pursue it to his utmost power.

Sir Henry.   Upon a lucky hour you thought of Arnold.
But, friend, I charge you, if this scheme succeed,
Take not the merit of it to yourself;
But let the world imagine it was Clinton
Who schemed, who plotted, and seduced the villain;
That by this deed more honour I may gain
Than if I had defeated Washington
By dint of blows on yonder Jersey plain.
Your recompense shall not be wanting, André;
My trusty friend, go make haste toward the highlands.
A frigate shall be ready to convey you.
Accept the proffered conference, and bring
Plans of the fort and all its avenues,
The number of the soldiers that defend it,
And whate'er else may be of service to us;
That tho' if by chance his treason be discovered,
And his designments lose their consummation,
We may have somewhat to facilitate—
Some bold attack that may hereafter be
Upon this proud and self-sufficient fortress.

Maj. André.   But, sir, consider. If I undertake
So bold a stroke as this, I risk my life,
Perhaps may meet an ignominious death.
When once I pass the British lines, that instant
Do I become a spy. That character
Ever belongs to common, vulgar men,
To suttlers and to pedlars, desperate wretches,
The rubbish and the scourings of the world;
Can I descend to so desperate an office?

Sir Henry.   But, then, your country!—
Consider what it is you owe your country.
Distressed she combats with revolted nations,
And can't by force reduce them to subjection;
Assist her while you can, and take my word,
You need not fear an apprehension.
I charge you, be not found within their lines;
Remember still to keep on neutral ground,
Unless a flag of truce be sent from Arnold
That will secure your person and the plot.
But if by chance you should be questioned
By any scouting parties of militia,
A purse of shillings scattered to the wretches
Will soon procure a passage unmolested.
I long to hear the upshot of this meeting,
The Vulture man-of-war is at your service,
And shall to-morrow take you up the river
As far as she with safety may adventure.

Maj. André.   Then for the sake of Britain and of you
Will I to Arnold haste away, Sir Harry.
If things succeed, as I expect they shall,
Within three days will I be back to tell you
The means we fall upon to gain the fort.

Act II.

Scene I.—Enter an aide-de-camp from General Washington to Arnold. Scene, West Point Fort. Time, midnight.

Aide D. C.   Sir, I am sent by our renowned general
To let you know that in his best opinion
Five hundred men in reason are too few
To man the works of this important post.
Three thousand, he informs, are at your service,
Lying at camp, with stores and baggage ready,
Whene'er you send a requisition for them.

Arnold.   Five hundred are too few! Why, sir, what means he?
I do assert, and do insist upon it,
That with the aid of scant two hundred men
I could defend this fort and all its outworks
(Its strength is so prodigious in defence)
Against ten legions of the boldest Britons,
With Clinton at the head to lead them on,
Whether he choose to come by sea or land.

Aide D. C.   Well be it so. I have discharged my duty
In bringing you our noble general's message.
Pray, sir, have you commands to send from hence?
My time to stay is short; I must be going.

Arnold.   Tho' I am steady to my sentiment,
That these five hundred men are full sufficient,
Yet, to comply with the spirit of his meaning,
You may inform the general, two hours' warning
Will bring me in four thousand of militia.
They are as rugged and as hardy fellows,
As bold and desperate in the works of war,
As skilled to hit the mark or push the bagnet,
As any of the choicest continentals.
Pray tell the general this, and I am sure,
I'm satisfied, he'll be of my opinion. [Exit Aide D. C.

Arnold (solus).   This is the time for dark and dangerous action;
This is the time that thieves and murderers choose
To execute their desperate designs.
But art thou, Arnold, less than murderer,
Who thus prepare to stab thy bleeding country?
And can I then descend to be a traitor!
By honest toils a name have I acquired,
Great and unequalled in the rolls of fame;
And shall that name to infamy be doomed
By one base act that mars and cankers all?
For this have I in winter's joyless reign
Explored the naked wilds of northern clime,
When mid the snows and frosts and chilling winds
Cold earth has been my bed. Ambition, rise
And fire my soul to nobler purposes.
To-morrow Major André comes to meet me,
And I am to consult on ways and means
To give this fort up to my country's foes.
Shall I repent of my unjust proceedings,
Admit this daring Briton to my portal,
And say I did thus to entrap the man
Who is grand vizar to Sir Henry Clinton?
Whose scheming head doth hurt our country more
Than all their host beside?
But that would be ungenerous—more than that,
Ten thousand guineas are the offered price
Of my desertion—more than that, perhaps
I shall henceforward be caressed by kings
And bear a generalship that may reduce
These states revolted back to Britain's sway.
*   *   *   *   *   For now I do imagine
They have no rights, no claims to independence.
Born were we all, subjected to a king,
And that subjection must return again.
The people are not dull republicans,
By nature they incline to monarchy.
How glorious should I be to have a share
In bringing back my country to allegiance.
Can France uphold them in their proud demand,
That race of puny, base, perfidious dogs?
Sooner shall all the house of Bourbon sink
Their Rochambault, D'Estang and La Fayette,
And Spain confederate cease to be a nation,
And all their allies dwindle into atoms,
Ere Britain will withdraw her righteous claim
Or yield a jot of her dominion here
To any people living. Then, André, come,
The sooner Britain gains this fort the better.

Scene II.—Major André, Lucinda. Parlor.

Maj. André. I cannot leave this city, sweet Lucinda, without imparting to you that I am going a little way toward the American lines, at the request of his Excellency, upon some business of importance. I am come to chat a little with you ere I go. It may be some days before you see me again.

Lucinda. If it be not too great a presumption in me, my dear Major, I would beg to know whether you depart on a peaceable or hostile errand. You must pardon a woman's curiosity. I had a frightful dream about you a few nights ago, which I cannot banish from my mind ever since.

Maj. André. I am happy, madam, in being the subject of your dreams. But dreams are delusions of the mind, mere vagaries and whimsies not to be attended to. You may remember that, prior to our Charlestown expedition, you discouraged me a good deal with a vision you had of a vessel shipwrecked, and myself with the other passengers drowned, and yet little or nothing was intimated thereby. We made our passage safe, conquered the place, and returned with victory and honor.

Lucinda. True. But your fleet endured a terrible hurricane, in which many perished.

Maj. André. O Lucinda, thou art a dreamer of dreams, thou thinkest, love.

Lucinda. This last was represented to my mind in quite a different manner, in such lively colours that I cannot help thinking some evil is foreboded to you.

Maj. André. Poh! Let's hear the extraordinary dream, then, that we may laugh a little at it.

Lucinda. I imagined myself in a country where the skies were forever cloudy and gloomy, with frequent bursts of thunder and flashes of lightning. Among many other objects, all of which seemed disconsolate and melancholy, I saw you endeavouring to reach the summit of a sharp, craggy precipice. You leaped with surprising agility over dark gulfs and apertures therein, which no other man would have thought of passing. The spectators admired your activity and daring spirit. The continual obstacles in your way seemed nothing to you, and at length you bid fair to gain the summit, when, catching hold of a shrub, which was but slightly rooted in one of the crevices of the rock, it instantly gave way, and you tumbled to the bottom, dashed to pieces on the pointed crags and torn in a shocking manner. I shrieked out and waked.

Maj. André. Your dream was frightful indeed; but still it was nothing but a dream. Why, I have imagined before now in my sleep that I have tumbled down ten thousand fathoms in a perpendicular line; but all this was owing to mere mechanical causes, the motion of the animal spirits or the veins being rather too replete with blood.

Lucinda. Well, be it so. I hope my dream may be the forerunner of no mischief. But are you going out on a fighting expedition, sir, if I may be so bold to ask the question?

Maj. André. My dearest love, I will conceal nothing from you. I know you are the girl of a thousand for keeping a secret. It must not take air. I have corrupted General Arnold. He is to sell West Point fort to me, and this evening I am to set out and consult with him upon the fittest means to blind the eyes of the Samson and deliver up the place to Sir Henry without danger of failure.

Lucinda. But could not some person be deputized for this purpose whose life is not of such value to Britain as yours? You are a proud soul to Sir Henry Clinton. He enterprises nothing without first having your advice and direction. If you should be intercepted in your way by the Americans, would it not endanger your life, my dear André, to be found without some mission or any plausible excuse for being within an enemy's lines?

Maj. André. You are too timorous, Lucinda. I shall go and come by water in an armed ship. I may perhaps just venture on shore in a ——[34] of time, but shall take care not to expose myself to any danger. I well know how far to venture, but if the worst come to the worst, I can tell them I have deserted from the British. Then I shall be caressed among them till such times as I can find an opportunity to escape and join my countrymen.

Lucinda. You venture all this, you say, at the request of Sir Henry?

Maj. André. Yes; but chiefly to serve my country. Had I a thousand lives, I would lay them all down for Britain and my king. But I must go. You deject my spirits, my girl. A woman is destructive to the spirit of enterprise in a man. Poh! I am growing melancholy too. You must cheer my drooping soul, Lucinda. I heard you humming a little song the other day. Do let's have it. I think it begins thus: "My native shades delight no more."

Lucinda. Although I am in no humour for music, you shall hear it, my love. I suppose it was made by some British officer on his setting out for America, who was as great an idolater to his king and country as most English gentlemen.

[Sings

My native shades delight no more,[35]
I haste to meet the ocean's roar,
I seek a wild inclement shore
Beyond the Atlantic main:
'Tis virtue calls!—I must away!—
Nor care nor pleasure tempts my stay,
Nor all that love himself can say,
A moment shall detain.

To meet those hosts who dare disown
Allegiance to Britannia's throne,
I draw the sword that pities none,
I draw their rebel blood;
Amazement shall their troops confound,
When hackt and prostrate on the ground;
My blade shall drink from every wound
A life-restoring flood!

The swarthy Indian, yet unbroke,
Shall bind his neck to Britain's yoke,
Or flee from her avenging stroke
To deserts all unknown;
The southern isles shall own her sway,
Peru and Mexico obey,
And those who yet to Satan pray
Beyond the southern zone.

For George the Third I dare to fall,
Since he to me is all in all;
May he subdue this earthly ball
And nations tribute bring.
Yon western states shall wear his chain,
Where traitors now with tyrants reign,
And subject shall be all the main
To George, our potent king.

When honour calls to guard his throne,
My life I dare not call my own;
My life I yield without a groan
For him whom I adore.
In lasting glory shall he reign,
'Tis he shall conquer France and Spain,
Tho' I perhaps may ne'er again
Behold my native shore.

Maj. André. You sing charmingly, Lucinda. The poor fellow's resolution pleases me. He engages to give his life, if necessary, for his king and country, and yet perhaps he feels the ingratitude of both every hour in the day. It must, however, be so. Nature has formed us with a principle of love to our native land. What say you, Lucinda?

Lucinda. It may be so, sir; and yet that love need not carry us to such an idolatrous extravagance as is manifested in the little stanzas I had the pleasure of singing to you.

Maj. André. Indeed you are in the right, but we are slaves to custom.

Lucinda. I have sung to please you, my love; now, if you have leisure, I would beg your attention a moment to a little ditty that pleases myself.

Maj. André. Most gladly, my angel; I can prolong half an hour yet in your agreeable company.

[Looking at his watch

Lucinda sings[36]

You chide me and tell me I must not complain
To part a few days from my favourite swain.
He is gone to the battle and leaves me to mourn,
And say what you please, he will never return.

When he left me he kissed me, and said, my sweet dear,
In less than a month I again will be here;
With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
And I wept, being sure he would never return.

I said, my dear creature, I beg you would stay,
But he with his soldiers went strutting away.
Then why should I longer my sorrows adjourn,
For I know in my heart he will never return.

Whenever there's danger he loves to be there,
He fights like a hero when others despair.
In this expedition he goes to his urn;
You call me a fool if he ever return.

Maj. André. The application of this I must take to myself, I suppose. Fie upon you, lady; you need to divert me with merry jokes and a strain of wit peculiar to yourself. You now are pensive, demure, and melancholy. You make me so, too.

Lucinda. Yonder comes Sir Henry. I suppose he has some private business with you. I must retire.

[Exit Lucinda. Enter Sir Henry and others

Maj. André. How do your Excellencies? Will you please to sit?

Sir Henry.   Till you return from this important errand
I am a slave to impatience, Major André.
I beg you would this night equip with speed,
And on an eagle's wings to Arnold haste.
The frigate lies at single anchor ready,
And winds propitious to our purpose blow.
But hark ye, friend, and tell the general then
That if he can by any means at all,
On any artful, plausible pretence,
So manage matters and with such address
As to entice the great Americ chief,
At that same hour the fort is yielded to us,
There to be present on some feigned business,
That so we may be master of his person,
Tell him if he does this his pay is double.
Besides ten thousand guineas we have promised,
Ten thousand more with gratitude I'll pay,
And think him cheaply bought. He is the soul,
The great upholder of this long contention.
I dread his prudence and his courage more
Than all the armies that the Congress raise,
Than all the troops or all the ships of France.

Maj. André.   Well thought! I shall obey your Excellency.
It is a bold and dangerous undertaking,
'Tis hazardous, but not impossible.
To win on this great chief—'tis a bright thought.
He'll think himself as safe at West Point Fort
As in the bosom of his spacious camp,
And therefore will not hesitate to come
Only attended by a score of guards.
The same attempt may seize the fort and him.

Sir Henry.   And be precise to fix the time, when we
Must take possession of the citadel.
Against the hour that I expect you back
Five thousand troops shall be embarked and ready
To execute whatever plan you fix on.

[Exit Sir Henry. Reënter Lucinda with a handkerchief to her eyes

Maj. André. The time is come that is appointed for my departure. It is impossible that even beauty or wit or tears can now withhold me from my purpose. I have promised his Excellency and now to hesitate would prove me to be a coward, one altogether unworthy to be trusted with any business that requires wit and dexterity.

Lucinda. Your resolution is fixed, and I do not desire you to fall from it; only if heaven should so order that any fatal accident befall you, remember the unfortunate Lucinda. She sends her good wishes along with you, and prays for all imaginable prosperity on every undertaking in which Major André bears a part.

Maj. André. My thanks to you, my dearest. If a heart so good as thine petition heaven for my safety, I have nothing to fear. Thy prayers are my guardian angels, and will protect me in every danger. My honour calls me and I must go. Give me a parting kiss, my dear. Adieu, adieu.

[He leaves her

Now native courage warm my wavering breast,
And fires of resolution blaze within me,
For I must on a dangerous errand go,
With secret cunning to deceive the foe,
Whose active souls in dire connections meet,
Where one false step my ruin makes complete.
Ye guardian powers that still protect the brave,
Some pity on distressed Britain have.
By me she seeks some portion to regain
Of her lost empire, tried so oft in vain.
But dreadful scenes before my eyes appear,
And dangers thicken as they draw more near.
But soft—no dangers can my heart appal,
I have a soul that can despise them all.
More than an equal chance for life I see,
But life and death must be the same to me. [Exit

Act III.

Scene I.—Robinson's house. A stormy night. Arnold. Pasquin.

Arnold. How looks the weather?

Pasquin. Stormy, sir; very stormy; it blows terrifically and there is heavy rain.

Arnold. Pasquin!

Pasquin. Sir.

Arnold. Tell the sentries upon duty to-night that I expect a gentleman of my acquaintance here about ten o'clock. When he comes to the outer gate, bid one of them conduct him to my apartment.

Pasquin. Your honour shall be obeyed.

[Exit

Arnold (solus).   Peace to this gloomy grove that sees me acting
What open daylight would disdain to own.
Ye wood, be witness of my dark designs,
And shade me o'er, ye lofty eminences;
Tremendous gloom, encompass me around
In clouds that wing from Greenland's foggy caves,
Plutonian darkness on your pinions bring,
Conceal my base intent from human view,
And be the daylight still a stranger to it.
Storm on, ye wind, the tempest that ye make
In the broad regions of the troubled ether
Is quiet to the tumult of my soul!
Departing honour,—take thy last adieu,
'Tis this night's deed that stamps me for a villain.
Who comes there?

[Enter Pasquin

Pasquin. Sir, there is a traveller just alighted at Sergeant Jones's quarters, who desires to know whether he can have a little private conference with you, and asked me whether you were alone or no.

Arnold. A traveller? How is he dressed?

Pasquin. He has on a plain suit of blue clothes, a cocked beaver hat and draw boots. He rides a common bay horse, and by his general appearance one would suppose him to be a commissary, or perhaps a quarter-master.

Arnold. How came you to know all these particulars; the night being so dark and stormy?

Pasquin. I had a glimpse of him by means of a lanthorn we carried out when he got off his horse. Over all, I forgot to mention, he had a fear-naught riding coat.

Arnold. A plain blue suit, you say?

Pasquin. Yes.

Arnold. And draw boots?

Pasquin. Yes.

Arnold. And wore he sword?

Pasquin. No; he had no sword, that I saw.

Arnold. And what aspect is he? Is he a well-looking man?

Pasquin. As handsome a man, please your honour, as ever the sun shone upon. It did me good to look upon him.

Arnold (aside). This must be him. [To Pasquin] Bid the sergeant show him the way to me immediately, and put up his horse in my own stable. He is from Philadelphia, a friend and relative of mine.

[Exit Pasquin

Arnold (solus). This is Major André, indeed. We have agreed in our correspondence that he shall pass here under the name of Captain Ashton, to prevent suspicion.

[Sergeant introduces Major André

Arnold. Captain Ashton, my friend, how are you? Please to draw near the fire and sit. How do our friends at Philadelphia? [Exit sergeant] The booby is now gone, and we may talk freely without suspicion.

Maj. André. I am happy at length to see General Arnold, with whom I have corresponded so long at a distance. I hope, my dear general, you are ready to perform your promise.

Arnold. Undoubtedly the fort shall be yours within three days, upon the conditions I mentioned to you in my last letter. I hope you have apprised Sir Henry of them.

Maj. André. Yes, sir. He is satisfied, and thinks your demand really moderate; but now let us to the point. We must fall upon some plan by which we must act without much danger of miscarriage. Would it not be best that our troops should seem to take the fort by surprise, and thus prevent the world from having any suspicion of treachery in the case?

Arnold. I have had the same thought, my dear sir. Besides, if we can make this pass, I shall become a prisoner of war to you in appearance, be exchanged after a little time, and so be in a capacity to serve you again; or, pretending the fort not tenable, I may make my escape during your attack, and all this without any suspicion on the part of the Americans.

Maj. André. God grant your scheme may be successful.

Arnold. Now hear what I have to propose further. When you are embarked with your army, suppose one or two thousand men or more sail up the river as far as you safely can, short of the fort, and endeavour to make the country believe you are on a plundering expedition. I shall have companies out who will give me notice of all your movements. Then land your men, march up to the fort, demand a surrender, which I will absolutely refuse. Upon which hang out your bloody flag and fire against the walls point blank, without mercy. In that part of the fortress where I shall be, you will see a small white flag flying. Do not fire to that quarter. The garrison shall discharge the artillery three times over your heads, after which I will surrender and open the gates to you. Then, by not putting one of the garrison to death, which would be your right, you having stormed it, you will have an excellent opportunity of giving the world a new instance of British humanity. Then you may pour your troops into the fort, take possession of it, and hoist the British flag. The prisoners may immediately be sent to the shipping and ordered to New York before the Continental forces will have a chance of hindering the embarkation. What say you?

Maj. André. Excellently well imagined. I hope it may succeed. The money shall be paid you on your arrival at York; but there is another service Sir Henry would fain hope you could indulge him in, and your reward shall be double.

Arnold. What may it be?

Maj. André. He is eager to be possessed of your Commander-in-Chief. Could you contrive no way to get him into our hands? He is the soul of this obstinate rebellion. Were he a prisoner to us, America would soon be ours again.

Arnold (pausing). Why, true, it would greatly facilitate the recovery of the colonies. Let me see. I will endeavour to prevail upon him to spend a day or two at Robinson's home. Nay, I am sure he will be here next Monday, and the garrison. There are a number of disaffected people not far from hence, whom I can engage to secure his person and convey him on board the Vulture ship of war.

Maj. André. If we become by your means possessed of these two jewels, General Washington and this important fort, we shall never think the obligation sufficiently acknowledged. You will become the greatest man in the world. Britain will adore you. She will kiss the very ground you tread upon, besides lavishing wealth upon you by millions.

Arnold. She is heartily welcome to such poor services as I can render her. What I do is from principle, from the consciousness of a rectitude of heart and love to my country.

Maj. André. Sir, you were born to be a great man. Now, if you will be pleased to deliver me the plan of the fort, signals of recognizance and other papers of consequence in this affair, I will be going. I do not think myself safe till such times as I get within the British lines again.

Arnold. The danger is trifling. With a passport from me, you may go anywhere in these colonies.

Maj. André. Sir, I thank you. It may be of service indeed.

Arnold. I will write it immediately. There, sir; and here is the packet. I will not detain you, because I know the business requires dispatch. You will, however, sup with me, and take a glass of wine before you go.

Maj. André. I shall hardly have time; however, I will wait half an hour.

Arnold. Walk with me into this other apartment; we soldiers do not stand upon ceremony. But how do you carry these papers so as to conceal them in case you meet with any over-curious persons?

Maj. André. I have an expedient. I can carry them in the foot of my boot. Do you see how snug they lie?

[Putting them on

Arnold. Aye, faith, that was well thought of; but do not put the passport in your boot.

Maj. André. No, no. That goes into my pocket.

Scene II.—An ancient stone building in the Dutch taste. Three officers, Vincent, Ambrose, Asmith. Vincent and Asmith entering.

Am.   Well are we met in these sequestered wilds;
Whence come ye, brothers, at so late an hour?

Vin.   From scouring all the country up and down,
To seize, if fortune please, illicit traders,
Who are so bold and unscrupulous grown
That oft in open day, as well as night,
They bear large cargoes of provision down
To yonder ships that still infest our river.
How I detest these underhanded scoundrels,
Who, hungry as the grave for British gold,
Feed the vile foe that lurks within our harbours.

Am.   Gods! Can they be so base,—but there are they
Who sell their country for a mess of pottage,—
A servile, scheming race whose god is gain,
Who for a little gold would stab their fathers
And plunder life from her who gave them life.
These are not true Americans. They are
A spurious race—scum, dregs, and bastards all.
They are not true Americans, I say.

As.   They cannot be, they help toward our ruin.
But, gentlemen, I'll tell you what I think;
We have so many lurking foes within,
And such a potent enemy without,
That I almost despair, I must confess,
That ever we shall rend these thirteen States
From persevering Britain, and compel
Acknowledgment of independence here.

Vin.   Say not so.
The rights of humanity, 'tis these we fight for,
And not to carry ruin round the globe.
Appearances are so much in our favour
That he who doubts that this event shall be,
Must be as blind as he whose useless orbs
Have never drank the radiated light.
Nay, he who doubts of this, who dares to doubt
(If nature be not ——[37] to miracles
And devils rule with delegated sway)
Deserves not nor is worthy to enjoy
The paradise we look for.

Amb. Be it so.
But let us leave the great event to fate,
Who soon or late will bring to light its purpose;
Our duty to our country must be done,
And in so doing we its freedom hasten.
But, friends, why stay we here? By yonder stars
That still revolving point toward the pole,
I find it must be midnight.

Vin.   I do expect a score of peasants here,
A set of hardy, bold, and faithful fellows,
Whom I can trust in all emergencies.
In different parties I shall these despatch
Toward the hostile lines, for I suspect
That intercourse too often doth subsist
Between our disaffected and the foe.

Amb.   And are these peasants armed?

Vin.   Armed with a musquet and a bayonet;
A true and desperate soldier wants no more.

As.   And thirty cartridges to every man,
With three days' victuals in their knapsacks stored.

Amb.   It is enough. I hope they will not tarry.

Scene III.—A number of armed peasants in an outhouse.

1st P. Do you know what we are sent for, brother Harry?

2nd P. To go on some secret expedition, I suppose.

1st P. And which way shall we bend, think ye?

2nd P. God bless you. Why do you ask such a question? It is not for us to know where we are going. We shall know bye and bye, I warrant you, after we have marched two or three score of miles.

1st P. And where are our officers?

2nd P. They are in the adjoining house. They will be with us presently.

3rd P. And how shall we pass the time till they come?

2nd P. O, merrily enough. We can dance and sing.

1st P. Harry, you can sing. Give us a song.

2nd P.

[Sings

Ours not to sleep in shady bowers,[38]
When frosts are chilling all the plain,
And nights are cold and long the hours
To check the ardor of the swain,
Who parting from his cheerful fire
All comforts doth forego,
And here and there
And everywhere
Pursues the prowling foe.

2nd P. How like you that?

3rd P. O, very well. I love to hear anything that touches upon the hardships of a soldier's life.

4th P. Give us the rest; give us the rest. I love that song, Harry.

2nd P.

But we must sleep in frost and snows,
No season shuts up our campaign;
Hard as the oaks, we dare oppose
The autumn's or the winter's reign.
Alike to us the winds that blow
In summer's season gay,
Or those that rave
On Hudson's wave
And drift his ice away.

For Liberty, celestial maid,
With joy all hardships we endure.
In her blest smiles we are repaid,
In her protection are secure.
Then rise superior to the foe,
Ye freeborn souls of fire;
Respect these arms,
'Tis freedom warms,
To noble deeds aspire.

Winter and death may change the scene,
The cold may freeze, the ball may kill,
And dire misfortunes intervene;
But freedom shall be potent still
To drive these Britons from our shore,
Who, cruel and unkind,
With slavish chain
Attempt in vain
Our freeborn limbs to bind.

Pasq. O, excellent—"Our freeborn limbs to bind"—by my soul, they never shall bind mine. Harry, give us another song on our affairs and then we'll be ready.

All. Ay, ay; another, another.

2nd P. I have not many by heart. I do recollect one at present, but it was made at the beginning of the war.

All. No matter, no matter; let's hear it.

2nd P.

[Sings

The cohorts of Britain are now all complete,
She has brushed up her soldiers and manned out her fleet;
The lion has roared whose trade is to kill,
And we are the victims whose blood he must spill.

But ere I am slaughtered and wrapped in a shroud
I must tell you the motive that makes him so proud.
The monkeys and puppies that bow to his rule
Have told him a lie and deceived the old fool.

They say we are cowards, not dressed in red coats,
That he without danger may cut all our throats;
If we see but a Briton, confounded with fear,
We'll throw down our muskets and run like a deer.

That one thousand men with a captain would dare
To march from New Hampshire to Georgia, they swear.
But here lies the trick of these wonderful men,
They tell us they'll do it, but do not say when.

Such a motive to fight would you ever conceive,
Yet such is the motive that makes him so brave.
On such a presumption, in hopes of applause,
He whets up his grinders and sharpens his claws.

But hark, Mr. Lion, and be not so stout,
In fancy alone you have put us to rout.
To show you how little your threat'nings avail,
Here's a kick at your breech and a clip at your tail.[39]

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

But everything seems poisoned where I tread,
And I am tortured to perfection.

[Exit. Enter an officer of the guard

Scene IV.—Another apartment in said house. Enter Aide to Gen. Arnold.

Aide.   General Arnold here?

Jeff.   Two hours have hardly yet elapsed since he
Across the river to the garrison
On some important business went in haste,
So as I told to his attendant here.
For since the general parted I arrived.
Is he, then, at the garrison? by heaven,
We'll have him in a trice.

Aide.   You'll have him in a trice. Pray, what means that?

Jeff.   I see your ignorance, my honest friend.
Why such a damned, unnatural plot has happened
That when I mention it, if you have feeling,
At the first word your blood must chill with horror
And admiration shake your very soul.
This traitor Arnold, this vile, abandoned traitor,
This monster of ingratitude unequalled,
Has been conspiring with an English spy
To render tip the fort to General Clinton.

Aide.   What fort? the fort at West Point, mean you?

Jeff.   The fort at West Point, on my sacred honour,
The garrison, dependencies, and stores,
And, what is more, the person of our leader.
Five thousand troops at York are now embarked,
And even wait this night to take possession.

Aide.   Is this reality; sure you are jesting.
And yet you serious seem to be of countenance.
Lips that quiver, eyes that glow with passion,
Tempt me to think your story may be true.
And yet I doubt it. Came you here to seize him?

Jeff.   Nay, doubt it not. I have the papers with me
That at a glance betray this horrid treason.

Aide.   For what could he do this?
Was it Resentment, Avarice, Ambition
That prompted him to act the traitor's part?
And yet I'm sure it never could be avarice.
His country lavishes her wealth upon him;
He has the income of a little king,
And perquisites that by a hundred ways
Not only the base wants of life supply,
But deck him out in elegance and grandeur.
Perhaps, indeed, he has ambitious views:
He aims to make his court to Britain's king,
And rise upon the ruins of his country.
Perhaps it is resentment and disgust,
For many hate him, and have often said
He fattens on the plunder of the public.

Jeff.   'Tis avarice, sir, that base, unmanly motive.
The glare of British gold has captivated
This hero, as we thought him. What a curse,
That human souls can of such stuff be moulded,
That they, foregoing fame and character,
E'en for the sake of what is despicable,
Be foe to virtue and to virtue's friend.
But such are to be found, and every age has seen 'em,
Who, for the sake of mere external show,
Some qualities that seemed to them attractive——[40]

[33] This fragment of a drama, as far as I can find, was never published. Freneau, judging from indications, wrote it shortly after his "Prison Ship," in the autumn of 1780, only a few weeks after the events took place which it records. It exists, as far as I know, only in Freneau's fragmentary and much-revised autograph manuscript now in the possession of Miss Adele M. Sweeney of Jersey City. The arrest of André took place September 23, 1780.

[34] Here occurs an illegible word in Freneau's manuscript.

[35] This poem was first published in the edition of 1786 under the title, "The English Quixote of 1778; or, Modern Idolatry." In the 1809 edition Freneau added the following:

Epilogue

'Tis so well known 'tis hardly worth relating
That men have worshipped gods, though of their own creating:
Art's handy work they thought they might adore,
And bowed to gods that were but logs before.

Idols, of old, were made of clay or wood,
And, in themselves, did neither harm nor good,
Acted as though they knew the good old rule,
"Friend, hold thy peace, and you'll be thought no fool."

Britons! their case is yours—and linked in fate,
You, like your Indian allies—good and great—
Bow to some frowning block yourselves did rear,
And worship wooden monarchs—out of fear.

[36] This lyric has been used by Freneau in his poem, "Mars and Hymen," q. v.

[37] An illegible word.

[38] This poem had also been used in "Mars and Hymen." In later editions it was printed as a distinct lyric, with the title "The Northern Soldier." The present version, reprinted from Freneau's manuscript, will be seen to differ considerably from the others.

[39] A part of the manuscript is missing at this point.

[40] Here the manuscript ends abruptly.

PART III

ERA OF THE FREEMAN'S JOURNAL

1781—1790

ERA OF THE FREEMAN'S JOURNAL

1781—1790[41]

[41] This period began in August, 1781, when Freneau became connected with Mr. Francis Bailey's Freeman's Journal, in Philadelphia. In June, 1784, he left Philadelphia for a wandering career upon the ocean, which continued until 1790, when his assumption of the editorship of the New York Advertiser and his marriage put an end for a time to his wanderings. The greater part of the poems written during this period appeared originally in the Freeman's Journal.

ON THE MEMORABLE VICTORY[42]

Obtained by the gallant Captain Paul Jones, of the Good Man Richard, over the Seraphis, etc., under the command of Captain Pearson.

Written August, 1781

1

O'er the rough main with flowing sheet
The guardian of a numerous fleet,
Seraphis from the Baltic came;
A ship of less tremendous force
Sail'd by her side the self-same course,
Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name.

2

And now their native coasts appear,
Britannia's hills their summits rear
Above the German main;
Fond to suppose their dangers o'er,
They southward coast along the shore,
Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain.

3

Full forty guns Seraphis bore,
And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four,
Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars—
What flag that rides the Gallic seas
Shall dare attack such piles as these,
Design'd for tumults and for wars!

4

Now from the top-mast's giddy height
A seaman cry'd—"Four sail in sight
"Approach with favouring gales;"
Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet,
Stood off to sea these ships to meet,
And closely brac'd his shivering sails.

5

With him advanc'd the Countess bold,
Like a black tar in wars grown old:
And now these floating piles drew nigh;
But, muse, unfold what chief of fame
In th' other warlike squadron came,
Whose standards at his mast head fly.

6

'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle led
As bold a crew as ever bled
Upon the sky surrounded main;
The standards of the Western World
Were to the willing winds unfurl'd,
Denying Britain's tyrant reign.

7

The Good Man Richard led the line;
The Alliance next: with these combine
The Gallic ship they Pallas call:
The Vengeance, arm'd with sword and flame,
These to attack the Britons came—
But two accomplish'd all.

8

Now Phœbus sought his pearly bed:
But who can tell the scenes of dread,
The horrors of that fatal night!
Close up these floating castles came;
The Good Man Richard bursts in flame;
Seraphis trembled at the sight.

9

She felt the fury of her ball,
Down, prostrate down, the Britons fall;
The decks were strew'd with slain:
Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd;
And, while the black artillery flash'd,
Loud thunders shook the main.

10

Alas! that mortals should employ
Such murdering engines, to destroy
That frame by heav'n so nicely join'd;
Alas! that e'er the god decreed
That brother should by brother bleed,
And pour'd such madness in the mind.

11

But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear;
The rights of men demand thy care:
For these you dare the greedy waves—
No tyrant on destruction bent
Has planned thy conquests—thou art sent
To humble tyrants and their slaves.

12

See!—dread Seraphis flames again—
And art thou, Jones, among the slain,
And sunk to Neptune's caves below—
He lives—though crowds around him fall,
Still he, unhurt, survives them all;
Almost alone he fights the foe.

13

And can thy ship these strokes sustain?
Behold thy brave companions slain,
All clasp'd in ocean's dark embrace.
"Strike, or be sunk!"—the Briton cries—
"Sink, if you can!"—the chief replies,
Fierce lightnings blazing in his face.

14

Then to the side three guns he drew,
(Almost deserted by his crew)
And charg'd them deep with woe:
By Pearson's flash he aim'd the balls;
His main-mast totters—down it falls—
Tremendous was the blow.[43]

15

Pearson as yet disdain'd to yield,
But scarce his secret fears conceal'd,
And thus was heard to cry—
"With hell, not mortals, I contend;
"What art thou—human, or a fiend,
"That dost my force defy?

16

"Return, my lads, the fight renew!"
So call'd bold Pearson to his crew;
But call'd, alas! in vain;
Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead;
Some to their deep recesses fled,
And more were bury'd in the main.[44]

17

Distress'd, forsaken, and alone,
He haul'd his tatter'd standard down,
And yielded to his gallant foe;
Bold Pallas soon the Countess took,
Thus both their haughty colours struck,
Confessing what the brave can do.

18

But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buy
These ships possest so gloriously,
Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray:
Thy barque that bore the conquering flame,
That the proud Briton overcame,
Even she forsook thee on thy way;

19

For when the morn began to shine,
Fatal to her, the ocean brine
Pour'd through each spacious wound;
Quick in the deep she disappear'd,
But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd,
With conquest and with glory crown'd.

20

Go on, great man, to daunt the foe,
And bid the haughty Britons know
They to our Thirteen Stars shall bend;
The Stars that veil'd in dark attire,
Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire,
But radiant now ascend;

21

Bend to the Stars that flaming rise
In western, not in eastern, skies,
Fair Freedom's reign restor'd.
So when the Magi, come from far,
Beheld the God-attending Star,
They trembled and ador'd.

[42] This was the first poem contributed by Freneau to the Freeman's Journal. It appeared August 8, 1781. The exploit of Jones is too well known to need further comment; it took place September 23, 1779. The text follows the edition of 1786.

[43] "Overwhelming half below."—Ed. 1795.

[44] "And hosts were shrouded in the main."—Ed. 1795.

AN ADDRESS[45]

To the Commander-in-Chief, Officers, and Soldiers of the American Army

Accept, great men, that share of honest praise
A grateful nation to your merit pays:
Verse is too mean your merit to display,
And words too weak our praises to convey.
When first proud Britain raised her hostile hand
With claims unjust to bind our native land,
Transported armies, and her millions spent
To enforce the mandate that a tyrant sent;
"Resist! resist!" was heard through every state,
You heard the call, and feared your country's fate;
Then rising fierce in arms, for war arrayed,
You taught to vanquish those who dared invade.
Those British chiefs whom former wars had crowned
With conquest—and in every clime renowned;
Who forced new realms to own their monarch's law,
And whom even George beheld with secret awe—
Those mighty chiefs, compelled to fly or yield,
Scarce dared to meet you on the embattled field;
To Boston's port you chased the trembling crew,
Quick, even from thence the British veterans flew—
Through wintry waves they fled, and thought each wave
Their last, best safety from a foe so brave![46]
What men, like you, our warfare could command,
And bring us safely to the promised land?—
Not swoln with pride,[47] with victory elate—
'Tis in misfortune you are doubly great:
When Howe victorious our weak armies chased,
And, sure of conquest, laid Cesarea waste,
When prostrate, bleeding, at his feet she lay,
And the proud victor tore her wreathes away,
Each gallant chief[48] put forth his warlike hand
And raised the drooping genius of the land,
Repelled the foe, their choicest warriors slain,
And drove them howling to their ships again.
While others kindle into martial rage
Whom fierce ambition urges to engage,
An iron race, by angry heaven designed
To conquer first and then enslave mankind;
Here chiefs and heroes[49] more humane we see,
They venture life, that others may be free.
O! may you live to hail that glorious day
When Britain homeward shall pursue her way—
That race subdued, who filled the world with slain
And rode tyrannic o'er the subject main!—
What few presumed, you boldly have atchieved,
A tyrant humbled, and a world relieved.
O Washington, who leadst this glorious train,[50]
Still may the fates thy valued life maintain.—
Rome's boasted chiefs, who, to their own disgrace,
Proved the worst scourges of the human race,
Pierced by whose darts a thousand nations bled,
Who captive princes at their chariots led;
Born to enslave, to ravage, and subdue—
Return to nothing when compared to you;
Throughout the world your growing fame has spread,
In every country are your virtues read;
Remotest India hears your deeds of fame,
The hardy Scythian stammers at your name;
The haughty Turk, now longing to be free,
Neglects his Sultan to enquire of thee;
The barbarous Briton hails you to his shores,
And calls him Rebel, whom his heart adores.
Still may the heavens prolong your vital date,
And still may conquest on your banners wait:
Whether afar to ravaged lands you go,
Where wild Potowmac's rapid waters flow,
Or where Saluda laves the fertile plain
And, swoln by torrents, rushes to the main;
Or if again to Hudson you repair
To smite the cruel foe that lingers there—
Revenge their cause, whose virtue was their crime,
The exiled hosts from Carolina's clime.
Late from the world in quiet mayest thou rise
And, mourned by millions, reach your native skies—
With patriot kings and generous chiefs to shine,
Whose virtues raised them to be deemed divine:
May Vasa[A] only equal honours claim,
Alike in merits—not the first in fame!

[A] Gustavus Vasa of Sweden, the deliverer of his country.—Freneau's note. In the earlier editions this read Louis. First changed for the edition of 1795.

[45] First published in the Freeman's Journal, September 5, 1781, under the title "To his Excellency General Washington," and reprinted without change in the edition of 1786. The same paper contained the following news item: "On Thursday, the 30th of August, at one o'clock in the afternoon, his excellency General Washington, Commander-in-chief of the American Armies, accompanied by the Generals Rochambeau and Chattelux, with their respective suites, arrived in this city." The early version was addressed wholly to Washington, the opening line reading, "Accept, great chief," etc. For the edition of 1795 it was changed to include officers and soldiers.

[46]

"*   *   *   they fled, and thought the sea
With all its storms less terrible than thee!"—Ed. 1786.

[47] "Not Clinton-like."—Ib.

[48] "You undismay'd."—-Ib.

[49] "In him a hero."—Ib.

[50] This and the line following not in the original version.

A NEW-YORK TORY[51]

To His Friend in Philadelphia

Dear Sir, I'm so anxious to hear of your health,
I beg you would send me a letter by stealth:
I hope a few months will quite alter the case,
When the wars are concluded, we'll meet and embrace.

For I'm led to believe from our brilliant success,
And, what is as clear, your amazing distress,
That the cause of rebellion has met with a check
That will bring all its patrons to hang by the neck.

Cornwallis has managed so well in the South,
Those rebels want victuals to put in their mouth;
And Arnold has stript them, we hear, to the buff[52]—
Has burnt their tobacco, and left them—the snuff.

Dear Thomas, I wish you would move from that town
Where meet all the rebels of fame and renown;
When our armies, victorious, shall clear that vile nest
You may chance, though a Tory, to swing with the rest.

But again—on reflection—I beg you would stay—
You may serve us yet better than if moved away—
Give advice to Sir Harry of all that is passing,
What vessels are building, what cargoes amassing;

Inform, to a day, when those vessels will sail,
That our cruisers may capture them all, without fail—
By proceedings like these, your peace will be made,
The rebellious shall swing, but be you ne'er afraid.

I cannot conceive how you do to subsist—
The rebels are starving, except those who 'list;
And as you reside in the land of Gomorrah,
You must fare as the rest do, I think, to your sorrow.

Poor souls! if ye knew what a doom is decreed,
(I mean not for you, but for rebels indeed),
You would tremble to think of the vengeance in store,
The halters and gibbets—I mention no more.

The rebels must surely conclude they're undone,
Their navy is ruined, their armies have run;
It is time they should now from delusion awaken—
The rebellion is done—for the Trumbull[53] is taken!

[51] Freeman's Journal, September 5, 1781.

[52] Cornwallis, in command of the British army in the South, was in the early part of 1781 working his way steadily northward from South Carolina. Benedict Arnold arrived in the Chesapeake, January 2, 1781, and, supported by the British navy there, committed extensive ravages on the rivers and unprotected coasts of Virginia. Arnold offered to spare Richmond if he were given its stores of tobacco. The offer being rejected, the city with its tobacco was burned.

[53] The American frigate Trumbull, 20, Captain James Nicholson, was chased off the capes of the Delaware, August 8th, 1781, by three British cruisers. As it was blowing heavily towards night, the fore-topmast of the Trumbull was carried away by a squall, bringing down with it, on deck, the main-topgallant mast. About ten o'clock at night, one of the British vessels, the Iris, 32, came up and closed with her while still encumbered with the wreck. "In the midst of rain and squalls, in a tempestuous night, with most of the forward hamper of the ship over her bows, or lying on the forecastle, with one of the arms of the fore-topsail yard run through her fore-sail, and the other jammed on deck, and with a disorganized crew, Captain Nicholson found himself compelled to go to quarters, or to strike without resistance. He preferred the first; but the English volunteers, instead of obeying orders, went below, extinguished the lights, and secreted themselves. Near half of the remainder of the people imitated this example, and Captain Nicholson could not muster fifty of even the diminished crew he had, at the guns. The battle that followed might almost be said to have been fought by the officers. These brave men, sustained by a party of the petty officers and seamen, managed a few of the guns for more than an hour, when the General Monk, 18, coming up and joining in the fire of the Iris, the Trumbull submitted."—Cooper's Naval History.—[Duyckinck's note, ed. of 1865.]

TO LORD CORNWALLIS[54]

At York, Virginia

Hail, great destroyer (equalled yet by none)
Of countries not your master's, nor your own;
Hatched by some demon on a stormy day,
Satan's best substitute to burn and slay;
Confined at last, hemmed in by land and sea,
Burgoyne himself was but a type of thee!
Like his, to freedom was your deadly hate,
Like his your baseness, and be his your fate:
To you, like him, no prospect Nature yields,
But ruined wastes and desolated fields[55]—
In vain you raise the interposing wall,
And hoist those standards that, like you, must fall,
In you conclude the glories of your race,
Complete your monarch's and your own disgrace.
What has your lordship's pilfering arms attained?—
Vast stores of plunder, but no State regained—
That may return, though you perhaps may groan,
Restore it, Charley,[56] for 'tis not your own—
Then, lord and soldier, headlong to the brine
Rush down at once—the devil and the swine.
Wouldst thou at last with Washington engage,
Sad object of his pity, not his rage?
See, round thy posts how terribly advance
The chiefs, the armies, and the fleets of France;[57]
Fight while you can, for warlike Rochambeau
Aims at your head his last decisive blow,
Unnumbered ghosts from earth untimely sped,
Can take no rest till you, like them, are dead—
Then die, my Lord; that only chance remains
To wipe away dishonourable stains,
For small advantage would your capture bring,
The plundering servant of a bankrupt king.

[54] This did not appear in the Freeman's Journal. In the edition of 1786 it bore the title, "To Lord Cornwallis, at York, Virginia, October 8, 1781."

[55] Cornwallis arrived in Virginia from his Southern campaign early in the summer of 1781, and immediately began with extreme vigor to subjugate that State. His cruelty and severity were exceptional, even in the annals of war. "The Americans of that day," says Bancroft, "computed that Cornwallis, in his midsummer marchings up and down Virginia, destroyed property to the value of three million pounds sterling."

[56] "Ruffian."—Ed. 1786.

[57] On October 8th, Cornwallis, at York, was surrounded by the American army, who had just completed the first line of trenches. The redoubts were so far enough completed on the 9th that the Americans and French felt ready to begin the bombardment of the British works.

A LONDON DIALOGUE[58]

Between My Lords, Dunmore and Germaine

Dunmore

Ever since I return'd to my dear native shore,
No poet in Grubstreet was ever dunned more—
I'm dunned by my barber, my taylor, my groom;
How can I do else than to fret and to fume?
They join to attack me with one good accord,
From morning till night 'tis "my lord, and my lord."
And there comes the cobler, so often denied—
If I had him in private, I'd thresh his tough hide.

Germaine

Would you worry the man that has found you in shoes?
Come, courage, my lord, I can tell you good news—
Virginia is conquered, the rebels are banged,[59]
You are now to go over and see them safe hanged:
I hope it is not to your nature abhorrent
To sign for these wretches a handsome death warrant—
Were I but in your place, I'm sure it would suit
To sign their death warrants, and hang them to boot.

Dunmore

My lord!—I'm amazed—have we routed the foe?—
I shall govern again then, if matters be so—
And as to the hanging, in short, to be plain,
I'll hang them so well, they'll ne'er want it again.
With regard to the wretches who thump at my gates,
I'll discharge all their dues with the rebel estates;
In less than three months I may send a polacca
As deep as she'll swim, sir, with corn and tobacco.

Germaine

And send us some rebels—a dozen or so—
They'll serve here in London by way of a show;
And as to the Tories, believe me, dear cousin,
We can spare you some hundreds to pay for the dozen.

[58] Freeman's Journal, September 19, 1781. The original title, the one used in the 1786 edition, was "Dialogue between the Lords Dunmore and Mansfield." Lord Dunmore was Governor of Virginia at the beginning of the war, in 1775, and was driven from that State by the outraged colonists. He continued in America, in various capacities, until near the close of the war. Lord George Germaine was Colonial Secretary under George III., and so had charge of the American War.

[59] Alluding to the vigorous campaign of Cornwallis. In June, Germaine had written to Cornwallis: "The rapidity of your movements is justly matter of astonishment to all Europe." On August 2nd he wrote: "I see nothing to prevent the recovery of the whole country to the King's obedience."

LORD CORNWALLIS TO SIR HENRY
CLINTON[60]

[From York, Virginia]

From clouds of smoke, and flames that round me glow,
To you, dear Clinton, I disclose my woe:
Here cannons flash, bombs glance, and bullets fly;
Not Arnold's[61] self endures such misery.
Was I foredoomed in tortures[62] to expire,
Hurled to perdition in a blaze of fire?
With these blue flames can mortal man contend—
What arms can aid me, or what walls defend?
Even to these gates last night a phantom strode,
And hailed me trembling to his dark abode:
Aghast I stood, struck motionless and dumb,
Seized with the horrors of the world to come.
Were but my power as mighty as my rage,
Far different battles would Cornwallis wage;
Beneath his sword yon' threat'ning hosts should groan,
The earth would quake with thunders all his own.
O crocodile! had I thy flinty hide,
Swords to defy, and glance the balls aside,
By my own prowess would I rout the foe,
With my own javelin would I work their woe—
But fates averse, by heaven's supreme decree,
Nile's serpent formed more excellent than me.
Has heaven, in secret, for some crime decreed
That I should suffer, and my soldiers bleed?
Or is it by the jealous powers concealed,
That I must bend, and they ignobly yield?
Ah! no—the thought o'erwhelms my soul with grief:
Come, bold Sir Harry, come to my relief;
Come, thou brave man, whom rebels Tombstone call,
But Britons, Graves[63]—come Digby, devil and all;
Come, princely William, with thy potent aid,
Can George's blood by Frenchmen be dismayed?
From a king's uncle once Scotch rebels run,
And shall not these be routed by a son?
Come with your ships to this disastrous shore,
Come—or I sink—and sink to rise no more;
By every motive that can sway the brave
Haste, and my feeble, fainting army save;
Come, and lost empire o'er the deep regain,
Chastise these upstarts that usurp the main;
I see their first rates to the charge advance,
I see lost Iris wear the flags of France;
There a strict rule the wakeful Frenchman keeps;
There, on no bed of down, Lord Rawdon sleeps!
Tired with long acting on this bloody stage,
Sick of the follies of a wrangling age,
Come with your fleet, and help me to retire
To Britain's coast, the land of my desire—
For, me the foe their certain captive deem,
And every trifler[64] takes me for his theme—
Long, much too long in this hard service tried,
Bespattered still, be-deviled, and belied;
With the first chance that favouring fortune sends
I fly, converted, from this land of fiends;
Convinced, for me, she has no gems in store,
Nor leaves one triumph, even to hope for more.

[60] First published in the Freeman's Journal, October 17, 1781, two days before the final surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown. "On the seventeenth [of September] Cornwallis reported to Clinton: 'This place is in no state of defence. If you cannot relieve me very soon, you must be prepared to hear the worst.'"—Bancroft.

[61] "Satan's self."—Ed. 1786.

[62] "Like Korah."—Ib.

[63] "Lord Sandwich, after the retirement of Howe, gave the naval command at New York to officers without ability; and the aged Arbuthnot was succeeded by Graves, a coarse and vulgar man of mean ability, and without skill in his profession."—Bancroft.

[64] "School-boy."—Ed. 1786.

THE VANITY OF EXISTENCE[65]

To Thyrsis

In youth, gay scenes attract our eyes,
And not suspecting their decay
Life's flowery fields before us rise,
Regardless of its winter day.

But vain pursuits and joys as vain,
Convince us life is but a dream.
Death is to wake, to rise again
To that true life you best esteem.

So nightly on some shallow tide,
Oft have I seen a splendid show;
Reflected stars on either side,
And glittering moons were seen below.

But when the tide had ebbed away,
The scene fantastic with it fled,
A bank of mud around me lay,
And sea-weed on the river's bed.

[65] Published in the Freeman's Journal, October 24, 1781, under the title "A Moral Thought," and reprinted without change in the edition of 1786.

ON THE FALL OF GENERAL EARL CORNWALLIS

Who, with above seven thousand Men, surrendered themselves prisoners of war to the renowned and illustrious General George Washington, Commander-in-chief of the allied armies of France and America, on the memorable 19th of October, 1781.[66]

"Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,
"That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile
"Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh,
"Before this earthly prison of their bones;
"That so the shadows be not unappeas'd,
"Nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth."
—Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus, Act I, Scene II.

A Chieftain join'd with[67] Howe, Burgoyne, and Gage,
Once more, nor this the last, provokes my rage—
Who saw these Nimrods first for conquest burn!
Who has not seen them to the dust return?
This ruffian[68] next, who scour'd our ravag'd fields,
Foe to the human race,[69] Cornwallis yields!—
None e'er before essay'd such desperate crimes,
Alone he stood, arch-butcher of the times,
Rov'd uncontroul'd this wasted country o'er,
Strew'd plains with dead, and bath'd his jaws with gore?[70]
'Twas thus the wolf, who sought by night his prey,
And plunder'd all he met with on his way,
Stole what he could, and murder'd as he pass'd,
Chanc'd on a trap, and lost his head at last.
What pen can write, what human tongue can tell
The endless murders of this man of hell![71]
Nature in him disgrac'd the form divine;
Nature mistook, she meant him for a—swine:
That eye his forehead to her shame adorns;
Blush! nature, blush—bestow him tail and horns!—
By him the orphans mourn—the widow'd dame
Saw ruin spreading in the wasteful flame;
Gash'd o'er with wounds beheld with streaming eye
A son, a brother, or a consort, die!—
Through ruin'd realms bones lie without a tomb,
And souls he sped to their eternal doom,
Who else had liv'd, and seen their toils again
Bless'd by the genius of the rural reign.
But turn your eyes, and see the murderer fall,[72]
Then say—"Cornwallis has atchiev'd it all."—
Yet he preserves the honour and the fame
That vanquish'd heroes only ought to claim—
Is he a hero!—Read, and you will find
Heroes are beings of a different kind:—
Compassion to the worst of men is due,
And mercy heaven's first attribute, 'tis true;
Yet most presume it was too nobly done
To grant mild terms to Satan's first-born son.
Convinc'd we are, no foreign spot on earth
But Britain only, gave this reptile[73] birth.
That white-cliff'd isle, the vengeful dragon's[74] den,
Has sent us monsters where we look'd for men.
When memory paints their horrid deeds anew,
And brings these murdering miscreants to your view,
Then ask the leaders of these bloody bands,
Can they expect compassion at our hands?—
But may this year, the glorious eighty-one,
Conclude successful, as it first begun;[75]
This brilliant year their total downfall see,
And what Cornwallis is, may Clinton be.[76]
O come the time, nor distant be the day,
When our bold navy shall its wings display;
Mann'd by our sons, to seek that barbarous shore,[77]
The wrongs revenging that their fathers bore:
As Samuel hew'd the tyrant Agag down,[78]
So hew the wearer of the British crown;
Unpitying, next his hated offspring slay,
Or into foreign lands the fiends convey:[79]
Give them their turn to pine and die in chains,
'Till not one monster[80] of the race remains.
Thou, who resid'st on those thrice happy shores,
Where white rob'd peace her envied blessings pours,
Stay, and enjoy the pleasures that she yields;
But come not, stranger, to our wasted fields,
For warlike hosts on every plain appear,
War damps the beauties of the rising year:
In vain the groves their bloomy sweets display;
War's clouded winter chills the charms of May:
Here human blood the trampled harvest stains;
Here bones of men yet whiten all the plains;
Seas teem with dead; and our unhappy shore
Forever blushes with its children's gore.
But turn your eyes—behold the tyrant fall,
And think[81]—Cornwallis has atchiev'd it all.—
All mean revenge Americans disdain,
Oft have they prov'd it, and now prove again;
With nobler fires their generous bosoms glow;
Still in the captive they forget the foe:—
But when a nation takes a wrongful cause,
And hostile turns to heaven's and nature's laws;
When, sacrificing at ambition's shrine,
Kings slight the mandates of the power divine,
And devastation spread on every side,
To gratify their malice or their pride,
And send their slaves their projects to fulfil,
To wrest our freedom, or our blood to spill:—
Such to forgive, is virtue too sublime;
For even compassion has been found a crime.
A prophet once, for miracles renown'd,
Bade Joash smite the arrows on the ground—
Taking the mystic shafts, the prince obey'd,
Thrice smote them on the earth—and then he stay'd—
Griev'd when he saw full victory deny'd,
"Six times you should have smote," the prophet cry'd,
"Then had proud Syria sunk beneath thy power,
"Now thrice you smite her—but shall smite no more."
Cornwallis! thou art rank'd among the great;
Such was the will of all-controuling fate.
As mighty men, who liv'd in days of yore,
Were figur'd out some centuries before;
So you with them in equal honour join,
Your great precursor's name was Jack Burgoyne!
Like you was he, a man in arms renown'd,
Who, hot for conquest, sail'd the ocean round;
This, this was he, who scour'd the woods for praise,
And burnt down cities[A] to describe the blaze!
So, while on fire, his harp Rome's tyrant strung,
And as the buildings flam'd, old Nero sung.
Who would have guess'd the purpose of the fates,
When that proud boaster bow'd to conquering Gates!—
Then sung the sisters[B] as the wheel went round,
(Could we have heard the invigorating sound)
Thus surely did the fatal sisters sing—
"When just four years do this same season bring,
"And in his annual journey, when the sun
"Four times completely shall his circuit run,
"An angel then shall rid you of your fears,
"By binding Satan for a thousand years,
"Shall lash the serpent[82] to the infernal shore,
"To waste the nations and deceive no more,
"Make wars and blood, and tyranny to cease,
"And hush the fiends of Britain[83] into peace."
Joy to your lordship, and your high descent,
You are the Satan that the sisters meant.
Too soon you found your race of ruin run,
Your conquests ended, and your battles done!
But that to live is better than to die,
And life you chose, though life with infamy,
You should have climb'd your loftiest vessel's deck,[84]
And hung a millstone round your halter'd neck—[85]
Then plung'd forever to the wat'ry bed,
Hell in your heart, and vengeance on your head.[86]
All must confess, that in regard to you,[87]
'Twas wrong to rob the devil of his due—
For Hayne, for Hayne![88] no death but thine atones;
For thee, Cornwallis, how the gallows groans!
That injur'd man's, and all the blood you've shed,
That blood shall rest on your devoted head;
Asham'd to live, and yet afraid to die,
Your courage slacken'd as the foe drew nigh—
Ungrateful wretch, to yield your favourite band
To chains and prisons in a hostile land:
To the wide world your Negro friends to cast,
And leave your Tories to be hang'd at last!—
You should have fought with horror and amaze,
'Till scorch'd to cinders in the cannon blaze,
'Till all your host of Beelzebubs[89] was slain,
Doom'd to disgrace no human shape again—
As if from hell this horned host he drew,[90]
Swift from the South the embodied ruffians[91] flew;
Destruction follow'd at their cloven feet,
'Till you, Fayette, constrain'd them to retreat,
And held them close, 'till thy fam'd squadron came,
De Grasse, completing their eternal shame.
When the loud cannon's unremitting glare
And red hot balls compell'd you to despair,
How could you stand to meet your generous foe?
Did not the sight confound your soul with woe?—
In thy great soul what god-like virtues shine,
What inborn greatness, Washington, is thine!—
Else had no prisoner trod these lands to-day,
All, with his lordship, had been swept away,
All doom'd alike death's vermin to regale,
Nor one been left to tell the dreadful tale!
But his own terms the vanquish'd murderer[92] nam'd—
He nobly gave the miscreant[93] all he claim'd,
And bade Cornwallis, conquer'd and distress'd,
Bear all his torments in his tortur'd breast.
Now curs'd with life, a foe to man and God,
Like Cain, I drive you to the land of Nod.
He with a brother's blood his hands did stain,
One brother he, you have a thousand slain.
And, O! may heaven affix some public mark[94]
To know Cornwallis—may he howl and bark!—
On eagle's wings explore your downward flight[95]
To the deep horrors of the darkest night,[96]
Where, rapt in shade on ocean's utmost bound,[97]
No longer sun, nor moon, nor stars are found;
Where never light her kindling radiance shed,
But the dark comets rove with all their dead,[C]
Doom'd through the tracks of endless space to run
No more revolving to confound the sun.
Such horrid deeds your spotted soul[98] defame
We grieve to think your shape and ours the same!
Enjoy what comfort in this life you can,[99]
The form you have, not feelings of a man;
Haste to the rocks, thou curse to human kind,
There thou may'st wolves and brother tygers find;
Eternal exile be your righteous doom
And gnash your dragon's teeth in some sequester'd gloom;
Such be the end of each relentless foe
Who feels no pity for another's woe;
So may they fall[100]—even you, though much too late,
Shall curse the day you languished to be great;
Haste from the torments of the present life,[101]
Quick, let the halter end thee or the knife;
So may destruction rush with speedy wing,
Low as yourself, to drag your cruel king;[102]
His head torn off, his hands, his feet, and all,[103]
Deep in the dust may Dagon's image fall;
His stump alone escape the vengeful steel,
Sav'd but to grace the gibbet or the wheel.

[A] Charlestown, near Boston. See his letter on that occasion.—Freneau's note. The poet has satirized Burgoyne's literary pretentions in the "Voyage to Boston," q. v.

[B] The Parcæ, or Fates, who, according to the Heathen mythology, were three in number.—Ib.

[C] See Whiston's Hypothesis.—Freneau's note.

[66] This title was changed for the edition of 1795 by leaving out the words "the renowned and illustrious General George Washington, Commander-in-chief of," and also the quotation from Shakespeare. The same title was used in 1809, with the added quotation:

"One brilliant game our arms have won to-day,
Another, Princes, yet remains to play,
Another mark our arrows must attain—
Gallia assist!—nor be our efforts vain."
—Hom. Odyssey, Book XXII.

In the issue of the Freeman's Journal of October 24, 1781, the editor voiced his joy by printing the following in huge letters, that covered more than half of the first page of the paper:

BE IT REMEMBERED

That on the 17th day of October, 1781, Lieut. General Charles Earl Cornwallis with above 5000 British troops surrendered themselves prisoners of war to his excellency Gen. George Washington, commander in chief of the allied forces of France and America.

LAUS DEO!—

Two weeks later, in the issue of November 7th, Freneau printed the above poem. It was so mutilated and changed for the edition of 1795 that I have reproduced the test of the 1786 edition, which was printed verbatim from the newspaper, and have indicated in the footnotes the most significant changes.

[67] "Formed on."—Ed. 1795.

[68] "Conqueror."—Ib.

[69] "Foe to the rights of man."—Ib.

[70] This does not overdo the contemporary estimate of Cornwallis. Attempting to crush at once the American rebellion by the use of the harshest measures, he inaugurated a veritable reign of terror. "Cruel measures seek and find cruel agents; officers whose delight was in blood patrolled the country, burned houses, ravaged estates, and put to death whom they would.... For two years cold-blooded assassinations, often in the house of the victim and in the presence of his wife and little children, were perpetrated by men holding the king's commission."—Bancroft.

[71] "Lord of war."—Ed. 1795.

[72] This line and the nine following lines were omitted from the edition of 1795.

[73] "Warrior."—Ed. 1795.

[74] "Tyrant's."—Ib.

[75] "And all wars be done."—Ib.

[76] "Sir Henry be."—Ib.

[77] "Manned by brave souls, to see the British shore."—Ib.

[78] "As earthquakes shook the huge Colossus down."—Ed. 1795.

[79] "By force convey."—Ib.

[80] "Tyrant."—Ib.

[81] "Nor say."—Ib.

[82] "His godship."—Ed. 1795.

[83] "The rage of Europe."—Ib.

[84] "Mast."—Ib.

[85] "Took one sad survey of your wanton waste."—Ib.

[86] "Lost all your honours—even your memory dead."—Ib.

[87] This and the five following lines omitted in edition of 1795.

[88] An allusion to the brutal execution of the patriot, Isaac Hayne, of Charlestown, by General Rawdon, in the summer of 1781. The guilt of this crime rests almost wholly upon Rawdon. Yet "his first excuse for the execution was in the order of Cornwallis which had filled the woods of Carolina with assassins."—Bancroft.

[89] "Gog-magogs."—Ed. 1795.

[90] "From depth of woods this hornet host he drew."—Ib.

[91] "Envenom'd ruffians."—Ib.

[92] "The mean invader."—Ib.

[93] "The prisoner."—Ib.

[94] This line and the next omitted from later editions.

[95] "Homeward flight."—Ed. 1795.

[96] "Plan future conquests and new battles fight."—Ib.

[97] This and the following five lines omitted from later editions.

[98] "Your murdering host."—Ed. 1795.

[99] This and the following seven lines omitted from later editions.

[100] "Remorse be theirs."—Ed. 1809.

[101] This line and the following omitted from later editions.

[102] "Each tyrant king."—Ed. 1809.

[103] The later editions end at this point as follows:

"Swept from this stage, the race that vex our ball,
Deep in the dust may every monarch fall,
To wasted nations bid a long adieu,
Shrink from an injured world—and fare like you."

TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE
AMERICANS[104]

Under General Greene, in South Carolina, who fell in the action of September 8, 1781

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er—
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more![105]

If in this wreck of ruin, they
Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
O smite your gentle breast, and say
The friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted rural reign;
Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble graves adorn;
You too may fall, and ask a tear;
'Tis not the beauty of the morn
That proves the evening shall be clear.—

They saw their injured country's woe;
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear—but left the shield.[106]

Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
The Britons they compelled to fly;
None distant viewed the fatal plain,
None grieved, in such a cause to die—

But, like the Parthian, famed of old.
Who, flying, still their arrows threw,
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.[107]

Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
Though far from nature's limits thrown,
We trust they find a happier land,
A brighter sunshine of their own.

[104] First published in the Freeman's Journal, November 21, 1781. The patriot army under Greene spent the summer of 1781 in the High Hills of Santee, in South Carolina. "On the 22d of August, Greene broke up his camp very quietly and started out on the last of his sagacious campaigns.... By vigilant scouting parties, he so completely cut off the enemy's means of information that Stuart remained ignorant of his approach until he was close at hand. The British commander then fell back on Eutaw Springs, about fifty miles from Charleston, where he waited in a strong position. The battle of Eutaw Springs may be resolved into two brief actions between sunrise and noon of the 8th of September, 1781. In the first action the British line was broken and driven from the field. In the second, Stuart succeeded in forming a new line, supported by a brick house and palisaded garden, and from this position Greene was unable to drive him. It has therefore been set down as a British victory. If so, it was a victory followed the next evening by the hasty retreat of the victors, who were hotly pursued by Marion and Lee."—Fiske.

[105] "In the two engagements the Americans lost in killed, wounded, and missing, five hundred and fifty-four men."—Bancroft.

[106] Scott borrowed this line in the introduction to the third canto of Marmion, in the apostrophe to the Duke of Brunswick, which reads thus:

"Lamented Chief!—not thine the power
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field
And snatched the spear but left the shield."

[107] After the first engagement the British fled in confusion. Greene, in his eagerness, pursued them too closely, and sheltered by the brick house, they inflicted upon the advancing Americans the greater part of the loss of life incurred during the battle.

ARNOLD'S DEPARTURE[108]

Imitated from Horace

"Mala soluta navis exit alite
Ferens olentem Mævium," &c.

With evil omens from the harbour sails
The ill-fated barque that worthless Arnold bears,—
God of the southern winds, call up the gales,
And whistle in rude fury round his ears.

With horrid waves insult his vessel's sides,
And may the east wind on a leeward shore
Her cables part while she in tumult rides,
And shatter into shivers every oar.

And let the north wind to her ruin haste,
With such a rage, as when from mountains high
He rends the tall oak with his weighty blast,
And ruin spreads where'er his forces fly.

May not one friendly star that night be seen;
No moon, attendant, dart one glimmering ray,
Nor may she ride on oceans more serene
Than Greece, triumphant, found that stormy day,

When angry Pallas spent her rage no more
On vanquished Ilium, then in ashes laid,
But turned it on the barque that Ajax[A] bore,
Avenging thus her temple and the maid.

When tossed upon the vast Atlantic main
Your groaning ship the southern gales shall tear,
How will your sailors sweat, and you complain
And meanly howl to Jove, that will not hear!

But if, at last, upon some winding shore
A prey to hungry cormorants you lie,
A wanton goat to every stormy power,[B]
And a fat lamb, in sacrifice, shall die.

[A] Ajax the younger, son of Oileus, king of the Locrians. He debauched Cassandra in the temple of Pallas, which was the cause of his misfortune on his return from the siege of Troy.—Freneau's note.

[B] The Tempests were Goddesses amongst the Romans.—Ib.

[108] First published in the July 10, 1782, issue of the Freeman's Journal, under the title "The 10th Ode Horace's Book of Epodes Imitated. Written in December, 1781, upon the departure of General Arnold from New-York." The poem was reprinted verbatim in the 1786 edition.

"The capitulation at Yorktown having virtually put an end to the war, and Arnold, finding himself neither respected by the British officers nor likely to be further employed in the service, obtained permission from Sir Henry Clinton to go to England. He sailed from New York with his family in December, 1781."—Sparks' Life of Arnold.

PLATO, THE PHILOSOPHER, TO HIS FRIEND THEON[109]

Semel omnibus calcanda via Lethi.—Hor.

Why, Theon, wouldst thou longer groan
Beneath a weight of years and woe,
Thy youth is lost, thy pleasures flown,
And time proclaims, "'Tis time to go."

To willows sad and weeping yews
With me a while, dear friend, repair,[110]
Nor to the vault thy steps refuse,
Thy constant home shall soon be there.

To summer suns and winter moons
Prepare to bid a long adieu,
Autumnal seasons shall return
And spring shall bloom, but not for you.

Why so perplext with cares and toil
To rest upon this darksome road,
'Tis but a thin, a thirsty soil,
A barren and a bleak abode.

Constrain'd to dwell with pain and care,
These dregs of life are bought too dear,
'Tis better far to die than bear
The torments of another year.[111]

Subjected to perpetual ills
A thousand deaths around us grow,
The frost the tender blossom kills,
And roses wither as they blow.

Cold nipping winds thy fruits assail,
The infant[112] apple seeks the ground,
The peaches fall, the cherries fail,
The grape receives a fatal wound.

The breeze that gently ought to blow
Swells to a storm and rends the main,
The sun that charm'd the grass to grow
Turns hostile and consumes the plain;

The mountains waste, the shores decay,
Once purling streams are dead and dry—
'Twas nature's work—'tis nature's play,
And nature says that all must die.

Yon' flaming lamp, the source of light,
In chaos dark shall shroud his beam
And leave the world to mother night,
A farce, a phantom, or a dream.

What now is young must soon be old,
Whate'er we love, we soon must leave,
'Tis now too hot, 'tis now too cold—
To live is nothing but to grieve.

How bright the morn her course begun,
No mists bedimm'd the solar sphere—
The clouds arise—they shade the sun,
For nothing can be constant here.

Now hope the longing soul employs,
In expectation we are blest;
But soon the airy phantom flies,
For, lo! the treasure is possest.

Those monarchs proud that havoc spread,
(While pensive nature[113] dropt a tear)
Those monarchs have to darkness fled
And ruin bounds their mad career.

The grandeur of this earthly round,
Where Theon[114] would forever be,
Is but a name, is but a sound—
Mere emptiness and vanity.

Give me the stars, give me the skies,
Give me the heaven's remotest sphere,
Above these gloomy scenes to rise
Of desolation and despair.

Those native fires that warmed the mind
Now languid grown too dimly glow,
Joy has to grief the heart resigned
And love itself is changed to woe.

The joys of wine are all you boast,
These for a moment damp thy pain;
The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost—
And darkness clouds the soul again.

Then seek no more for bliss below,
Where real bliss can ne'er be found,
Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow
And fairer flowers bedeck the ground.

Where plants of life the plains invest
And green eternal crowns the year,
The little god within thy breast[115]
Is weary of his mansion here.

Like Phosphor clad in bright array[116]
His height meridian to regain,
He can, nor will no longer stay[117]
To shiver on a frozen plain.

Life's journey past, for death[118] prepare,
'Tis but the freedom of the mind,
Jove made us mortal—his we are,
To Jove, dear Theon,[119] be resigned.

[109] Freeman's Journal, January 2, 1782. In the editions of 1795 and 1809, the title is "To an Old Man."

[110] "With me a while, old man, repair."—Ed. 1795.

[111] "The torments of life's closing year."—Ed. 1795.

[112] "Blasted."—Ib.

[113] "Reason."—Ed. 1795.

[114] "Folly."—Ib.

[115] "That swells the breast."—Ed. 1795.

[116] "Sent before the day."—Ib.

[117] "The dawn arrives—he must not stay."—Ib.

[118] "Fate."—Ib.

[119] "Be all our cares."—Ib.

PROLOGUE[120]

To a Theatrical Entertainment in Philadelphia

Wars, cruel wars, and hostile Britain's rage
Have banished long the pleasures of the stage;
From the gay painted scene compelled to part,
(Forgot the melting language of the heart)
Constrained to shun the bold theatric show,
To act long tragedies of real woe,
Heroes, once more attend the comic muse;
Forget our failings, and our faults excuse.
In that fine language is our fable drest
Which still unrivalled, reigns o'er all the rest;
Of foreign courts the study and the pride,
Who to know this abandon all beside;
Bold, though polite, and ever sure to please;
Correct with grace, and elegant with ease;
Soft from the lips its easy accents roll,
Formed to delight and captivate the soul:
In this Eugenia tells her easy lay,
The brilliant work of courtly Beaumarchais:
In this Racine, Voltaire, and Boileau sung,
The noblest poets in the noblest tongue.
If the soft story in our play expressed
Can give a moment's pleasure to your breast,
To you, Great Men,[121] we must be proud to say
That moment's pleasure shall our pains repay:
Returned from conquest and from glorious toils,
From armies captured and unnumbered spoils;
Ere yet again, with generous France allied,
You rush to battle, humbling British pride;
While arts of peace your kind protection share,
O let the Muses claim an equal care.
You bade us first our future greatness see,
Inspired by you, we languished to be free;
Even here where Freedom lately sat distrest,
See, a new Athens rising in the west!
Fair science blooms, where tyrants reigned before,
Red war, reluctant, leaves our ravaged shore—
Illustrious heroes, may you live to see
These new Republics powerful, great, and free;
Peace, heaven born peace, o'er spacious regions spread,
While discord, sinking, veils her ghastly head.

[120] First published in the Freeman's Journal, January 9, 1782, with the following introduction: "On Wednesday evening, the 2d instant [January 2, 1782] Alex. Quesnay, Esq., exhibited a most elegant entertainment at the playhouse, where were present his excellency Gen. Washington, the Minister of France, the President of the State, a number of officers of the army, and a brilliant assemblage of ladies and gentlemen of the city who were invited. After a prologue suitable to the occasion, Eugenie, an elegant French comedy, was first presented (written by the celebrated M. Beaumarchais), and in the opinion of several good judges was extremely well acted by the young gentlemen students in that polite language. After the comedy was acted the Lying Varlet, a farce; to this succeeded several curious dances, followed by a brilliant illumination, consisting of thirteen pyramidal pillars, representing the thirteen States,—on the middle column was seen a cupid, supporting a laurel crown over the motto, 'Washington, the pride of his Country and terror of Britain.' On the summit was the word Virginia, on the right Connecticut, with the names Greene and La Fayette, on the left the word Pennsylvania, with the names Wayne and Steuben, and so on according to the birthplace and State proper to each general. The spectacle ended with an artificial illumination of the thirteen columns."

The prologue, written at the request of Mr. Quesnay, is as above.

[121] In the 1786 version, which was reprinted verbatim from the newspaper, this read "Great Sir," with the foot-note, "Addressed to His Excellency General Washington," and the rest of the poem was made to refer solely to him. In the later versions this was changed so as to read, "Addressed to the Commander in Chief and several of the officers of the American army then present at the theatre in Southwark."

STANZAS[122]

Occasioned by the Ruins of a Country Inn, unroofed and blown down in a storm

Where now these mingled ruins lie
A temple once to Bacchus rose,
Beneath whose roof, aspiring high,
Full many a guest forgot his woes:

No more this dome, by tempests torn,
Affords a social safe retreat;
But ravens here, with eye forlorn,
And clustering bats henceforth will meet.

The Priestess of this ruined shrine,
Unable to survive the stroke,
Presents no more the ruddy wine,
Her glasses gone, her china broke.

The friendly Host, whose social hand
Accosted strangers at the door,
Has left at length his wonted stand,
And greets the weary guest no more.

Old creeping Time, that brings decay,
Might yet have spared these mouldering walls,
Alike beneath whose potent sway
A temple or a tavern falls.

Is this the place where mirth and joy,
Coy nymphs and sprightly lads were found?
Indeed! no more the nymphs are coy,
No more the flowing bowls go round.

Is this the place where festive song
Deceived the wintry hours away?
No more the swains the tune prolong,
No more the maidens join the lay:

Is this the place where Nancy slept
In downy beds of blue and green?—
Dame Nature here no vigils kept,
No cold unfeeling guards were seen.

'Tis gone!—and Nancy tempts no more,
Deep, unrelenting silence reigns;
Of all that pleased, that charmed before,
The tottering chimney scarce remains!

Ye tyrant winds, whose ruffian blast
Through doors and windows blew too strong,
And all the roof to ruin cast,
The roof that sheltered us so long.

Your wrath appeased, I pray be kind
If Mopsus should the dome renew;
That we again may quaff his wine,
Again collect our jovial crew.

[122] Published in the Freeman's Journal, January 23, 1782.

THE ROYAL ADVENTURER[123]

Prince William of the Brunswick race,
To witness George's sad disgrace
The Royal Lad came over
Rebels to kill by Right Divine—
Deriv'd from that illustrious line
The beggars of Hanover.

So many chiefs got broken pates
In vanquishing the rebel States,
So many nobles fell,
That George the Third in passion cry'd,
"Our royal blood must now be try'd;
"'Tis that must break the spell:

"To you (the fat pot-valiant Swine
To Digby said) dear friend of mine,
"To you I trust my boy.
"The rebel tribes shall quake with fears,
"Rebellion die when he appears;
"My Tories leap with joy."

So said, so done—the boy was sent,
But never reach'd the continent,
An Island held him fast—
Yet there his friends danc'd rigadoons,
The Hessians sung in High Dutch tunes,
"Prince William's come at last."

"Prince William comes!"—the Briton cry'd—
"The glory of our empire wide
"Shall now be soon restor'd—
"Our monarch is in William seen,
"He is the image of our queen,
"Let William be ador'd!"

The Tories came with long address,
With poems groan'd the Royal press,
And all in William's praise—
The boy astonish'd look'd about
To find their vast dominions out,
Then answer'd in amaze,

"Where all your empire wide can be,
"Friends, for my soul I cannot see:
"'Tis but an empty name;
"Three wasted islands and a town
"In rubbish bury'd—half burnt down,
"Is all that we can claim:

"I am of royal birth, 'tis true,
"But what, alas! can princes do,
"No armies to command?
"Cornwallis conquer'd and distrest,
"Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest,
"I curse and leave the land."

[123] Published in the Freeman's Journal, January 30, 1782. "Prince William Henry, third son of George III, afterwards William IV, entered the navy as midshipman at the age of fourteen in 1779. He sailed in the Prince George of 98 guns to Gibralter, in the course of which cruise he saw some service under Rodney in conflict with the Spanish fleet; and it was in this ship, accompanied by Admiral Digby, that he arrived at New York in September, 1781."—Duyckinck. He was received with great enthusiasm and ceremony. In the Freeman's Journal of January 25, 1782, was the following, doubtless from the pen of Freneau: "It is observable that the arrival of Prince William Henry in New York filled the British with 'joy ineffable and universal.' The very chimney sweeps, smitten with the poetic flame, composed odes in his praise, some of which were inserted in The Royal Gazette." The 1809 edition was given a long French motto from Mirabeau, which Freneau translates as follows: "The favourites of a throne bask in its sunshine, like butterflies in a fine day. Their very slaves at the foot of royalty partake of the delusion. They keep a nation under their feet, and their every folly influences and is followed by the multitude. They care not if their fathers and their nearest relatives are trampled into the dust, provided they can figure away in the circles of a court, etc."

LORD DUNMORE'S PETITION TO THE
LEGISLATURE OF VIRGINIA[124]

Humbly Sheweth—

That a silly old fellow, much noted of yore,
And known by the name of John, earl of Dunmore,
Has again ventured over to visit your shore.

The reason of this he begs leave to explain—
In England they said you were conquered and slain,
(But the devil take him who believes them again)—

So, hearing that most of you rebels were dead,
That some had submitted, and others had fled,
I mustered my Tories, myself at their head,

And over we scudded, our hearts full of glee,
As merry as ever poor devils could be,
Our ancient dominion, Virginia, to see;

Our shoe-boys, and tars, and the very cook's mate
Already conceived he possessed an estate,
And the Tories no longer were cursing their fate.

Myself, (the don Quixote) and each of the crew,
Like Sancho, had islands and empires in view—
They were captains, and kings, and the devil knows who:

But now, to our sorrow, disgrace, and surprise,
No longer deceived by the Father of Lies,[A]
We hear with our ears, and we see with our eyes:—

[A] The printer of the Royal Gazette.—Freneau's note, ed. of 1786.

I have therefore to make you a modest request,
(And I'm sure, in my mind, it will be for the best)
Admit me again to your mansions of rest.

There are Eden, and Martin, and Franklin, and Tryon,[125]
All waiting to see you submit to the Lion,
And may wait till the devil is king of Mount Sion:—

Though a brute and a dunce, like the rest of the clan,
I can govern as well as most Englishmen can;
And if I'm a drunkard, I still am a man:

I missed it some how in comparing my notes,
Or six years ago I had joined with your votes;
Not aided the negroes in cutting your throats.[126]

Although with so many hard names I was branded,
I hope you'll believe, (as you will if you're candid)
That I only performed what my master commanded.

Give me lands, whores and dice, and you still may be free;
Let who will be master, we sha'nt disagree;
If king or if Congress—no matter to me;—

I hope you will send me an answer straitway,
For 'tis plain that at Charleston we cannot long stay—
And your humble petitioner ever shall pray.

Dunmore.
Charleston, Jan. 6, 1782.

[124] First published in the Freeman's Journal, February 13, 1782, and printed almost without change in the various editions. Lord Dunmore was appointed Royal Governor of Virginia in 1770, but, after a stormy career was forced to flee from the colony after the news of Lexington had reached the Southern patriots.

[125] "The last Royal Governors: Robert Eden of Maryland; Joseph Martin of North Carolina; William Franklin of New Jersey; William Tryon of New York."—Duyckinck.

[126] After the second patriot convention assembled in Richmond, Va., in March, 1775, to take measures toward putting the colony in a state of defence, Dunmore, "To intimidate the Virginians, issued proclamations and circulated a rumor that he would incite an insurrection of their slaves.... 'The whole country,' said he, 'can easily be made a solitude; and by the living God! if any insult is offered to me or to those who have obeyed my orders, I will declare freedom to the slaves and lay the town in ashes.'"—Bancroft.

EPIGRAM[127]

Occasioned by the title of Mr. Rivington's[A] New York Royal Gazette being scarcely legible

[A] Royal printer to his Britannic majesty while his forces held the city of New York, from 1776 to November 25, 1783.—Freneau's note.

Says Satan to Jemmy, "I hold you a bet
"That you mean to abandon our Royal Gazette,
"Or, between you and me, you would manage things better
"Than the Title to print on so sneaking a letter.

"Now being connected so long in the art
"It would not be prudent at present to part;
"And people, perhaps, would be frightened, and fret
"If the devil alone carried on the Gazette."

Says Jemmy to Satan (by the way of a wipe),
"Who gives me the matter should furnish the type;
"And why you find fault, I can scarcely divine,
"For the types, like the printer, are certainly thine.

"'Tis yours to deceive with the semblance of truth,
"Thou friend of my age, and thou guide of my youth!
"But, to prosper, pray send me some further supplies,
"A sett of new types, and a sett of new lies."

[127] Published in the Freeman's Journal, February 13, 1782.

A SPEECH[128]

That should have been spoken by the King of the Island of Britain to his Parliament

My lords, I can hardly from weeping refrain,
When I think of this year and its cursed campaign;[129]
But still it is folly to whine and to grieve,
For things will yet alter, I hope and believe.

Of the four southern States we again are bereav'd,
They were just in our grasp (or I'm sadly deceiv'd):
There are wizards and witches that dwell in those lands,
For the moment we gain them, they slip from our hands.

Our prospects at present most gloomy appear;
Cornwallis returns with a flea in his ear,
Sir Henry is sick of his station we know—
And Amherst, though press'd, is unwilling to go.

The Hero[130] that steer'd for the cape of Good Hope
With Monsieur Suffrein was unable to cope—
Many months are elaps'd, yet his task is to do—
To conquer the cape, and to conquer Peru:

When his squadron at Portsmouth he went to equip
He promis'd great things from his fifty-gun ship;
But let him alone—while he knows which is which,
He'll not be so ready "to die in a ditch."

This session, I thought to have told you thus much,
"A treaty concluded, and peace with the Dutch"—
But as stubborn as ever, they vapour and brag,
And sail by my nose with the Prussian flag.

The empress refuses to join on our side,
As yet with the Indians we're only ally'd:
(Though such an alliance is rather improper,
For we English are white, but their colour is copper.)

The Irish, I fear, have some mischief in view;
They ever have been a most troublesome crew—
If a truce or a treaty hereafter be made,
They shall pay very dear for their present free trade.

Dame Fortune, I think, has our standards forsaken,
For Tobago, they say, by Frenchmen is taken;
Minorca's besieg'd—and as for Gibraltar,
By Jove, if it's taken I'll take to the halter.

It makes me so wroth, I could scold like Xantippe
When I think of our losses along Mississippi—
And see in the Indies that horrible Hyder,
His conquests extending still wider and wider.

'Twixt Washington, Hyder, Don Galvez, De Grasse,
By my soul we are brought to a very fine pass—
When we've reason to hope new battles are won,
A packet arrives—and an army's undone!—

In the midst of this scene of dismay and distress,
What is best to be done, is not easy to guess,
For things may go wrong though we plan them aright,
And blows they must look for, whose trade is to fight.

In regard to the rebels, it is my decree
That dependent on Britain they ever shall be;
Or I've captains and hosts that will fly at my nod
And slaughter them all—by the blessing of God.

But if they succeed, as they're likely to do,
Our neighbours must part with their colonies too:
Let them laugh and be merry, and make us their jest,
When La Plata revolts, we shall laugh with the rest—

'Tis true that the journey to castle St. Juan
Was a project that brought the projectors to ruin;
But still, my dear lords, I would have you reflect,
Who nothing do venture can nothing expect.

If the Commons agree to afford me new treasures,
My sentence once more is for vigorous measures:
Accustom'd so long to head winds and bad weather,
Let us conquer or go to the devil together.

[128] In the Freeman's Journal of February 2, 1782, is given his Majesty's speech of November 27, 1781, in full, followed by the speech he should have given. The first tidings of the surrender of Cornwallis reached England November 25. The king's speech to Parliament was confused and aimless.

[129] Alluding to the last campaign of the war, which culminated in the surrender of Cornwallis.

[130] "Commodore George Johnstone, commanding the British East India fleet, was attacked by the French fleet under M. de Suffrein at St. Jago, one of the Cape de Verd Islands, in 1781. Johnstone's flag-ship was the Rodney, 50."—Duyckinck.

RIVINGTON'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT[131]

[A True Copy from the Records][132]

Since life is uncertain, and no one can say,
How soon we may go, or how long we shall stay,
Methinks he is wisest who soonest prepares,
And settles in season his worldly affairs:

Some folks are so weak they can scarce avoid crying,
And think when they're making their wills they are dying;
'Tis surely a serious employment—but still,
Who e'er died the sooner for making his will?

Let others be sad when their lives they review,
But I know whom I've serv'd—and him faithfully too;
And though it may seem a fanatical story,
He often has show'd me a glimpse of his glory.

Imprimis, my carcase I give and devise
To be made into cakes of a moderate size,
To nourish those tories whose spirits may droop,
And serve the king's army with Portable Soup.

Unless I mistake, in the scriptures we read
That "worms on the dead shall deliciously feed,"
The scripture stands true—and that I am firm in,
For what are our tories and soldiers but vermin?—

This soup of soups can't be call'd that of beef,
And this may to some be a matter of grief:
But I'm certain the Bull would occasion a laugh,
That beef Portable Soup should be made of a Calf.

To the king, my dear master, I give a full sett
(In volumes bound up) of the Royal Gazette,
In which he will find the vast record contain'd
Of provinces conquer'd and victories gain'd.

As to Arnold the traitor and Satan his brother,
I beg they will also accept of another;
And this shall be bound in Morocco red leather,
Provided they'll read it like brothers together.

But if Arnold should die, 'tis another affair,
Then Satan surviving shall be the sole heir;
He often has told me he thought it quite clever,
So to him and his heirs I bequeath it forever.

I know there are some (that would fain be thought wise)
Who say my Gazette is the record of lies;
In answer to this, I shall only reply—
All the choice that I had was to starve or to lie.

My fiddles, my flutes, French horns and guittars[A]
I leave to our heroes now weary of wars—
To the wars of the stage they more boldly advance,
The captains shall play and the soldiers shall dance.[B]

[A] The articles of bequest in this poem were incessantly advertised in the Royal Gazette, and puffed off with a dexterity peculiar to the editor of that paper.—Freneau's note in ed. of 1809.

[B] It became fashionable at this period with the British officers to assume the business of the Drama, to the no small mortification of those who had been holding them up as the undoubted conquerors of North America.—Ib.

To Sir Henry Clinton, his use and behoof,
I leave my French brandy of very high proof;
It will give him fresh spirits for battle and slaughter
And make him feel bolder by land and by water:

Yet I caution the knight, for fear he do wrong,
'Tis avant la viande et apres le poisson[C]
It will strengthen his stomach, prevent it from turning,
And digest the affront of his effigy burning.

[C] Before flesh and after fish.—See the Royal Gazette.—Ib.

To Baron Knyphausen,[133] his heirs and assigns,
I bequeath my old hock, and my Burgundy wines,
To a true Hessian drunkard no liquors are sweeter,
And I know the old man is no foe to the creature.

To a general, my namesake,[D] I give and dispose
Of a purse full of clipp'd, light, sweated half joes;
I hereby desire him to take back his trash,
And return me my Hannay's infallible Wash.[E]

[D] General James Robertson.—Ib.

[E] Used in the venereal disease.—Ib.

My chessmen and tables, and other such chattels
I give to Cornwallis renowned in battles:
By moving of these (not tracing the map)
He'll explain to the king how he got in the trap.

To good David Mathews[135] (among other slops)
I give my whole cargo of Maredant's drops,
If they cannot do all, they may cure him in part,
And scatter the poison that cankers his heart:

Provided, however, and nevertheless,
That what other estate I enjoy and possess
At the time of my death (if it be not then sold)
Shall remain to the Tories to have and to hold.

As I thus have bequeath'd them both carcase and fleece,
The least they can do is to wait my decease;
But to give them what substance I have, ere I die,
And be eat up with vermin, while living—not I—

In Witness whereof (though no ailment I feel)
Hereunto I set both my hand and my seal;
(As the law says) in presence of witnesses twain,
'Squire John Coghill Knap,[F] and brother Hugh Gaine.

[F] A Notary Public in New-York.—Freneau's note. "'Knapp,' says Dawson, in a note to New York City During the Revolution, was 'a notorious pettifogger, a convict who had fled from England for his own benefit.'"—Duyckinck.

James Rivington, (L.S.)
New-York, Feb. 20, 1782.

[131] Published in the Freeman's Journal, February 27, 1782. One week earlier it was advertised for sale as a broadside. I have followed the 1786 version.

James Rivington, an Englishman, was a bookseller and printer in New York from 1761 until the close of the Revolution. In 1773 he published the first number of The New York Gazetteer, or the Connecticut, New Jersey, Hudson's River and Quebec Weekly Advertiser. At the opening of the war he became a violent British partisan. His office was destroyed by the Whigs in 1775. Two years later he established Rivington's New York Loyal Gazette, which became the official British newspaper in America. On December 13 of the same year, he changed the name to the Royal Gazette. In the last years of the Revolution, when British success seemed more and more uncertain, Rivington began to lean toward the Whig side, but he was never trusted by the patriots, and he passed his last years in loneliness and poverty.

[132] Omitted in later editions.

[133] Baron Wilhelm von Knyphausen, in command of the Hessian troops.

[134] "Tremendous."—Ed. 1809.

[135] David Mathews, Mayor of New York during the British occupancy.

LINES

Occasioned by Mr. Rivington's new Titular Types to his Royal Gazette, of February 27, 1782[136]

Well—now (said the devil) it looks something better!
Your title is struck on a charming new Letter:
Last night in the dark, as I gave it a squint,
I saw my dear partner had taken the hint.
I ever surmised (though 'twas doubted by some)
That the old types were shadows of substance to come:
But if the new Letter is pregnant with charms,
It grieves me to think of those cursed King's Arms!
The Dieu et mon droit (his God and his right)
Is so dim, that I hardly know what is meant by't;
The paws of the Lion can scarcely be seen,
And the Unicorn's guts are most shamefully lean!
The Crown is so worn of your master the Despot,
That I hardly know whether 'tis a crown or a pisspot:
When I rub up my day-lights, and look very sharp
I just can distinguish the Irishman's Harp:
Another device appears rather silly,
Alas! it is only the shade of the Lilly!
For the honour of George, and the fame of our nation,
Pray give his escutcheons a rectification—
Or I know what I know, (and I'm a queer shaver)
Of Him and his Arms I'll be the In-grave-r.

[136] Published in the Freeman's Journal, March 13, 1782.

LINES

On Mr. Rivington's new engraved King's Arms to his Royal Gazette[137]

From the regions of night, with his head in a sack,
Ascended a person accoutred in black,
And upward directing his circular eye whites;
(Like the Jure-divino political Levites)
And leaning his elbow on Rivington's shelf,
While the printer was busy, thus mus'd with himself:
"My mandates are fully complied with at last,
"New arms are engrav'd, and new letters are cast:
"I therefore determine and freely accord,
"This servant of mine shall receive his reward."
Then turning about, to the printer he said,
"Who late was my servant shall now be my Aid;
"Since under my banners so bravely you fight,
"Kneel down!—for your merits I dubb you a knight,
"From a passive subaltern I bid you to rise
"The Inventor as well as the Printer of lies."

[137] Freeman's Journal, March 27, 1782. The Gazette, among the Whigs at least, was the synonym for falsity and unfairness. It was generally alluded to as the Lying Gazette.

A PROPHECY[138]

Written 1782

When a certain great king, whose initial is G,
Shall force stamps upon paper, and folks to drink tea;
When these folks burn his tea, and stampt paper, like stubble,
You may guess that this king is then coming to trouble.
But when a petition he treads under his feet,
And sends over the ocean an army and fleet;
When that army, half-starved, and frantic with rage,
Shall be coop'd up with a leader whose name rhymes to cage,
When that leader goes home, dejected and sad,
You may then be assur'd the king's prospects are bad:
But when B and C with their armies are taken,
This king will do well if he saves his own bacon.
In the year seventeen hundred and eighty and two,
A stroke he shall get that will make him look blue;
In the years eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five,
You hardly shall know that the king is alive;[139]
In the year eighty-six[140] the affair will be over,
And he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover.
The face of the lion then shall become pale,
He shall yield fifteen teeth, and be sheer'd of his tail.
O king, my dear king, you shall be very sore,
The Stars and the Lilly shall run you on shore,
And your lion shall growl, but never bite more.

[138] Published in the Freeman's Journal, March 27, 1782, with the following introduction:

"Mr. Printer: The people of England at this time seem persuaded or rather deluded into the opinion that the American revolt will be quashed in the year 1786, and under that idea it is likely will prosecute the war with vigour for some time to come. This infatuation chiefly owes its birth to a prophecy of one John Cosins, who lived in the reign of the Second Charles, importing that a certain transatlantic insurrection, and the Kirk of Scotland, will both fall to the ground in the year above mentioned. Cosins's predictions are as follows, taken from the Royal Gazette of the 18th ult.:

'When a branch of the thistle gets over the Atlantic,
And in a new world the root shall be planted,
And when it doth arrive at a degree of perfection
It surely will breed a great insurrection.
In the year seventy and four the root will be polished,
And in eighty and six it will be quite abolished.
The lily and the thistle in that year will unite,
But the lion and the dun cow will put them to flight.
The eagle will eagerly join in the fray,
But luna will clip both their wings in a day.
O thistle, O thistle, thy wounds will be sore.
Kirk and kirk government will be no more,
And you'll be abridg'd of all civil power.'

To show that America has not been wholly destitute of oracular sages in past times, I send you the following choice words or prophetical hints of an illiterate fisherman, who died about thirty years ago at his habitation, a few miles above the mouth of the Susquehanna. I discovered the paper containing them by mere accident in tumbling over the leaves of an old book at an inn near that place. If you think the lines worth inserting in your paper, they are at your service."

Reprinted without change in the edition of 1786, the text of which I have followed above. In later editions the prophecy was changed somewhat to conform to historical facts.

[139] In the later editions these two lines are made to read:

"And soon, very soon, shall the season arrive
When Nebuchadnezzar to pasture shall drive."

[140] "In the year eighty-three."—Ed. 1795.

THE ARGONAUT

OR, LOST ADVENTURER[141]

True to his trade—the slave of fortune still—
In a sweet isle, where never winter reigns,
I found him at the foot of a tall hill,
Mending old sails, and chewing sugar canes:
Pale ivy round him grew, and mingled vines,
Plaintains, bananas ripe, and yellow pines.

And flowering night-shade, with its dismal green,
Ash-coloured iris, painted by the sun,
And fair-haired hyacinth was near him seen,
And China pinks by marygolds o'er-run:—
"But what (said he) have men that sail the seas,
"Ah, what have they to do with things like these!

"I did not wish to leave those shades, not I,
"Where Amoranda turns her spinning-wheel;
"Charmed with the shallow stream, that murmured by,
"I felt as blest as any swain could feel,
"Who, seeking nothing that the world admires,
"On one poor valley fixed his whole desires.

"With masts so trim, and sails as white as snow,
"The painted barque deceived me from the land,
"Pleased, on her sea-beat decks I wished to go,
"Mingling my labours with her hardy band;
"To reef the sail, to guide the foaming prow
"As far as winds can waft, or oceans flow.

"To combat with the waves who first essayed,
"Had these gay groves his lightsome heart beguiled,
"His heart, attracted by the charming shade,
"Had changed the deep sea for the woody wild;
"And slighted all the gain that Neptune yields
"For Damon's cottage, or Palemon's fields.

"His barque, the bearer of a feeble crew,
"How could he trust when none had been to prove her;
"Courage might sink when lands and shores withdrew,
"And feeble hearts a thousand deaths discover:
"But Fortitude, tho' woes and death await,
"Still views bright skies, and leaves the dark to fate.

"From monkey climes where limes and lemons grow,
"And the sweet orange swells her fruit so fair,
"To wintry worlds, with heavy heart, I go
"To face the cold glance of the northern bear,
"Where lonely waves, far distant from the sun,
"And gulphs, of mighty strength, their circuits run.

"But how disheartening is the wanderer's fate!
"When conquered by the loud tempestuous main,
"On him, no mourners in procession wait,
"Nor do the sisters of the harp complain.—
"On coral beds and deluged sands they sleep,
"Who sink in storms, and mingle with the deep.

"'Tis folly all—and who can truly tell
"What storms disturb the bosom of that main,
"What ravenous fish in those dark climates dwell
"That feast on men—then stay, my gentle swain!
"Bred in yon' happy shades, be happy there,
"And let these quiet groves claim all your care."

So spoke poor Ralph, and with a smooth sea gale
Fled from the magic of the enchanting shore,
But whether winds or waters did prevail,
I saw the black ship ne'er returning more,
Though long I walked the margin of the main,
And long have looked—and still must look in vain!

[141] From the edition of 1809. In 1788 this was entitled "The Lost Sailor;" in 1795, "Argonauta."

THE POLITICAL BALANCE[142]

Or, The Fates of Britain and America Compared

A Tale

Deciding Fates, in Homer's stile, we shew,
And bring contending gods once more to view.

As Jove the Olympian (who both I and you know,
Was brother to Neptune, and husband to Juno)
Was lately reviewing his papers of state,
He happened to light on the records of Fate:

In Alphabet order this volume was written—
So he opened at B, for the article Britain—
She struggles so well, said the god, I will see
What the sisters in Pluto's dominions decree.

And first, on the top of a column he read
"Of a king with a mighty soft place in his head,
"Who should join in his temper the ass and the mule,
"The third of his name, and by far the worst fool:

"His reign shall be famous for multiplication,
"The sire and the king of a whelp generation:
"But such is the will and the purpose of fate,
"For each child he begets he shall forfeit a State:

"In the course of events, he shall find to his cost
"That he cannot regain what he foolishly lost;
"Of the nations around he shall be the derision,
"And know by experience the rule of Division."

So Jupiter read—a god of first rank—
And still had read on—but he came to a blank:
For the Fates had neglected the rest to reveal—
They either forgot it, or chose to conceal:

When a leaf is torn out, or a blot on a page
That pleases our fancy, we fly in a rage—
So, curious to know what the Fates would say next,
No wonder if Jove, disappointed, was vext.

But still as true genius not frequently fails,
He glanced at the Virgin, and thought of the Scales;
And said, "To determine the will of the Fates,
"One scale shall weigh Britain, the other the States."

Then turning to Vulcan, his maker of thunder,
Said he, "My dear Vulcan, I pray you look yonder,
"Those creatures are tearing each other to pieces,
"And, instead of abating, the carnage increases.

"Now, as you are a blacksmith, and lusty stout ham-eater,
"You must make me a globe of a shorter diameter;
"The world in abridgment, and just as it stands
"With all its proportions of waters and lands;

"But its various divisions must so be designed,
"That I can unhinge it whene'er I've a mind—
"How else should I know what the portions will weigh,
"Or which of the combatants carry the day?"

Old Vulcan complied, (we've no reason to doubt it)
So he put on his apron and strait went about it—
Made center, and circles as round as a pancake,
And here the Pacific, and there the Atlantic.

An axis he hammered, whose ends were the poles,
(On which the whole body perpetually rolls)
A brazen meridian he added to these,
Where four times repeated were[143] ninety degrees.

I am sure you had laughed to have seen his droll attitude,
When he bent round the surface the circles of latitude,
The zones and the tropics, meridians, equator,
And other fine things that are drawn on salt water.

Away to the southward (instructed by Pallas)
He placed in the ocean the Terra Australis,
New Holland, New Guinea, and so of the rest—
America lay by herself in the west:

From the regions where winter eternally reigns,
To the climes of Peru he extended her plains;
Dark groves, and the zones did her bosom adorn,
And the Crosiers,[A] new burnished, he hung at Cape Horn.

[A] Stars, in the form of a cross, which mark the South Pole in Southern latitudes.—Freneau's note.

The weight of two oceans she bore on her sides,
With all their convulsions of tempests and tides;
Vast lakes on her surface did fearfully roll,
And the ice from her rivers surrounded the pole.

Then Europe and Asia he northward extended,
Where under the Arctic with Zembla they ended;
(The length of these regions he took with his garters,
Including Siberia, the land of the Tartars.)

In the African clime (where the cocoa-nut tree grows)
He laid down the desarts, and even the negroes,
The shores by the waves of four oceans embraced,
And elephants strolling about in the waste.

In forming East India, he had a wide scope,
Beginning his work at the cape of Good Hope;
Then eastward of that he continued his plan,
'Till he came to the empire and isles of Japan.

Adjacent to Europe he struck up an island,
(One part of it low, but the other was high land)
With many a comical creature upon it,
And one wore a hat, and another a bonnet.

Like emmits or ants in a fine summer's day,
They ever were marching in battle array,
Or skipping about on the face of the brine,
Like witches in egg-shells (their ships of the line).

These poor little creatures were all in a flame,
To the lands of America urging their claim,
Still biting, or stinging, or spreading their sails;
(For Vulcan had formed them with stings in their tails).

[B] Their national debt being now above l. 200,000,000 sterling.—Freneau's note.

So poor and so lean, you might count all their ribs,[B]
Yet were so enraptured with crackers and squibs,
That Vulcan with laughter almost split asunder,
"Because they imagined their crackers were thunder."

Due westward from these, with a channel between,
A servant to slaves, Hibernia was seen,
Once crowded with monarchs, and high in renown,
But all she retained was the Harp and the Crown!

Insulted forever by nobles and priests,[144]
And managed by bullies, and governed by beasts,
She looked!—to describe her I hardly know how—
Such an image of death in the scowl on her brow.

For scaffolds and halters were full in her view,
And the fiends of perdition their cutlasses drew:
And axes and gibbets around her were placed,
And the demons of murder her honours defaced.
With the blood of the worthy her mantle was stained,
And hardly a trace of her beauty remained.

Her genius, a female, reclined in the shade,
And, sick of oppression,[145] so mournfully played,
That Jove was uneasy to hear her complain,
And ordered his blacksmith to loosen her chain:

Then tipt her a wink, saying, "Now is your time,
"(To rebel is the sin, to revolt is no crime)
"When your fetters are off, if you dare not be free
"Be a slave and be damned,[146] but complain not to me."

But finding her timid, he cried in a rage—
"Though the doors are flung open, she stays in the cage!
"Subservient to Britain then let her remain,
"And her freedom shall be, but the choice[147] of her chain,"

At length, to discourage all stupid pretensions,
Jove looked at the globe, and approved its dimensions,
And cried in a transport—"Why what have we here!
"Friend Vulcan, it is a most beautiful sphere!

"Now while I am busy in taking apart
"This globe that is formed with such exquisite art,
"Go, Hermes, to Libra, (you're one of her gallants)
"And ask, in my name, for the loan of her balance."

Away posted Hermes, as swift as the gales,
And as swiftly returned with the ponderous scales,
And hung them aloft to a beam in the air,
So equally poised, they had turned with a hair.

Now Jove to Columbia his shoulders applied,
But aiming to lift her, his strength she defied—
Then, turning about to their godships, he says—
"A body so vast is not easy to raise;

"But if you assist me, I still have a notion
"Our forces, united, can put her in motion,
"And swing her aloft, (though alone I might fail)
"And place her, in spite of her bulk, in our scale;

"If six years together the Congress have strove,
"And more than divided the empire with Jove;
"With a Jove like myself, who am nine times as great,
"You can join, like their soldiers, to heave up this weight."

So to it they went, with handspikes and levers,
And upward she sprung, with her mountains and rivers!
Rocks, cities, and islands, deep waters and shallows,
Ships, armies, and forests, high heads and fine fellows:

"Stick to it!" cries Jove, "now heave one and all!
"At least we are lifting 'one-eighth of the ball!'
"If backward she tumbles—then trouble begins,
"And then have a care, my dear boys, of your shins!"

When gods are determined what project can fail?
So they gave a hard shove, and she mounted the scale;
Suspended aloft, Jove viewed her with awe—
And the gods,[C] for their pay, had a hearty—huzza!

[C] American soldiers.—Freneau's note.

But Neptune bawled out—"Why Jove you're a noddy,
"Is Britain sufficient to poise that vast body?
"'Tis nonsense such castles to build in the air—
"As well might an oyster with Britain compare."

"Away to your waters, you blustering bully,"
Said Jove, "or I'll make you repent of your folly,
"Is Jupiter, Sir, to be tutored by you?—
"Get out of my sight, for I know what to do!"

Then searching about with his fingers for Britain,
Thought he, "this same island I cannot well hit on;
"The devil take him who first called her the Great:
"If she was—she is vastly diminished of late!"

Like a man that is searching his thigh for a flea.
He peeped and he fumbled, but nothing could see;
At last he exclaimed—"I am surely upon it—
"I think I have hold of a Highlander's bonnet."

But finding his error, he said with a sigh,
"This bonnet is only the island of Skie!"[D]
So away to his namesake the planet he goes,
And borrowed two moons to hang on his nose.

[D] An Island on the north-west of Scotland.—Freneau's note.

Through these, as through glasses, he saw her quite clear,
And in raptures cried out—"I have found her—she's here!
"If this be not Britain, then call me an ass—
"She looks like a gem in an ocean of glass.

"But, faith, she's so small I must mind how I shake her;
"In a box I'll inclose her, for fear I should break her:
"Though a god, I might suffer for being aggressor,
"Since scorpions, and vipers, and hornets possess her;

"The white cliffs of Albion I think I descry—
"And the hills of Plinlimmon appear rather nigh—
"But, Vulcan, inform me what creatures are these,
"That smell so of onions, and garlick, and cheese?"

Old Vulcan replied—"Odds splutter a nails!
"Why, these are the Welch, and the country is Wales!
"When Taffy is vext, no devil is ruder—
"Take care how you trouble the offspring of Tudor!

"On the crags of the mountains hur living hur seeks,
"Hur country is planted with garlick and leeks;
"So great is hur choler, beware how you teaze hur,
"For these are the Britons—unconquered by Cæsar."[148]

"But now, my dear Juno, pray give me my mittens,
"(These insects I am going to handle are Britons)
"I'll draw up their isle with a finger and thumb,
"As the doctor extracts an old tooth from the gum."

Then he raised her aloft—but to shorten our tale,
She looked like a clod in the opposite scale—
Britannia so small, and Columbia so large—
A ship of first rate, and a ferryman's barge!

Cried Pallas to Vulcan, "Why, Jove's in a dream—
"Observe how he watches the turn of the beam!
"Was ever a mountain outweighed by a grain?
"Or what is a drop when compared to the main?"

But Momus alledged—"In my humble opinion,
"You should add to Great-Britain her foreign dominion,
"When this is appended, perhaps she will rise,
"And equal her rival in weight and in size."

"Alas! (said the monarch), your project is vain,
"But little is left of her foreign domain;
"And, scattered about in the liquid expanse,
"That little is left to the mercy of France;

"However, we'll lift them, and give her fair play"—
And soon in the scale with their mistress they lay;
But the gods were confounded and struck with surprise,
And Vulcan could hardly believe his own eyes!

For (such was the purpose and guidance of fate)
Her foreign dominions diminished her weight—
By which it appeared, to Britain's disaster,
Her foreign possessions were changing their master.

Then, as he replaced them, said Jove with a smile—
"Columbia shall never be ruled by an isle—
"But vapours and darkness around her may rise,
"And tempests conceal her awhile from our eyes;

"So locusts in Egypt their squadrons display,
"And rising, disfigure the face of the day;
"So the moon, at her full, has a frequent eclipse,
"And the sun in the ocean diurnally dips.

"Then cease your endeavours, ye vermin of Britain—
(And here, in derision, their island he spit on)
"'Tis madness to seek what you never can find,
"Or to think of uniting what nature disjoined;

"But still you may flutter awhile with your wings,
"And spit out your venom and brandish your stings:
"Your hearts are as black, and as bitter as gall,
"A curse to mankind—and a blot on the Ball."[E]

[E] It is hoped that such a sentiment may not be deemed wholly illiberal—Every candid person will certainly draw a line between a brave and magnanimous people, and a most vicious and vitiating government. Perhaps the following extract from a pamphlet lately published in London and republished at Baltimore (June, 1809) by Mr. Bernard Dornin, will place the preceding sentiment in a fair point of view:

"A better spirit than exists in the English people, never existed in any people in the world; it has been misdirected, and squandered upon party purposes in the most degrading and scandalous manner; they have been led to believe that they were benefiting the commerce of England by destroying the commerce of America, that they were defending their sovereign by perpetuating the bigoted oppression of their fellow subjects; their rulers and their guides have told them that they would equal the vigour of France by equalling her atrocity, and they have gone on, wasting that opulence, patience and courage, which if husbanded by prudent, and moderate counsels, might have proved the salvation of mankind. The same policy of turning the good qualities of Englishmen to their own destruction, which made Mr. Pitt omnipotent, continues his power to those who resemble him only in his vices; advantage is taken of the loyalty of Englishmen, to make them meanly submissive; their piety is turned into persecution; their courage into useless and obstinate contention; they are plundered because they are ready to pay, and soothed into assinine stupidity because they are full of virtuous patience. If England must perish at last, so let it be: that event is in the hands of God; we must dry up our tears, and submit. But that England should perish swindling and stealing; that it should perish waging war against lazar-houses and hospitals; that it should perish persecuting with monastic bigotry; that it should calmly give itself up to be ruined by the flashy arrogance of one man, and the narrow fanaticism of another: these events are within the power of human beings, but I did not think that the magnanimity of Englishmen would ever stoop to such degradations."—Freneau's note.

[142] This poem appeared in the April 3, 1782, issue of the Freeman's Journal, filling the entire first page of the paper. I have followed the text of the 1809 edition.

[143] "On which were engraven twice."—Ed. 1786.

[144] This and the nine following lines were written for the edition of 1809.

[145] "Merely for music."—Ed. 1786.

[146] "If you will,"—Ib.

[147] "Length."—Ed. 1786.

[148] In the 1786 edition there was inserted at this point the following stanza omitted in the later versions:

"Jove peep'd thro' his moons, and examin'd their features,
And said, 'By my truth, they are wonderful creatures,
'The beards are so long that encircle their throats,
'That (unless they are Welchmen) I swear they are goats.'"

DIALOGUE AT HYDE-PARK CORNER[149]

(London)

Burgoyne

Let those who will, be proud and sneer
And call you an unwelcome peer,
But I am glad to see you here:
The prince that fills the British throne,
Unless successful, honours none;
Poor Jack Burgoyne!—you're not alone.

Cornwallis

Thy ships, De Grasse, have caused my grief—
To rebel shores and their relief
There never came a luckier chief:
In fame's black page it shall be read,
By Gallic arms my soldiers bled—
The rebels thine in triumph led.

Burgoyne

Our fortunes different forms assume,
I called and called for elbow-room,[150]
Till Gates discharged me to my doom;[151]
But you, that conquered far and wide,
In little York thought fit to hide,
The subject ocean at your side.

Cornwallis

And yet no force had gained that post—
Not Washington, his country's boast,
Nor Rochambeau, with all his host,
Nor all the Gallic fleet's parade—
Had Clinton hurried to my aid,
And Sammy Graves been not afraid.

Burgoyne

For head knocked off, or broken bones,
Or mangled corpse, no price atones;
Nor all that prattling rumour says,
Nor all the piles that art can raise,
The poet's or the parson's praise.

Cornwallis

Though I am brave, as well as you,
Yet still I think your notion true;
Dear brother Jack, our toils are o'er—
With foreign conquests plagued no more,
We'll stay and guard our native shore.

[149] Text from the edition of 1809. The poem first appeared in the Freeman's Journal, April 24, 1782.

[150] See Vol. I, page 166, note.

[151]

"Had I been blest with elbow-room,
I might have found a different doom."—Ed. 1786.

ON THE LATE ROYAL SLOOP OF WAR
GENERAL MONK[152]

(Formerly the Washington)

Mounting Six Quarter Deck Wooden Guns

When the Washington ship by the English was beat,
They sent her to England to shew their great feat,
And Sandwich straitway, as a proof of his spunk,
Dashed out her old name, and called her the Monk.

"This Monk hated Rebels (said Sandy)—'od rot 'em—
"So heave her down quickly, and copper her bottom;
"With the sloops of our navy we'll have her enrolled,
"And manned with picked sailors to make her feel bold;

"To shew that our king is both valiant and good,
"Some guns shall be iron, and others be wood,
"And, in truth, (though I wish not the secret to spread)
"All her guns should be wooden—to suit with his head."

[152] First published in the Freeman's Journal, April 24, 1782. On April 10, the Journal contained the following account of the battle:

"Yesterday the Hyder Ally, a vessel fitted out for the protection of this river and its trade, returned to Chester after a severe conflict with a vessel of superior force, which with great gallantry and good conduct on the part of Capt. Barney and his crew, has been captured and brought into port. The particulars of the action, as far as we have been able to collect them, are that a fleet of merchantmen, having proceeded down the bay, were met by an enemy's frigate of forty guns, with the General Monk, Sloop of War, and Fair American, privateer; the General Monk having eighteen nine pounders and one hundred and fifty men. The fleet endeavored to return, but were pursued by the frigate, sloop, and privateer. The Fair American being engaged with one of the fleet, and the frigate being at a considerable distance, gave the Hyder Ally an opportunity to attack the General Monk singly, which Capt. Barney embraced, and after a very close and brave attack of about thirty minutes, the General Monk surrendered to her inferior adversary. The General Monk had fifty-three men killed and wounded, among whom are most of the officers; on board the Hyder Ally there were fifteen killed and wounded. A brig, one of the fleet, was taken, and the General Greene left engaged with the Fair American. The conduct of Capt. Barney has given the greatest satisfaction and shows him truly worthy of the trust committed to him."

TRUTH ANTICIPATED[153][A]

A Rivingtonian Dialogue

[A] "Occasioned by the naval victory gained by Admiral Rodney and Capt. Cornwallis, of the British fleet in the West Indies, over the squadron of Count De Grasse."—Freneau's note to 1809 edition.

On June 5, 1782, Freneau printed the following in the Journal:

"Formidable, between Guadaloupe and Monpenat,
April 14, 1782.        

"Sir: I am this moment favoured with your excellency's letter, and have the happiness to acquaint you that after having had a partial engagement with the enemy on the 9th, wherein 16 of my rear were prevented by calms from joining in the action, on the 12th I had the good fortune to bring them to a general action, which lasted from seven o'clock in the morning until half-past six in the afternoon, without a moment's intermission. Count de Grasse, with the Ville de Paris and four other ships of the line and one sunk, graced the victory. The remainder of their fleet was so miserably shattered and their loss of men so very great from their having their whole army consisting of 5,500 men on board the ships of war, that I am convinced it will be almost impossible to put them in a condition for service for some considerable time.

I am hastening with my whole fleet, etc.                
G. B. Rodney."

Freneau's early doubts as to this victory, which was loudly proclaimed in the Royal Gazette, is evidenced not only by the poem, but by the following comment on Rodney's letter:

"The unskilful forger of Sir George Rodney's letter, which is pretended to have been wafted from Jamaica to Savannah and thence to Charleston, exhibits Sir George not as a British admiral, but as a saucy upstart.... To comment on this absurd forgery would be nugatory."

What brilliant events have of late come to pass,
No less than the capture of Monsieur de Grasse!
His majesty's printer has told it for true,
As we had it from him, so we give it to you.

Many folks of discernment the story believed,
And the devil himself it at first had deceived,
Had it not been that Satan imported the stuff,
And signed it George Rodney, by way of high proof.[154]

Said Satan to Jemmy, "Let's give them the whappers—
"Some news I have got that will bring in the coppers,
"And truth it shall be, though I pass it for lies,
"And making a page of your newspaper size.

"A wide field is open to favour my plan,
"And the rebels may prove that I lie—if they can;
"Since they jested and laughed at our lying before,
"Let it pass for a lie, to torment them the more.

"My wings are yet wet with the West-India dew,
"And Rodney I left, to come hither to you,
"I left him bedeviled with brimstone and smoke,
"The French in distress, and their armament broke.

"For news so delightful, with heart and with voice
"The Tories of every degree may rejoice;
"With charcoal and sulphur shall utter their joy
"'Till they all get as black as they paint the old Boy."

Thus, pleased with the motion, each cutting a caper,
Down they sat at the table, with pen, ink, and paper;
In less than five minutes the matter was stated,
And Jemmy turned scribe, while Satan dictated.

"Begin (said the devil) in the form of a Letter,
"(If you call it true copy, 'tis so much the better)
"Make Rodney assert he met the French fleet,
"Engaged it, and gave 'em a total defeat.

"But the better to vamp up a show of reality,
"The tale must be told with circumstantiality,
"What vessels were conquered by Britain's bold sons,
"Their quotas of men, and their number of guns.

"There's the Villa de Paris—one hundred and ten—
"Write down that George Rodney has killed half her men—
"That her hull and her rigging are shattered and shaken,
"Her flag humbled down, and her admiral taken.

"Le Cesar, 'tis true, is a seventy-four,
"But the Villa de Paris was thirty-six more;
"With a grey goose's quill if that ship we did seize on,
"Le Cesar must fall, or I'll know what's the reason.

"The next that I fix on to take is the Hector,
"(Her name may be Trojan, but shall not protect her)
"Don't faulter, dear comrade, and look like a goose,
"If we've taken these three, we can take Glorieuse.

"The last mentioned ship runs their loss up to four,
"Le Diadem sunk, shall make it one more;
"And now, for the sake of round numbers, dear cousin,
"Write Ardent, and then we have just half-a-dozen!"

Jemmy smiled at the notion, and whispered "O fy!
"Indeed 'tis a shame to persuade one to lie"—
But Satan replied—"Consider, my son,
"I am a prince of the winds, and have seen what is done:

"With a conquest like this, how bright we shall shine!
"That Rodney has taken six ships of the line,
"Will be in your paper a brilliant affair;
"How the Tories will laugh, and the rebels will swear.

"But farther, dear Jemmy, make Rodney to say,
"If the sun two hours longer had held out the day,
"The rest were so beaten, so baisted, so tore,
"He had taken them all, and he knew not but more."

So the partners broke up, as good friends as they met,
And soon it was all in the Royal Gazette;
The Tories rejoiced at the very good news,
And said, There's no fear we shall die in our shoes.

Now let us give credit to Jemmy, forsooth,
Since once in a way he has hit on the truth:
If again he returns to his practice of lies,
He hardly reflects where he'll go when he dies.

But still, when he dies, let it never be said
That he rests in his grave with no verse at his head;
But furnish, ye poets, some short epitaph,
And something like this, that readers may laugh:

Here lies a King's Printer, we needn't say who:
There is reason to think that he tells what is true:
But if he lies here, 'tis not over-strange,
His present position is but a small change,
So, reader, pass on—'tis a folly to sigh,
For all his life long he did little but lie.

[153] The first trace that I can find of this poem is in the 1786 edition, where it is signed, "Written April, 1782."

[154] "For that was enough."—Ed. 1786.

BARNEY'S INVITATION[155]

Come all ye lads who know no fear,
To wealth and honor with me steer
In the Hyder Ali privateer,
Commanded by brave Barney.

She's new and true, and tight and sound,
Well rigged aloft, and all well found—
Come away and be with laurel crowned,
Away—and leave your lasses.

Accept our terms without delay,
And make your fortunes while you may,
Such offers are not every day
In the power of the jolly sailor.

Success and fame attend the brave,
But death the coward and the slave,
Who fears to plow the Atlantic wave,
To seek the bold invaders.

Come, then, and take a cruising bout,
Our ship sails well, there is no doubt,
She has been tried both in and out,
And answers expectation.

Let no proud foes whom Europe bore,
Distress our trade, insult our shore—
Teach them to know their reign is o'er,
Bold Philadelphia sailors!

We'll teach them how to sail so near,
Or to venture on the Delaware,
When we in warlike trim appear
And cruise without Henlopen.

Who cannot wounds and battle dare
Shall never clasp the blooming fair;
The brave alone their charms should share,
The brave are their protectors.

With hand and heart united all,
Prepared to conquer or to fall,
Attend, my lads, to honour's call,
Embark in our Hyder Ali.

From an Eastern prince[156] she takes her name,
Who, smit with Freedom's sacred flame,
Usurping Britons brought to shame,
His country's wrongs avenging;

See, on her stern the waving stars—
Inured to blood, inured to wars,
Come, enter quick, my jolly tars,
To scourge these warlike Britons.

Here's grog enough—then drink a bout,
I know your hearts are firm and stout;
American blood will never give out,
And often we have proved it.

Though stormy oceans round us roll,
We'll keep a firm undaunted soul,
Befriended by the cheering bowl,
Sworn foes to melancholy:

While timorous landsmen lurk on shore,
'Tis ours to go where cannons roar—
On a coasting cruise we'll go once more,
Despisers of all danger;

And Fortune still, who crowns the brave,
Shall guard us over the gloomy wave
A fearful heart betrays a knave—
Success to the Hyder Ali.

[155] "A number of gentlemen having met in the evening [about April 1, 1782] at Crawford and Donaldson's insurance office in High street and, conversing on the subject of the captures making in the bay by the General Monk, just then arrived, it was resolved to raise a loan of money by which to fit out a vessel which might succeed to capture her. The money was obtained of the Bank of North America upon the responsibility of sundry individuals; the Hyder Ali was purchased of John W. Stanley and the command given to Capt. Barney; a crew of volunteers, chiefly from the regular service, was engaged, and a commission of a letter of marque procured. In a week the vessel was ready and sailed."—Watson's Annals of Philadelphia. The poem was included in the editions of 1786 and 1809. Why Freneau omitted this spirited lyric and also 'Barney's Victory over the Monk' from his edition of 1795 has never been explained.

[156] Hyder Ali, a prince of Mysore, India, who defeated in 1767 the British troops and forced them to sue for peace. In 1780, assisted by the French, he invaded Carnatic, but was defeated the following year by Sir Eyre Coote. From his hostility to the English and his alliance with the French he was hailed with enthusiasm by the American patriots.

SONG[157]

On Captain Barney's Victory over the Ship General Monk

O'er the waste of waters cruising,
Long the General Monk had reigned;
All subduing, all reducing,
None her lawless rage restrained:
Many a brave and hearty fellow
Yielding to this warlike foe,
When her guns began to bellow
Struck his humbled colours low.

But grown bold with long successes,
Leaving the wide watery way,
She, a stranger to distresses,
Came to cruise within Cape May:
"Now we soon (said captain Rogers)
"Shall their men of commerce meet;
"In our hold we'll have them lodgers,
"We shall capture half their fleet.

"Lo! I see their van appearing—
"Back our topsails to the mast—
"They toward us full are steering
"With a gentle western blast:
"I've a list of all their cargoes,
"All their guns, and all their men:
"I am sure these modern Argos
"Cant escape us one in ten:

"Yonder comes the Charming Sally
"Sailing with the General Greene—
"First we'll fight the Hyder Ali,
"Taking her is taking them:
"She intends to give us battle,
"Bearing down with all her sail—
"Now, boys, let our cannon rattle!
"To take her we cannot fail.

"Our eighteen guns, each a nine pounder,
"Soon shall terrify this foe;
"We shall maul her, we shall wound her,
"Bringing rebel colours low."—
While he thus anticipated
Conquests that he could not gain,
He in the Cape May channel waited
For the ship that caused his pain.

Captain Barney then preparing,
Thus addressed his gallant crew—
"Now, brave lads, be bold and daring,
"Let your hearts be firm and true;
"This is a proud English cruiser,
"Roving up and down the main,
"We must fight her—must reduce her,
"Though our decks be strewed with slain.

"Let who will be the survivor,
"We must conquer or must die,
"We must take her up the river,
"Whate'er comes of you or I:
"Though she shews most formidable
"With her eighteen pointed nines,
"And her quarters clad in sable,
"Let us baulk her proud designs.

"With four nine pounders, and twelve sixes
"We will face that daring band;
"Let no dangers damp your courage,
"Nothing can the brave withstand.
"Fighting for your country's honour,
"Now to gallant deeds aspire;
"Helmsman, bear us down upon her,
"Gunner, give the word to fire!"

Then yard arm and yard arm meeting,
Strait began the dismal fray,
Cannon mouths, each other greeting,
Belched their smoky flames away:
Soon the langrage, grape and chain shot,
That from Barney's cannons flew,
Swept the Monk, and cleared each round top,
Killed and wounded half her crew.

Captain Rogers strove to rally
But they from their quarters fled,
While the roaring Hyder Ali
Covered o'er his decks with dead.
When from their tops their dead men tumbled,
And the streams of blood did flow,
Then their proudest hopes were humbled
By their brave inferior foe.

All aghast, and all confounded,
They beheld their champions fall,
And their captain, sorely wounded,
Bade them quick for quarters call.
Then the Monk's proud flag descended,
And her cannon ceased to roar;
By her crew no more defended,
She confessed the contest o'er.

Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses,
You have humbled one proud foe,
No brave action this surpasses,
Fame shall tell the nations so—
Thus be Britain's woes completed,
Thus abridged her cruel reign,
'Till she ever, thus defeated,
Yields the sceptre of the main.

[157] First published in the Freeman's Journal May 8, 1782, with the following introduction:

"Mr. Bailey:

"Reading Capt. Barney's late gallant exploit in your and other newspapers, I could not restrain myself from scribbling the few following stanzas relative to that affair and descriptive not of what was really said or done in the most minute particulars but of what might be supposed to have passed in similar circumstances.

Yours,              
Rusticus.

"Dover, April 26, 1782.
     "To the Tune of the Tempest or Hosier's Ghost."

The omission of this stirring lyric from the edition of 1795 I can ascribe only to accident.

ON SIR HENRY CLINTON'S RECALL[158]

The dog that is beat has a right to complain—
Sir Harry returns a disconsolate man,
To the face of his master, the Lord's[159] oil-anointed,
To the country provided for thieves disappointed.

Our freedom, he thought, to a tyrant must fall,
He concluded the weakest must go to the wall;
The more he was flattered, the bolder he grew—
He quitted the old world to conquer the new.

But in spite of the deeds he has done in his garrison,
(And they have been curious beyond all comparison)
He now must go home, at the call of his king,
To answer the charges that Arnold may bring.

But what are the acts that this chief has atchieved?—
If good, it is hard he should now be aggrieved,
And the more, as he fought for his national glory,
Nor valued, a farthing, the right of the story.

This famous great man, and two birds[A] of his feather,
In the Cerberus frigate came over together;
But of all the bold chiefs that re-measure the trip,
Not two have been known to return in one ship.[160]

[A] Generals Howe and Burgoyne.—Freneau's note.

Like children that wrestle and scuffle in sport,
They are very well pleased as long as unhurt,
But a thump on the nose, or a blow in the eye,
Ends the fray—and they go to their daddy and cry.

Sir Clinton, thy deeds have been mighty and many,
You said all our paper was not worth a penny,
('Tis nothing but rags,[B] quoth honest Will Tryon,
Are rags to discourage the Sons of the Lion?)

[B] See his Letters to Gen. Parsons.—Freneau's note.

But Clinton thought thus—"It is folly to fight,
"When things may by easier methods come right,
"There is such an art as counterfeit-ation—
"And I'll do my utmost to honour our nation;

"I'll shew this damned country that I can enslave her,
"And that by the help of a skilful engraver,
"And then let the rebels take care of their bacon,
"We'll play them a trick, or I'm vastly mistaken."

But the project succeeded not quite to your liking,
So you paid off your artist and gave up bill striking;
But 'tis an affair I am glad you are quit on,
You had surely been hanged had you tried it in Britain.

At the taking of Charleston you cut a great figure,
The terms you propounded were terms full of rigour,
Yet could not foresee poor Charley's[C] disgrace,
Nor how soon your own colours would go to the case.

[C] Cornwallis.—Ib.

When the town had surrendered, the more to disgrace ye,
(Like another true Briton that did it at 'Statia)
You broke all the terms yourself had extended,
Because you supposed the rebellion was ended;

Whoever the Tories marked out as a Whig,
If gentle, or simple, or little, or big,
No matter to you—to kill 'em and spite 'em,
You soon had 'em up where the dogs couldn't bite 'em.

Then thinking these rebels were snug and secure,
You left them to Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour:
(The face of the latter a mask should be drawed on,
And to fish for the devil my bait should be Rawdon.)

Returning to York with your ships and your plunder,
And boasting that rebels must shortly knock under,
The first thing that struck you, as soon as you landed,
Was the fortress at West-Point, where Arnold commanded.

Thought you, "If friend Arnold this fort will deliver,
"We then shall be masters of all Hudson's river,
"The east and the south losing communication,
"The Yankies will die by the act of starvation."

So off you sent André (not guided by Pallas)
Who soon purchased Arnold, and with him the gallows;
Your loss I conceive than your gain was far greater,
You lost a good fellow, and got a vile[161] traitor.

Now Carleton comes over to give you relief,
A knight like yourself, and commander in chief,
But the chief he will get, you may tell the dear honey,
Will be a black eye, hard knocks, and no money.

Now with—"Britons, strike home!" your sorrows dispel,
Away to your master, and honestly tell,
That his arms and his artists can nothing avail,
His men are too few, and his tricks are too stale.

Advise him at length to be just and sincere;
Of which not a sympton as yet doth appear,
As we plainly perceive from his sending Sir Guy
The Treaty to break with our Gallic Ally.[162]

[158] First published in the Freeman's Journal, May 22, 1782. Sir Henry Clinton was superseded as Commander-in-Chief of the British armies in America by Sir Guy Carleton, who took command May 5, 1782.

[159] "Devil's."—Ed. 1786.

[160] In 1775 Lord Howe was appointed Admiral of the British fleet in North America and leader of the commission to effect if possible a reconciliation with the colonists. With him were sent two major-generals, Clinton and Burgoyne, to conduct the war with vigor if war were found to be inevitable. The three leaders arrived in Boston May 25, 1775.

[161] "Damn'd."—Ed. 1786.

[162] "Commission'd to steal, and commission'd to lie."—Ed. 1786.

SIR GUY CARLETON'S ADDRESS TO THE
AMERICANS[163]

From Britain's famed island once more I come over,
(No island on earth is in prowess above her)
With powers and commissions your hearts to recover!

Our king, I must tell you, is plagued with a phantom
(Independence they call it) that hourly doth haunt him,
And relief, my dear rebels, you only can grant him.

Tom Gage and Sir Harry, Sir William, (our boast)
Lord Howe, and the rest that have travelled the coast,
All failed in their projects of laying this ghost:

So unless the damned spectre myself can expel
It will yet kill our monarch, I know very well,
And gallop him off on his lion to hell.

But I heartily wish, that, instead of Sir Guy,
They had sent out a seer from the island of Skie,
Who rebels, and devils, and ghosts could defy:

So great is our prospect of failing at last,
When I look at the present, and think of the past,
I wish with our heroes I had not been classed;

For though, to a man, we are bullies and bruisers,
And covered with laurels, we still are the losers,
'Till each is recalled with his Tory accusers:

But the war now is altered, and on a new plan;
By negociation we'll do what we can—
And I am an honest, well-meaning old man;

Too proud to retreat, and too weak to advance,
We must stay where we are, at the mercy of chance,
'Till Fortune shall help us to lead you a dance.

Then lay down your arms, dear rebels—O hone!
Our king is the best man that ever was known,
And the greatest that ever was stuck on a throne:

His love and affection by all ranks are sought;
Here take him, my honies, and each pay a groat—
Was ever a monarch more easily bought?

In pretty good case and very well found,
By night and by day we carry him round:
He must go for a groat, if we can't get a pound.

Break the treaties you made with Louis Bourbon;
Abandon the Congress, no matter how soon,
And then, all together, we'll play a new tune.

'Tis strange that they always would manage the roast,
And force you their healths and the Dauphin's to toast;
Repent, my dear fellows, and each get a post:

Or, if you object that one post is too few,
We generous Britons will help you to two,
With a beam laid across—that will certainly do.

The folks that rebelled in the year forty-five,
We used them so well that we left few alive,
But sent them to heaven in swarms from their hive.

Your noble resistance we cannot forget,
'Tis nothing but right we should honour you yet;
If you are not rewarded, we die in your debt.

So, quickly submit and our mercy implore,
Be as loyal to George as you once were before,
Or I'll slaughter you all—and probably more.

What puzzled Sir Harry, Sir Will, and his brother,
Perhaps may be done by the son of my mother,
With the Sword in one hand and a Branch in the other.

My bold predecessors (as fitting their station)
At their first coming out, all spoke Proclamation;
'Tis the custom with us, and the way of our nation.

Then Kil-al-la-loo!—Shelaly, I say;—
If we cannot all fight, we can all run away—
And further at present I choose not to say.

[163] First published in the Freeman's Journal, June 5, 1782 and dated May 30, 1782. Carleton was not only empowered to take command of the army in America, but he was also sent as "Commissioner for making peace in North America." He remained in the city until November 25, 1783, when he departed with the army.

SCANDANAVIAN WAR SONG[164]

Balderi patris scamna
Parata scio in aula:
Bibemus Cerevisiam
Ex concavis crateribus craniorum.
Non gemit vir fortis contra mortem
Magnifici in Odini domibus, &c.

Translation

Brave deeds atchieved, at death's approach I smile,
In Balder's hall I see the table spread,
The enlivening ale shall now reward my toil,
Quaffed from their sculls, that by my faulchion bled.

Heroes no more at death's approach shall groan:
In lofty Odin's dome all sighs forbear—
Conscious of bloody deeds, my fearless soul
Mounts to great Odin's hall, and revels there.

[164] First printed June 19, 1782, in number 16 of the series of papers contributed to the first volume of the Freeman's Journal under the title The Pilgrim, and reprinted to some extent in the edition of 1788 under the title The Philosopher of the Forest. The essay, which might be entitled "On the Irrationality of War," contained the following passage:

"They [the Scandinavians] imagined the chief pleasure of this immortality would be to drink beer out of bowls made of the skulls of the enemies they had slain in battle, according to the number of which every one was to be esteemed and honored in the mansions of another world. Their war songs were particularly horrible to the imagination, and full of those savage notions of valor and romantic heroism that is to this day observable in the North American Indians.... Is it possible that a being illuminated by the rays of that spiritual sun could in his senses write the following lines: they were composed (with a great deal more) by one of the warrior chiefs of the Scandinavians more than 800 years since, a few hours before he expired?"

THE PROJECTORS[165]

Before the brazen age began,
And things were yet on Saturn's plan,
None knew what sovereign bliss there lay
In ruling, were it but a day.
Each with spontaneous food content,
His life in Nature's affluence spent;
The sun was mild, serene and clear,
And walked in Libra all the year;
No tempests did the heaven deform,
'Twas not too cold nor yet too warm;
People were then at small expence,
They dug no ditch, and made no fence,
No patentees by sleight or chance
For Indian lands got double grants,
Not for their wants, but just to say,
"If you come here, expect to pay."
Base grasping souls, your pride repress;
Beyond your wants must you possess?
If ten poor acres will supply
A rustic and his family,
Why, Jobbers, would you have ten score,
Ten thousand and ten thousand more?
It is a truth well understood,
"All would be tyrants if they could."
The love of sway has been confessed
The ruling passion of the breast:
Those who aspire to govern states,
If baulked by disapproving fates,
Resolve their purpose to fulfil,
And scheme for tenants at their will.
Ten thousand acres, fit for toil,
In Indiana's fertile soil—
Ten thousand acres! come, agree—
Timon is named[166] the patentee,
And, as the longing stomach craves,
He'll honour fools and flatter knaves.
If Rome, of old, to greatness rose
Triumphant over all her foes,
None need believe that people then
Were more in strength than modern men;
If o'er the world their eagles waved,
'Twas property their freedom saved;[167]
From lands, not shared amongst the few,
An independent spirit grew:
Each on a small and scanty spot,
With much ado his living got,
Inured to labour from his birth,[168]
Each Roman soldier tilled the earth,
Great as a monarch on the throne
By having something of his own.

[165] First published in the Freeman's Journal, July 3, 1782, under the signature "Cassibilan." I have followed the 1809 text.

[166] "Let me become."—Ed. 1786.

[167] "'Twas policy the world enslav'd."—Ib.

[168] This line and the following not in the 1786 version.

ON GENERAL ROBERTSON'S PROCLAMATION[169]

Old Judas the traitor (nor need we much wonder)
Falling down from the gallows, his paunch split asunder,
Affording, 'tis likely, a horrible scent
Rather worse than the sulphur of hell, where he went.

So now this bra' chieftain, who long has suspended
And kept out of view what his master intended,
Bursts out all at once, and an inside discloses,
Disgusting the Tories, who stop up their noses.

The short of the matter is this, as I take it—
New-York of true Britons is plainly left naked,
And their conduct amounts to an honest confession,
That they cannot depend on the run-a-way Hessian.

In such a dilemma pray what should they do?
Hearts loyal, to whom should they look but to You?—
You know pretty well how to handle the spade,
To dig their canals and to make a parade;

The city is left to your valiant defence,
And of course it will be but of little expence,
Since there is an old fellow that looks somewhat sooty
Who, gratis, will help you in doing your duty—

"In doing our duty!—'tis duty indeed
"(Says a Tory) if this be the way that we speed;
"We never loved fighting, the matter is clear—
"If we had, I am sure we had never come here.

"George we owned for our king, as his true loyal sons,
"But why will he force us to manage his guns?—
"Who 'list in the army or cruise on the wave,
"Let them do as they will—'tis their trade to be brave.

"Guns, mortars and bullets,[170] we easily face,
"But when they're in motion—it alters the case;
"To skirmish with Huddies[A] is all our desire
"For though we can murder, we cannot stand fire.

[A] Capt. Huddy, an American Captain, who, after capitulating in a block-house, was hanged by refugees, called new levies.—Freneau's note.

"To the standards of Britain we fled for protection,
"And there we are gathered, a goodly collection;
"And most of us think it is rather too hard
"For refusing to arm to be put under guard;

"Who knows under guard what ills we may feel!—
"It is an expression that means a great deal—
"'Mongst the rebels they fine 'em who will not turn out,
"But here we are left in a sorrowful doubt;—

"These Britons were always so sharp and so shifty—
"The rebels excuse you from serving when fifty,
"But here we are counted such wonderful men
"We are kept in the ranks, till we are four score and ten.

"Kicked, cuffed and ill treated from morning till night
"We have room to conjecture that all is not right,
"For Freedom we fled from our country's defence
"And freedom we'll get—when death sends us hence.[171]

"If matters go thus, it is easy to see
"That as idiots we've been, so slaves we shall be;
"And what will become of that peaceable train
"Whose tenets enjoin them from war to abstain?

"Our city commandant must be an odd shaver,
"Not a single exception to make in their favour!—
"Come let us turn round and rebelliously sing,
"Huzza for the Congress!—the de'il take the king."

[169] First published in the Freeman's Journal, June 10, 1782, prefaced by the following reprint of the proclamation taken from Rivington's Royal Gazette of the 26th of June:

"By His Excellency Lieutenant-General James Robertson, Governor of New York, &c., &c. The Commander-in-chief having shown the great confidence he reposes in the Citizens of New York by trusting his Majesty's interest there, to their Zeal, Loyalty, and Gallantry, I persuade myself that every citizen will with alacrity claim his title to a share of the Militia duty; that none may be deprived of this, and that those whose zeal would lead them to appear whenever called for, may not be called for too often, I think proper to declare:

"That all persons are to perform the Militia duty, excepting the Ministers of God's Word, his Majesty's Counsellors and principal servants whose avocations to religious and civil, necessarily prevents their attendance on Military duties.

"All persons who from age or infirmity are unable to act, may do duty by substitutes, providing those they offer are judged sufficient by the Colonel of the regiment, or commanding officer of the corps to which they belong.

"If any of the Gentlemen of the learned professions find themselves so usefully employed as to be induced to avoid the honour of appearing in person, they are supposed to be judges of the importance of their own time, and may act by proper substitutes.

"As no person deserves protection in a place of which he refuses to contribute to the defence; every person who refuses to appear when summoned to his Militia duty is to be confined in the Main-Guard by the Colonel or commanding Officer of the corps to which he belongs, where he is to be kept till further orders.

James Robertson.

New York, June 22, 1782."

[170] "Gun bullets in boxes."—Ed. 1786.

[171] In place of this stanza, the edition of 1786 had the following:

"Provided the clergy but preach non-resistance
"And passive obedience—they wave their assistance;
"But we—tho' we're sick and have death in our faces,
"Must purchase a proxy to serve in our places."

A PICTURE OF THE TIMES[172]

With Occasional Reflections

Still round the world triumphant Discord flies,
Still angry kings to bloody contest rise;
Hosts bright with steel, in dreadful order plac'd,
And ships contending on the watery waste;
Distracting demons every breast engage,
Unwearied nations glow with mutual rage;
Still to the charge the routed Briton turns,
The war still rages and the battle burns;
See, man with man in deadly combat join,
See, the black navy form the flaming line;
Death smiles alike at battles lost or won—
Art does for him what Nature would have done.
Can scenes like these delight the human breast?—
Who sees with joy humanity distrest;
Such tragic scenes fierce passion might prolong,
But slighted Reason says, they must be wrong.
Curs'd be the day, how bright soe'er it shin'd,
That first made kings the masters of mankind;
And curs'd the wretch who first with regal pride
Their equal rights to equal men deny'd.
But curs'd o'er all, who first to slav'ry broke
Submissive bow'd and own'd a monarch's yoke,
Their servile souls his arrogance ador'd
And basely own'd a brother for a lord;
Hence wrath and blood, and feuds and wars began,
And man turned monster to his fellow man.
Not so that age of innocence and ease
When men, yet social, knew no ills like these;
Then dormant yet, ambition (half unknown)
No rival murder'd to possess a throne;
No seas to guard, no empires to defend—
Of some small tribe the father and the friend.
The hoary sage beneath his sylvan shade
Impos'd no laws but those which reason made;
On peace not war, on good not ill intent,
He judg'd his brethren by their own consent;
Untaught to spurn those brethren to the dust;
In virtue firm, and obstinately just,
For him no navies rov'd from shore to shore.
No slaves were doom'd to dig the glitt'ring ore;
Remote from all the vain parade of state,
No slaves in diamonds saunter'd at his gate,
Nor did his breast the guilty passions tear,
He knew no murder and he felt no fear.
Was this the patriarch sage?—Then turn thine eyes
And view the contrast that our age supplies;
Touch'd from the life, I trace no ages fled,
I draw no curtain that conceals the dead;
To distant Britain let thy view be cast,
And say the present far exceeds the past;
Of all the plagues that e'er the world have curs'd,
Name George the tyrant, and you name the worst!
What demon, hostile to the human kind,
Planted these fierce disorders in the mind?
All urg'd alike, one phantom we pursue,
But what has war with happiness to do?
In death's black shroud this gem can ne'er be found;
Who deals for that the life-destroying wound,
Or pines with grief to see a brother live,
That life dissolving which we cannot give?
'Tis thine, Ambition!—Thee these horrors suit:
Lost to the human, she assumes the brute;
She proudly vain or insolently bold,
Her heart revenge, her eye intent on gold,
Sway'd by the madness of the present hour
Mistakes for happiness extent of power;
That shining bait which dropt in folly's way
Tempts the weak mind, and leads the heart astray!
Thou happiness! still sought but never found,
We, in a circle, chase thy shadow round;
Meant all mankind in different forms to bless,
Which yet possessing, we no more possess:—
Thus far remov'd and painted on the eye
Smooth verdant fields seem blended with the sky,
But where they both in fancied contact join
In vain we trace the visionary line;
Still as we chase, the empty circle flies,
Emerge new mountains or new oceans rise.

[172] Contributed to the July 19, 1782, issue of the Freeman's Journal over the signature "Philomeides." The title in the 1786 edition was "Philosophical Reflections." I have used the original text.

PRINCE WILLIAM HENRY'S SOLILOQUY[173]

Occasioned by Public Rejoicings in Philadelphia for the birth of the Dauphin of France, son to Louis XVI

People are mad thus to adore the Dauphin—
Heaven grant the brat may soon be in his coffin—[174]
The honours here to this young Frenchman shown,
Of right should be Prince George's, or my own;
And all those wreathes that bloom on Louis now,
Should hang, unfading, on my father's brow.
To these far shores with longing hopes I came,
(By birth a Briton, not unknown to fame)
Pleasures to share that loyalty imparts,
Subdue the rebels, and regain their hearts.
Weak, stupid expectation—all is done!
Few are the prayers that rise for George's son;
Nought through the waste of these wide realms I trace,
But rage, contempt, and curses on our race,
Hosts with their chiefs by bold usurpers won,
And not a blessing left for George's son!
Here on these isles[A] (my terrors not a few)
I walk attended by the Tory crew:
These from the first have done their best to please,
But who would herd with sycophants like these?
This exiled race, who their lost shores bemoan,
Would bow to Satan, if he held our throne—
Rul'd by their fears—and what is meaner far,
Have worshipp'd William only for his star!
To touch my hand their thronging thousands strove,
And tir'd my patience with unceasing love—
In fame's fair annals told me I should live,
But they, poor creatures, had no fame to give:
Must Digby's royal pupil walk the streets,
And smile on every ruffian that he meets;
Or teach them, as he has done—he knows when—
That kings and princes are no more than men?
Must I alas disclose, to our disgrace,
That Britain is too small for George's race?
Here in the west, where all did once obey,
Three islands only, now, confess our sway;
And in the east we have not much to boast,
For Hyder Ali drives us from the coast:
Yield, rebels, yield—or I must go once more
Back to the white cliffs of my native shore;
(Where, in process of time, shall go sir Guy,
And where sir Harry has returned to sigh,
Whose hands grew weak when things began to cross,
Nor made one effort to retrieve our loss)
Oatmeal and Scottish kale pots round me rise,
And Hanoverian turnips greet mine eyes;—
Welch goats and naked rocks my bosom swell,
And Teague! dear Teague!—to thee I bid farewell—
Curse on the Dauphin and his friends, I say,
He steals our honours and our rights away.
Digby—our anchors!—weigh them to the bow,
And eastward through the wild waves let us plow:
Such dire resentments in my bosom burn,
That to these shores I never will return,
'Till fruits and flowers on Zembla's coast are known,
And seas congeal beneath the torrid zone.

[A] New York and the neighbouring islands.—Freneau's note.

[173] Freeman's Journal, July 24, 1782. Text from edition of 1786.

[174] The prayer of the prince was soon answered.

SATAN'S REMONSTRANCE[175]

[Occasioned by Mr. Rivington's Late Apology for Lying]

Your golden dreams, your flattering schemes,
Alas! where are they fled, Sir?
Your plans derang'd, your prospects chang'd,
You now may go to bed, Sir.—

How could you thus, my partner dear,
Give up the hopes of many a year?—
Your fame retriev'd, and soaring high,
In Truth's resemblance seem'd to fly;
But now you grow so wondrous wise,
You turn, and own that all is lies.

A fabric that from hell we rais'd,
On which astonish'd rebels gaz'd,
And which the world shall ne'er forget,
No less than Rivington's Gazette,
Demolish'd at a single stroke—
The angel Gabriel might provoke.

"That all was lies," might well be true,
But why must this be told by you?
Great master of the wooden head,
Where is thy wonted cunning fled?
It was a folly to engage
That truth henceforth should fill your page,
When you must know, as well as I,
Your only mission is to lie.

Such are the plans which folly draws—
We now, like bears, may suck our paws;—
Brought up in lying from your youth,
You should have dy'd a foe to truth,
Since none but fools in this accord,
That Virtue is its own reward.[176]

Your fortune was as good as made,
Great artist in the lying trade!
But now I see with grief and pain
Your credit cannot rise again:
No more the favourite of my heart,
No more will I my gifts impart.

Yet something shall you gain at last
For lies contriv'd in seasons past—
When pressing to the narrow gate
I'll show the portal mark'd by Fate,
Where all mankind (as parsons say)
Are apt to take the wider way,
And, though the Royal Printer swear,
Will bolt him in, and keep him there!

[175] First published in the Freeman's Journal, August 7, 1782, with the note, "See the Royal Gazette of the 10th ult. and our last." The article in the Royal Gazette is as follows:

"To the Public:

"The Publisher of this paper, sensible that his zeal for the success of his Majesty's arms, his sanguine wishes for the good of his country and his friendship for individuals, have at times led him to credit and circulate paragraphs without investigating the facts so closely as his duty to the public demanded, trusting to their feelings and depending on their generosity, he begs them to look over past errors and depend on future correctness, for henceforth he will neither desire nor expect nor solicit their favors longer than his endeavors shall stamp the same degree of authenticity and credit on the Royal Gazette (of N. Y.) as all Europe allow to the Royal Gazette of London."

The Freeman's Journal reprinted this on July 31, with the comment: "From hence it is to be presumed that Satan, Rivington & Co. have thoughts of breaking up partnership." The text follows the edition of 1786.

[176] This stanza, printed in the edition of 1786, was omitted from the later editions.

THE REFUGEES' PETITION TO SIR GUY
CARLETON[177]

Humbly Sheweth—

That your Honour's petitioners,[178] Tories by trade,
From the first of the war have lent Britain their aid,
And done all they could, both in country and town,
In support of the king and the rights of his crown;
But now, to their grief and confusion, they find
"The de'il may take them who are farthest behind."

In the rear of all rascals they still have been placed
And Rebels and Frenchmen[179] full often have faced,
Have been in the midst of distresses and doubt
Whene'er they came in or whene'er they went out;
Have supported the king and defended his church
And now, in the end, must be left in the lurch.

Though often, too often, his arms were disgraced,
We still were in hopes he would conquer at last,
And restore us again to our sweethearts and wives
The pride of our hearts and the joy of our lives—
But he promised too far, and we trusted too much,
And who could have looked for a war with the Dutch?

Our board broken up, and discharged from our stations,
Sir Guy! it is cruel to cut off our rations;
Of a project like that, whoe'er was the mover,
It is, we must tell you, a hellish manœuvre,
A plan to destroy us—the basest of tricks
By means of starvation, a stigma to fix.[180]

If a peace be intended, as people surmise,
(Though we hope from our souls these are nothing but lies)
Inform us at once what we have to expect,
Nor treat us, as usual, with surly neglect;
Or else, while you Britons are shipping your freights[181]
We'll go to the Rebels, and get our estates.

[177] First published in the Freeman's Journal, August 28, 1782. Sir Guy Carleton's generous and humane nature was in marked contrast with the cruelty of his predecessors. Text is from the edition of 1809.

[178] The anxiety of the Tories during the closing months of the war was exceedingly great. Sir Guy Carleton, the commander-in-chief, was, during all his stay in America, delayed with petitions, complaints, and remonstrances.

[179] "Halters and gibbets."—Ed. 1786.

[180] "To get us away to the shallows of Styx."—Ed. 1786.

[181] "By the mass and the will of the fates."—Ib.

SIR GUY'S ANSWER

We have reason to think there will soon be a peace,
And that war with the Rebels will certainly cease;
But, be that as it will, I would have you to know
That as matters are changing, we soon may change too;
In short, I would say, (since I have it at heart)
Though the war should continue, yet we may depart.

Four offers in season I therefore propose,
(As much as I can do in reason, God knows)
In which, though there be not too plentiful carving,
There still is sufficient to keep you from starving.

And, first of the first, it would mightily charm me
To see you, my children, enlist in the army,
Or enter the navy, and get for your pay,
A farthing an hour, which is sixpence per day—
There's Hector Clackmanan, and Arthur O'Gregor
And Donald M'Donald shall rule you with vigour:

If these do not suit you, then take your new plan,
Make your peace with the rebels, (march off to a man):[182]
There rank and distinction perhaps you may find
And rise into offices fit to your mind—
But if still you object—I advise you to take a
Farewell to New-York—and away to Jamaica.[183]

[182] "That is, if you can."—Ed. 1786.

[183]

"But if still you object—to be all on a level,
Burn up your red coats and go off to the Devil."
—Ib.

TO A CONCEALED ROYALIST[184]

On a Virulent Attack

"We have force to crumble you into dust, although you were as hard as rocks, adamant, or jasper."

Kien-Lhi, alias John Tuck, Viceroy of Canton.[185]

When round the bark the howling tempest raves
Tossed in the conflict of a thousand waves,
The lubber landsmen weep, complain, and sigh,
And on the pilot's skill, or heaven, rely;
Lurk in their holes, astonished and aghast,
Dreading the moment that must be their last.
The tempest done—their terror also ceases,
And up they come, and shew their shameless faces,
At once feel bold, and tell the pilot, too,
He did no more than they—themselves—could do!
A Foe to Tyrants! one your pen restores:—
There is a Tyrant whom your soul adores:
And every line you write too plainly shows,
Your heart is hostile to that tyrant's foes.
What, worse than folly, urged this genius dull
With Churchill's[186] wreathes to shade his leaden scull:
So, midnight darkness union claims with light:
So, oil and water in one mass unite:—
No more your rage in plundered verse repeat,
Sink into prose—even there no safe retreat.[187]
Reed's[188] patriot fame to distant years may last,
When rancorous reptiles to the dogs are cast,
Or, where oblivion spreads her weary wings,
Lost in the lumber of forgotten things;
And none shall ask, nor wish to know, nor care,
Who—what their names—or when they lived—or where.[189]

[184] During the summer of 1782 the Freeman's Journal waged a bitter warfare with the Independent Gazetteer, a paper which had been established in Philadelphia on April 13, 1782, by Eleazer Oswald. To such extremes did this quarrel go that Oswald, defeated by the more nimble pen of his adversary, at length challenged him to a duel. The above poem marks the beginning of the poetical phase of the battle. It appeared in the Journal on the 28th of August and was a reply to the following effusion published in the Gazetteer four days previously:

"Mr. Oswald: The following lines are addressed to a most infamous Tyrant, ... and to a noted speculator when high in office. Yours, &c.,

A Foe to Tyrants.

"Be wicked as you will, do all that's base,
Proclaim yourselves the monsters of your race,
Let vice and folly your dark souls divide,
Be proud with meanness and be mean with pride,
Deaf to the voice of faith and honour, fall
From side to side, yet be of none at all:
Spurn all those charities, those sacred ties,
Which nature, in her bounty, good as wise,
To work our safety and ensure her plan,
Contriv'd to bind and rivet man to man:
Lift against Virtue pow'r's oppressive rod,
Betray your country, and deny your God."
But candour in some future day will scan
The actions of pale Joe and brazen Sam,
Who're lost to virtue and all sense of shame,
They've barter'd honour for some villain's name:
Yet may they pass unnotic'd in the throng
And, free from envy, safely sneak along;
Let Clarkson tell how Joe is in disgrace
And honest Jack will follow up the chase."

[185] This title first appeared in the 1809 edition. In the edition of 1795 the title was "To Shylock Ap-Shenkin, an abusive court writer."

[186] The twelve lines in quotation points in the poem by "The Foe to Tyrants" were taken, with little change, from Churchill's "Epistle to William Hogarth."

[187] "Sneak into prose—the dunce's last retreat."—Ed. 1786.

[188] The attack of "The Foe to Tyrants" was directed mainly against General Joseph Reed, the "pale Joe" of the poem. So bitter and persistent were the attacks of "Oswald's Scribblers" that Reed, in the Journal of Sept. 11, published a protest against the "set of men in this city [who] uninjured and unprovoked by me are weekly pouring forth some abuse under anonymous signatures." And early in 1783 he put forth a pamphlet entitled "Remarks on a late publication in the Independent Gazetteer, with a short address to the people of Pennsylvania on the many libels and slanders which have lately appeared against the author." A second edition was called for several weeks after the first issue of this pamphlet.

[189] Freneau signed these lines as they appeared in the Journal "A Foe to Malice."

TO THE CONCEALED ROYALIST[190]

In Answer to a Second Attack[191]

Quid immerentes hospites vexas, canis
Ignavus adversum lupos?
Quin huc inanes, si potes, vertis minas,
Et me remorsurum petis?—

—Hor. Epod. 10.

Base as they are, this rancorous royal crew[192]
Seem baser still, when they are praised by you.
By you adorned in regal garb they shine,
Sweat through your verse, and stink in every line.
True child of folly—eldest of her tribe—
How could you dream that you were worth a bribe.—
Ill-fated scribbler, with a pointless quill,
Retract the threat you dare not to fulfil:
Round your own neck the wythe or halter twine,
And be the science of a hangman thine:—[193]
Have we from you purloined one shred of wit,
Or did we imitate one line you writ?
Peace to your verse!—we do not rob the dead,
The clay-cold offspring of a brazen head.
Doctor! retire! what madness would it be
To point artillery at a mite like thee?—
Such noxious vermin clambering from their shell,
By squibs and crackers might be killed as well.
But, if you must torment the world with rhymes,
(Perhaps you came to curse us for our crimes)
In sleepy odes indulge your smoky wit,
Pindarics would your happy genius fit—
With your coarse white-wash daub some miscreant's face,
Puppies advanced, or traitors in disgrace:[194]
To gain immense renown we leave you free,
Go, scratch and scribble, uncontrouled by me:—
Haste to the realms of nonsense and despair—
The ghosts of murdered rhymes will meet you there;
Like rattling chains provoke unceasing fears,
And with eternal jinglings—stun your ears.

[190] This poem appeared in the Journal, September 4, 1782, in answer to the following, which had been published in the Gazetteer, August 31, 1782:

"Mr. Oswald: Please give the following Lines, addressed to the Foe to Malice, a Place in your useful Paper; in order to convince this great Poet (who never borrowed a Line in his Life) how easy it is to take his Battery, and turn it against himself.

A Foe to Tyrants.

"When in the Bark, the unskilful Pilot raves,
And lets her drive amidst conflicting waves;
The free-born Landsmen rous'd, complain, and cry.
What Pilot's this, on whom we can't rely?
We're wreck'd, undone, and driven on the shore,
Unless you quit the helm, and steer no more.
The Pilot, conscious of the mischief done,
Not knowing what to do, or where to run,
Lurks to his hole, astonish'd and aghast,
Dreading the moment that must be his last.
The tempest o'er—his terrors also fled,
Once more upon the deck he shews his head,
At once grown brave, he tells the people too,
He did for them, whatever man could do.
But cease thy boasting—Freemen all will think,
A Bark thus manag'd, in the deep must sink.

"A Foe to Tyrants—ne'er receiv'd a Bribe,
Nor Gold ador'd, nor stuck to Johnston's side;
With malice stupid, ev'ry line must show,
The man that's Johnston's friend is not thy foe.
What wond'rous fancy urg'd thy genius bright,
To speak of Churchill—as if thou coud'st write;
To shine in borrow'd plumes, with base design,
And to oblivion worthy men consign.
Reptiles and Dogs, and all those dreary things,
Bespeak the mind from whence such slander springs;
Dirt thou may'st throw—the dunce's last retreat,
For none but dunces will thy lines repeat.
Not Churchill's wreathes, but hick'ry withes will do,
To twine thy brows, and lace thy jacket too;
Leave thy friend R——, we've had enough of him,
For abler Pilots live the Bark to trim.
What! if a thousand Joes should wince and bawl,
One honest Jack would make amends for all."

[191] The title in the edition of 1786 was "To the Foe to Tyrants," and in 1795 "To Shylock Ap-Shenkin." Freneau translates the stanza from Horace as follows: "A dog, cowardly against wolves, yet molests strangers that have no quarrel with him—approach, whelp, and attack us, who are able to dash your teeth down your throat."

[192] "Vile as they are, this lukewarm Tory crew."—Ed. 1786.

[193]

"And round your neck the wythe or halter twine,
And be the office of the hangman mine."—Ed. 1786.

[194] "Blockheads in power or traitors in disgrace."—Ed. 1786.

TO THE CONCEALED ROYALIST[195]

On His Farewell

"I will meet you, Brutus, at Philippi."—Roman History.

Since ink, thank heaven! is all the blood you spill,
Health to the driver of the grey goose quill:
Such war shall leave no widow in despair,
Nor curse one orphan with the public care.
'Tis the worst wound the heart of man can feel,
When touched, or worried, by an ass's heel—
With generous satire give your foes their due,
Nay, give them more, and prove them scoundrels too:
Make them as black as hell's remotest gloom,
But still to genius let them owe their doom:—
By Jove's red lightnings 'tis no shame to bleed,
But by a grovelling swine—is death indeed!—
Now, by the laurels of your royal crew,
I knew no shame, till I engaged with you:—
But such an odour atmosphered your song,
I held my nose, and quickly passed along,
Grieved for the wretch who could such filth display,
His maw disgorging in the public way.
Armed though we are, unusual tumults rise;—
But all resentment in my bosom dies.
We deem, that in the skirmish of a day,
This bard must perish, and his verse decay:
This day he goes to black oblivion's clime;
Turned, chased, and routed by the "power of rhyme."
We wished him still unhandled and unhurt—
We wished no evils to this man of dirt;
We thought to leave him sweltering in his den,
Not with such rotten trash to tinge the pen:
But his mean labours wrought his present woe,
And his own scribblings, now, have laid him low!
Before his eyes the sexton's spade appears,
And muffled bells disorganize his ears:
Already is his mean existence fled,
Sense, wit, and reason—all proclaim him dead:
In his own lines he tolled his funeral bell,
And when he could not sing—he stunk—farewell!

[195] In the Journal of September 11, 1782, in answer to the effusion of the "Foe to Tyrants" in the Gazetteer of September 7, entitled, "To the Foe to Malice. The Farewell." This farewell began as follows:

"When men will prostitute the power of rhime,
Their dirt and malice jingling out of time;
When men the sacred shrine of truth forsake,
And deal in slander, just for slander's sake,
'Tis time to quit plain reason, common sense,
And in their stile Correction to dispense.

"Our Theme first pointed to your pale-fac'd friend
Whom you forsook—unable to defend;
To save his fame, you thought it best to fly
To vile abuse, and low scurrility;
Then feel the Weapons you yourself have us'd
And blame not those you've dirtily abus'd."

The rest of the poem is too vile to reproduce.

TO THE ROYALIST UNVEILED[196]

(And addressed to all whom it may concern)

The sage who took the wrong sow by the ears,
And more than kingdoms claimed for Vermonteers;
Who, from twelve wigwams down to eight decreased,
Is now your prophet, and may serve for priest—
Ye, who embraced the democratic plan,
Yet with false tears beheld the wrongs of man—
To him apply—go—soothe him in distress,[197]
To him fall prostrate—and to him confess.
When first that slave of slaves began to write,
Truth cursed his pen, and Reason took her flight:
Dullness on him her choicest opiates shed,
Black as his heart, and sleepy as his head.
Him on her soil Hibernia could not bear;
The viper sickened in that wholesome air,—
Then rushed abroad, a Jesuit, in disguise,
Flush, on the wings of malice, rage, and lies;
To this new world a nuisance and a pest,
To curse the worthy, and abuse the best.
Thou base born mass of insolence and dirt,
With all the will, but not the power to hurt;
Whose shallow brain each empty line reveals—
Art thou worth draggling at our chariot wheels?
Who, on the surface of a rugged ground,
Would stoop to trail your carcass round and round?—
No—like a Felon, hanged to after time,
Be one more victim to the "force of rhyme."
Waft us, ye powers, to some sequestered place,
Where never malice shewed its hateful face—
Remove us far from all the ruffian kind
(Baseness with insolence forever joined)
To some retreat of solitude and rest—
Nor shall another pang disturb the breast—
When thought returns—and one regrets to know,
He had to combat with a two-faced foe.

[196] This poem appeared September 25, 1782. The laureate of the Independent Gazetteer, after his farewell on September 7, was silent until October 15, when he produced the following:

"Stanzas addressed to little Fr—n—u, Poetaster to the Skunk-scented association, and successful imitator of Sternhold and Hopkins, of poetical memory; in humble imitation of his own doggerel.

"Fr—n—u, great man! 'tis thee I sing,
And to thy shrine just incense bring
The attribute of praise;
To thee, who scorn'd all common rules,
Supreme of dunces, chief of fools,
I dedicate my lays.

"Sternhold is dead! What though he be?
Another Sternhold now in thee
Beotia's sons explore;
Like this, thy mind is clear and bright,
Transparent as the darkest night,
When angry tempests roar.

"Thy verse, but ah! my powers are vain,
To tell the wonders of thy brain
Where mists of dullness sit;
Cimmerian darkness round thy head,
It's sable mantle long hath spread,
To veil thy wooden wit.

"Thy satire, mystic type of lead,
Keen as a dart without a head,
And vigorous as age;
'Twould almost make a mill-stone cry
To have thy muse its enemy,
When cloathed in her rage.

"Thy bold, heroic numbers swell,
As lofty as the deepest well
Where noxious vapours rise;
Thy song as sweet as Bellman's note,
When spun through Mitchell's[a] brazen throat,
Or midnight Watchmen's cries.

"Thy eyes, the index of the soul,
With mad, poetic fury roll,
In eager search of fame;
Thy face, ye gods! ah! what a face!
Thy air, thy port, thy quaint grimmace,
Add honor to thy name.

"When, late, sleep's Goddess, clos'd my eyes,
And dreams in sweet gradation rise,
Soul-soothing guests of night,
Methought the cloud-invelop'd Queen[b]
Display'd her dull, somnific mien,
In majesty and might.

"Thick, opiate dews she did dispense,
Whilst poppies, foes to wit and sense,
Hung pendant from her head;
Safe in her hand, by love, impell'd.
Great Fr—n—u's sacred form she held,
Impress'd on genuine lead.

"With blinking, am'rous, rush-light eyes
She view'd her blest Saturnine prize,
As conscious of his worth;
Then smooth'd the wrinkles of her frown,
And shook her poppy-teeming crown,
With unaffected mirth.

"'Go on (she cry'd), with fervent zeal,
Thou glory of that common-weal,
Where dullness bears the sway!
E'en L—e to thee shall yield the chair,
His rhimes shall vanish into air,
Before thy duller lay.

"'Corcoran,[c] long ago, hath fled,
And roving Jem,[d] 'tis said, is dead,
Those foes to common sense;
Now Fr—n—u thou, their son and heir.
More stupid than a stupid mare,
Steps forth in my defence.

"'Thee shall no wisdom e'er molest,
No wit shall perforate thy breast,
Nor humour shew her face;
Thy drowsy verse shall prove a balm,
Specific as the hundredth psalm,
When W—ch—r sings base.

"'Each flow'r of Billingsgate I'll cull,
To render thee, my son, more dull,
If duller thou canst be,
Thy works with Sternhold's shall be bound,
While Hopkins, from the dark profound,
Shall yield the palm to thee.'

"She ceas'd, and all that own'd her cause,
In one loud transport of applause,
Burst like a sudden gale;
All hail, great man! was Bailey's cry,
Hail! Joe, and Skunk, and Tom, reply,
Dullness and Fr—n—u, hail!"

[a] Cryer of Philadelphia.

[b] The Queen of Dullness.

[c] Dr. Corcoran, a poetaster, well known.

[d] Jemmy, the rover, a sonnetter of the Pennsylvania line.

[197] "To him apply, dear Oswald, in distress."—Independent Gazetteer.

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[198]

Long have I sate on this disastrous shore,
And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
To Europe's courts, where, as our travellers say,
Poets may flourish, or—perhaps—they may;
But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell
Perhaps I may defer my voyage as well,
Why should I far in search of patrons roam,
And Shylock leave to triumph here at home?
Should Shylock's poems[199] style you all that's base,
Abuse your stature, and malign[200] your face,
Make you the worst and vilest of your kind,
With not one spark of virtue[201] in your mind;
Would you to Shylock's[202] rancorous page reply,
So fam'd for scandal, and so prone to lie?
Still may those bag-pipes of sedition play,
(For fools may write[203] and knaves must have their day)
Still from that page let clamorous bards[204] defame,
And madness rave, and malice take her aim:
May scribes on scribes in verse and prose combine,
And fiend-like Sawney roar[205] through every line;
Long may they write, unquestion'd and unhurt,
And all their rage discharge, and all their dirt:
Night-owls must screech, by heaven's supreme decree,
And wolves must howl, or wolves they would not be.
From empty froth these scribbling insects rose;
What honest man but counts them for his foes?
When they are lash'd, may dunce with dunce condole,
And bellow nonsense from the tortured soul;
When they are dead and in some dungeon cramm'd,
(For die they will, and all their works be damn'd)
When they have belch'd their last departing groans,
May dogs and doctors barbecue[206] their bones,
And, the last horrors of their souls to calm,
Shylock, their bard,[207] console them with—a psalm!

[198] The first eight lines of this poem appeared first as the opening stanza of MacSwiggin, published in 1775; the rest of the poem was first published in the Freeman's Journal of Dec. 18, 1782, and republished in the 1786 edition under the title "To Whom it may Concern." The above version was made for the edition of 1795, but was not reprinted in 1809.

The Gazetteer of the following week (Dec. 21) contained several parodies of Freneau's poem, one of which was as follows:

"Mr. Oswald:—Whereas a copy of verses of my composition appeared in Bailey's paper, of whom I should have expected more circumspection, I have sent you a genuine copy as they ought to have been printed, the justice of which I hope everybody acquainted with the persons will acknowledge.

The Author.

"Should Oswald's painters all my features trace,
And shew me as I am in soul and face;
Among the vile and worthless of mankind,
Without a spark of virtue in my mind,
And write my name beneath, I would reply,
The portrait, though a true one, told a lie.
"Still shall my bagpipes of sedition play,
And I, like other dogs, shall have my day;
My hoarse-mouth'd cry shall war with sense proclaim,
And madly howl at ev'ry virtuous name;
Our hungry scribes in verse and prose shall join,
Though Chaos glooms through ev'ry stupid line;
In spite of sense we'll write, by shame unhurt,
And all our rage discharge, and all our dirt,
Night-owls will screech, since Heav'n has left them free,
And wolves will howl, or wolves they would not be.
"Although from dirt, we like musquetoes rose,
And quiet people count us still their foes;
When we are crush'd, or chas'd from hole to hole,
We'll strive to tease and torture ev'ry soul.
When we are dead and in some ditch are cram'd
(For die we must, and with our works be damn'd),
When we shall howl our last departing groans,
And brother dogs regale upon our bones;
The horrors of our souls awhile to calm,
Let me compose, and Duffield sing a psalm."

[199] "Oswald's scribblers."—Freeman's Journal.

[200] "Blaspheme."—Ed. 1786.

[201] "Reason."—Ib.

[202] "Who would to Oswald's."—Freeman's Journal.

[203] "Must prate and dogs."—Ed. 1786.

[204] "Hoarse-mouth'd whelps."—Ib.

[205] "And one dark chaos gloom."—Ib.

[206] "Canonize."—Freeman's Journal.

[207] "Fallon, the priest."—Ed. 1786.

THE PROPHECY OF KING TAMMANY[208]

The Indian chief who, famed of yore,
Saw Europe's sons adventuring here,
Looked, sorrowing, to the crowded shore,
And sighing dropt a tear!
He saw them half his world explore,
He saw them draw the shining blade,
He saw their hostile ranks displayed,
And cannons blazing through that shade
Where only peace was known before.

"Ah, what unequal arms!" he cried,
"How art thou fallen, my country's pride,
"The rural, sylvan reign!
"Far from our pleasing shores to go
"To western rivers, winding slow,
"Is this the boon the gods bestow!
"What have we done, great patrons, say,
"That strangers seize our woods away,
"And drive us naked from our native plain?

"Rage and revenge inspire my soul,
"And passion burns without controul;
"Hence, strangers, to your native shore!
"Far from our Indian shades retire,
"Remove these gods that vomit fire,
"And stain with blood these ravaged glades no more;
"In vain I weep, in vain I sigh,
"These strangers all our arms defy,
"As they advance our chieftains die!—
"What can their hosts oppose!
"The bow has lost its wonted spring,
"The arrow faulters on the wing,
"Nor carries ruin from the string
"To end their being and our woes.

"Yes, yes,—I see our nation bends;
"The gods no longer are our friends;—
"But why these weak complaints and sighs?
"Are there not gardens in the west,
"Where all our far-famed Sachems rest?—
"I'll go, an unexpected guest,
"And the dark horrors of the way despise.

"Even now the thundering peals draw nigh,
"'Tis theirs to triumph, ours to die!
"But mark me, Christian, ere I go—
"Thou, too, shalt have thy share of woe;
"The time rolls on, not moving slow,
"When hostile squadrons for your blood shall come,
"And ravage all your shore!
"Your warriors and your children slay,
"And some in dismal dungeons lay,
"Or lead them captive far away
"To climes unknown, through seas untried before.

"When struggling long, at last with pain
"You break a cruel tyrant's chain,
"That never shall be joined again,
"When half your foes are homeward fled,
"And hosts on hosts in triumph led,
"And hundreds maimed and thousands dead,
"A sordid race will then succeed,
"To slight the virtues of the firmer race,
"That brought your tyrant to disgrace,
"Shall give your honours to an odious train,
"Who shunned all conflicts on the main
"And dared no battles on the bloody plain,
"Whose little souls sunk in the gloomy day
"When virtue only could support the fray
"And sunshine friends kept off—or ran away."

So spoke the chief, and raised his funeral pyre—
Around him soon the crackling flames ascend;
He smiled amid the fervours of the fire
To think his troubles were so near their end,
'Till the freed soul, her debt to nature paid,
Rose from the ashes that her prison made,
And sought the world unknown, and dark oblivion's shade.

[208] Published in the Freeman's Journal, December 11, 1782.

Tammany was an Indian chieftain of the Lenni Lennape Confederacy of New York and Pennsylvania during the early colonial era. There is a tradition that he was the first Indian to welcome William Penn to America. Some traditions locate his lodge near the present site of Princeton College and others make him end his long life near a spring in Bucks county, Pa. He figures in Cooper's novel, "The Last of the Mohicans."

RIVINGTON'S REFLECTIONS[209]

I.

The more I reflect, the more plain it appears,
If I stay, I must stay at the risque of my ears,
I have so be-peppered the foes of our throne,
Be-rebelled, be-deviled, and told them their own,
That if we give up to these rebels at last,[210]
'Tis a chance if my ears will atone for the past.
'Tis always the best to provide for the worst—
So evacuation I'll mention the first:
If Carleton should sail for our dear native shore
(As Clinton, Cornwallis, and Howe did before)
And take off the soldiers that serve for our guard,
(A step that the Tories would think rather hard)
Yet still I surmise, for aught I can see,
No Congress or Senates would meddle with me.
For what have I done, when we come to consider,
But sold my commodities to the best bidder?
If I offered to lie for the sake of a post,
Was I to be blamed if the king offered most?
The King's Royal Printer!—Five hundred a year!
Between you and me, 'twas a handsome affair:
Who would not for that give matters a stretch,
And lie back and forward, and carry and fetch,
May have some pretensions to honour and fame—
But what are they both but the sound of a name,
Mere words to deceive us, as I have found long since,
Live on them a week, and you'll find them but nonsense.
The late news from Charleston my mind has perplext,
If that is abandoned,—I know what goes next:
This city of York is a place of great note,
And that we should hold it I now give my vote;
But what are our votes against Shelburne's[211] decrees?
These people at helm steer us just where they please,
So often they've had us all hands on the brink,
They'll steer us at last to the devil, I think:
And though in the danger themselves have a share,
It will do us small good that they also go there.
It is true that the Tories, their children, and wives
Have offered to stay at the risque of their lives,
And gain to themselves an immortal renown
By all turning soldiers, and keeping the town:
Whoe'er was the Tory that struck out the plan,
In my humble conceit, was a very good man;
But our words on this subject need be very few—
Already I see that it never will do:
For, suppose a few ships should be left us by Britain,
With Tories to man them, and other things fitting,
In truth we should be in a very fine box,
As well they might guard us with ships on the stocks,
And when I beheld them aboard and afloat,
I am sure I should think of the bear in the boat.[A]
On the faith of a printer, things look very black—
And what shall we do, alas! and alack!
Shall we quit our young princes and full blooded peers,
And bow down to viscounts and French chevaliers?
Perhaps you may say, "As the very last shift
"We'll go to New-Scotland, and take the king's gift."
Good folks, do your will—but I vow and I swear,
I'll be boil'd into soup before I'll live there:
Is it thus that our monarch his subjects degrades?—
Let him go and be damned, with his axes and spades,
Of all the vile countries that ever were known
In the frigid, or torrid, or temperate zone,
(From accounts that I've had) there is not such another;
It neither belongs to this world or the other:
A favor they think to send us there gratis
To sing like the Jews at the river Euphrates,
And, after surmounting the rage of the billows,
Hang ourselves up at last with our harps on the willows;
Ere I sail for that shore, may I take my last nap—
Why, it gives me the palsy to look on its map!
And he that goes there (though I mean to be civil)
May fairly be said to have gone to the devil.
Shall I push for Old England, and whine at the throne?
Indeed! they have Jemmies enough of their own!
Besides, such a name I have got from my trade,
They would think I was lying, whatever I said;
Thus scheme as I will, or contrive as I may,
Continual difficulties rise in the way:
In short, if they let me remain in this realm,
What is it to Jemmy who stands at the helm?
I'll petition the rebels (if York is forsaken)
For a place in their Zion which ne'er shall be shaken
I am sure they'll be clever: it seems their whole study:
They hung not young Asgill for old captain Huddy,[212]
And it must be a truth that admits no denying,
If they spare us for Murder they'll spare us for Lying.

[A] See Gay's Fables.—Freneau's note, Ed. 1786.

II.

Folks may think as they please, but to me it would seem,
That our great men at home have done nothing but dream:
Such trimming and twisting and shifting about,
And some getting in, and others turned out;
And yet, with their bragging and looking so big,
All they did was to dance a theatrical jig.
Seven years now, and more, we have tried every plan,
And are just as near conquering as when we began,
Great things were expected from Clinton and Howe,
But what have they done, or where are they now?
Sir Guy was sent over to kick up a dust,
Who already prepares to return in disgust—
The object delusive we wish to attain
Has been in our reach, and may be so again—
But so oddly does heaven its bounties dispense,
And has granted our king such a small share of sense
That, let Fortune favour or smile as she will,
We are doomed to drive on, like a horse in a mill,
And though we may seem to advance on our rout,
'Tis but to return to where we sate out.
From hence I infer (by way of improvement)
That nothing is got by this circular movement;
And I plainly perceive, from this fatal delay,
We are going to ruin the round-about way!
Some nations, like ships, give up to the gale,
And are hurried ashore with a full flowing sail;
So Sweden submitted to absolute power,
And freemen were changed to be slaves in an hour;
Thus Theodore soon from his grandeur came down,
Forsaking his subjects and Corsican crown;
But we—'tis our fate, without ally or friend,
To go to perdition, close hauled to the wind.
The case is too plain, that if I stay here
I have something to hope and something to fear:
In regard to my carcase, I shouldn't mind that—
I can say "I have lived," and have grown very fat;
Have been in my day remarkable shifty,
And soon, very soon, will be verging on fifty.
'Tis time for the state of the dead to prepare,
'Tis time to consider how things will go there;
Some few are admitted to Jupiter's hall,
But the dungeons of Pluto are open to all—
The day is approaching as fast as it can
When Jemmy will be a mere moderate man,
Will sleep under ground both summer and winter,
The hulk of a man, and the shell of a printer,
And care not a farthing for George, or his line,
What empires start up, or what kingdoms decline.
Our parson last Sunday brought tears from my eyes,
When he told us of heaven, I thought of my lies—
To his flock he described it, and laid it before 'em,
(As if he had been in its Sanctum Sanctorum)
Recounted its beauties that never shall fade,
And quoted John Bunyan to prove what he said;
Debarred from the gate who the Truth should deny,
Or "whosoe'er loveth or maketh a lie."
Through the course of my life it has still been my lot
In spite of myself, to say "things that are not."
And therefore suspect that upon my decease
Not a poet will leave me to slumber in peace,
But at least once a week be-scribble the stone
Where Jemmy, poor Jemmy, lies sleeping alone!
Howe'er in the long run these matters may be,
If the scripture is true, it has bad news for me—
And yet, when I come to examine the text,
And the learned annotations that Poole has annexed,
Throughout the black list of the people that sin
I cannot once find that I'm mention'd therein;
Whoremongers, idolators, all are left out,
And wizards and dogs (which is proper, no doubt)
But he who says, I'm there, mistakes or forgets—
It mentions no Printers of Royal Gazettes!
In truth, I have need of a mansion of rest,
And here to remain might suit me the best—
Philadelphia in some things would answer as well,
(Some Tories are there, and my papers might sell)
But then I should live amongst wrangling and strife,
And be forced to say credo the rest of my life:
For their sudden conversion I'm much at a loss—
I am told that they bow to the wood of the cross,
And worship the reliques transported from Rome,
St. Peter's toe-nails, and St. Anthony's comb.—
If thus the true faith they no longer defend
I scarcely can think where the madness will end—
If the greatest among them submit to the Pope,
What reason have I for indulgence to hope?
If the Congress themselves to the Chapel did pass,[B]
Ye may swear that poor Jemmy would have to sing mass.

[B] "On the 4th of November last, the clergy and select men of Boston paraded through the streets after a crucifix, and joined in a procession in praying for a departed soul out of Purgatory; and for this they gave the example of Congress, and other American leaders, on a former occasion at Philadelphia, some of whom, in the height of their zeal, even went so far as to sprinkle themselves with what they call Holy water."—Royal Gazette, of December 11 inst.—Freneau's note.

[209] Published in the Freeman's Journal, December, 1782, in two installments and inserted without change in the edition of 1786. The first installment bore the motto "Inclusus pœnam expectat.—Virg.," and the second the motto "Incertus quo fata ferant, quo sistere detur.—Virg." Almost no change was made in the text for the later editions. Rivington bore this attack with coolness; he calmly inserted the first installment of the poem in his Royal Gazette for December 14, and gave to it the following introduction: "Mr. Rivington, having been applied to by many gentlemen for a pleasant publication respecting himself, exhibited in the Philadelphia Freeman's Journal, of December 4th, takes leave to copy it into this Day's Gazette, and assures the Author that a Column shall at any time be most cheerfully reserved to convey that Gentleman's lively Lucubrations to the Public."

[210] "Rivington, in his Gazette, fought the Rebels, a term of which he made very frequent use while he entertained the opinion that the Americans would be subjected by the British arms."—Thomas's History of Printing.

[211] Shelburne was at the head of the British ministry but seven months, yet in that time, by his firmness and zeal, he accomplished a final settlement of the quarrel with the colonies. "The treaty," says Bancroft, "which ruled the fate of a hemisphere was mainly due to Lord Shelburne."

[212] The Freeman's Journal of April 24 and May 1, 1782, gives full details of the Huddy affair. I can do no better than to quote Freneau's own version of the episode contributed to the Journal for June 12:

"Capt. Huddy, of the Jersey militia, was attacked in a small fort on Tom's river, by a party of refugees in the British pay and service, was made prisoner, together with his company, carried to New York, and lodged in the provost of that city; about three weeks after which, he was taken out of the provost down to the water side, put into a boat and brought again to the Jersey shore, and there, contrary to the practice of all nations but savages, was hung up on a tree [April 8, 1782] and left hanging until found by our people, who took him down and buried him.

"The inhabitants of that part of the country where the murder was committed, sent a deputation to general Washington, with a full and certified state of the fact. Struck as every human breast must be, with such outrage, and determined both to punish and prevent it for the future, the general represented the case to general Clinton, who then commanded, and demanded that the refugee officer who ordered and attended the execution, and whose name is Lippencut, should be delivered up as a murderer, and in case of refusal that the person of some British officer should suffer in his stead. The demand, though not refused, has not been complied with, and the melancholy lot (not by selection, but by casting lots) has fallen upon captain Asgil of the guards, who, as I have already mentioned, is on his way from Lancaster to camp, a martyr to the general wickedness of the cause he engaged in, and the ingratitude of those he has served."

Asgill was finally released.

NEW YEAR'S VERSES

Addressed to those Gentlemen who have been pleased to favour
Francis Wrigley, News Carrier, with their custom

January 1, 1783

According to custom, once more I appear
With the verse you expect at the dawn of the year:
For at length we have got into Eighty and Three;
And in spite of proud Britain, are happy and free.
If the times have been hard, and our commerce gone wrong,
We still have been able to struggle along.
If some, through misfortunes, are slack in the purse,
It is not so bad but it might have been worse.
Great things, the year past, were reveal'd to our eyes:
The Dutch have confess'd us their friends and allies;
And humbled the pride of our haughty invaders,
By fighting their fleets and destroying their traders,
If the English succeeded in taking the Count,
To what, in the end, did their conquest amount?
With their boasts, and their brags, and their shouts of applause,
It but sav'd them from ruin—not ruin'd our cause.
But leaving the weight of political cares
To those, who are plac'd at the helm of affairs,
To the humours of fortune in all things resign'd,
I mean by my visit to put you in mind,
That, as true as a clock, both early and late,
With the news of the day I have knock'd at your gate,
And gave you to know what the world was a doing,
What Louis intended, or George was a brewing.
If sometimes the papers were trifling and flat,
And the news went against us,—I cou'dn't help that;
If parties were angry, and vented their spite,
I bro't you their wranglings—not help'd them to write.
I therefore presume (and not without reason)
You'll remember your Newsman, and think of the season;
The markets are high, and the weather is cold;
No party I serve, and no pension I hold.
We Hawkers are men, and have children and wives
To comfort our hearts, and to solace our lives:
But if I say more, you'll think it is stuff;
And a word to the wise is, in reason, enough.

NEW YEAR'S VERSES[213]

Addressed to the Customers of the Freeman's Journal, by the Lad who carries it

January 8, 1783

Let those who will, in hackney'd rhyme
And common cant, take up your time,
And even the muse's aid implore
To tell you what you knew before,
The days are short and nights are long,
The weather cold and hunger strong,
The markets high—and such like stuff—
I'm sure you know it well enough;—
Untaught by us, I dare to say,
You hit, exactly, New Year's day,
And knew at least as well as we
The present year is eighty-three;—
(Such simple things as these to tell
A mere drum head would do as well—)
All this I knew you knew before,
And therefore knock'd not at your door
Upon the individual day
When eighty-three came into play,
With verses for the purpose plann'd
Bidding you gravely watch your sand,
Since death is always near at hand;
All this I left to those whose trade is
To threaten beaus and frighten ladies,
And brought my papers, (swiftly speeding)
The Freeman's Journal, for your reading.
Unhappy Journal, doom'd by fate
To meet with unrelenting hate,
From those who can their venom spit,
Yet condescend to steal your wit;
While Timon, with malicious spirit,
Allows you not a grain of merit,
While he an idle pomp assumes
Let him return his borrow'd plumes,
And you will find the insect creeping
With not a feather worth the keeping.
But this is neither here nor there,
May quarrels past dissolve in air;
In Stygian waves of sable hue
Be all absorb'd with Eighty-Two,
Or, lost on Lethe's silent shore,
Disgrace our rising State no more.
Another word I meant to say,
(Kind customers, have patience, pray,
My subject is the New Year's Day)
How came it that mistaken man
Has thus inverted nature's plan,
And contradicted common reason
By making this the mirthful season,
When all is dreary, dull, and dead,
The sun to southern climates fled
To dart his fierce and downright beams
Intensely on Brazilian streams;
No daisies on the frozen plain,
No daffodils to please the swain,
The limpid wave compell'd to freeze,
And not a leaf upon the trees!—
'Tis wrong—the very birds will say,
Their New Year is the bloom of May;
Then nature calls to soft delights,
And they obey as she invites.
And yet this happiness below,
Which all would gain but few know how,
Is not to time or place confin'd,
'Tis seated only in the mind;
Let seasons vary as they will,
Contentment leaves us happy still,
Makes life itself pass smooth away,
Makes every hour a New Year's day.

[213] Text of this and the preceding poem from the edition of 1786. The last twenty-four lines of the above were republished in the edition of 1795, under the title "On the New-Year's Festival."

POLITICAL BIOGRAPHY[214]

HUGH GAINE'S LIFE[A]

City of New-York, Jan. 1, 1783.[B]

To the Senate[C] of York, with all due submission,
Of honest Hugh Gaine the humble Petition;[215]
An account of his Life he will also prefix,
And some trifles that happened in seventy-six;
He hopes that your Honours will take no offence,
If he sends you some groans of contrition from hence,
And, further, to prove that he's truly sincere,
He wishes you all a happy New Year.

[A] A character well remembered in New York, and the adjacent States,—now deceased.—Freneau's note. Gaine died April 25, 1807.

[B] The British army evacuated New York the November following.—Ib.

[C] The Legislature of the State were at this time in session at Fishkill.—Ib.

And, first, he informs, in his representation,
That he once was a printer of good reputation,
And dwelt in the street called Hanover Square,
(You'll know where it is, if you ever was there)
Next door to the dwelling[216] of doctor Brownjohn,
(Who now to the drug-shop[217] of Pluto is gone)
But what do I say—who e'er came to town,
And knew not Hugh Gaine at the Bible and Crown.
Now, if I was ever so given to lie,
My dear native country I wouldn't deny;
(I know you love Teagues) and I shall not conceal
That I came from the kingdom where Phelim O'Neale
And other brave worthies ate butter and cheese,
And walk'd in the clover-fields up to their knees;
Full early in youth, without basket or burden,
With a staff in my hand, I passed over Jordan,
(I remember my comrade was doctor Magraw,[D]
And many strange things on the waters we saw,
Sharks, dolphins, and sea-dogs, bonettas, and whales,
And birds at the tropic, with quills in their tails)
And came to your city and government seat,
And found it was true you had something to eat;
When thus I wrote home—"The country is good,
"They have plenty of victuals and plenty of wood:
"The people are kind, and, whatever they think,
"I shall make it appear, I can swim where they'll sink;
"Dear me! they're so brisk, and so full of good cheer,
"By my soul, I suspect they have always new year,
"And therefore conceive it is good to be here."
So said, and so acted—I put up a press,
And printed away with amazing success;
Neglected my person, and looked like a fright,
Was bothered all day, and was busy all night,
Saw money come in, as the papers went out,
While Parker and Weyman[E] were driving about,
And cursing and swearing, and chewing their cuds,
And wishing Hugh Gaine and his press in the suds:
Ned Weyman was printer, you know to the king,
And thought he had got all the world in a string,
(Though riches not always attend on a throne)
So he swore I had found the philosopher's stone,
And called me a rogue, and a son of a bitch,
Because I knew better than him to get rich.
To malice like that 'twas in vain to reply—
You had known by his looks he was telling a lie.
Thus life ran away, so smooth and serene—
Ah! these were the happiest days I had seen!
But the saying of Jacob I found to be true,
"The days of thy servant are evil and few!"
The days that to me were joyous and glad,
Are nothing to those which are dreary and sad!
The feuds of the Stamp Act foreboded foul weather,
And war and vexation all coming together:
Those days were the days of riots and mobs,
Tar, feathers, and tories, and troublesome jobs—
Priests preaching up war for the good of our souls,
And libels, and lying, and Liberty poles,
From which, when some whimsical colours you waved,
We had nothing to do, but look up and be saved—
(You thought, by resolving, to terrify Britain—
Indeed, if you did, you were damnably bitten)
I knew it would bring an eternal reproach,
When I saw you a-burning Cadwallader's[F] coach;
I knew you would suffer for what you had done,
When I saw you lampooning poor Sawney his son,
And bringing him down to so wretched a level,
As to ride him about in a cart with the devil.

[D] A cynical and very eccentric Physician.—Freneau's note.

[E] New York Printers, many years before the Revolution.—Freneau's note. Parker and Weyman were in partnership in the printing business between the years 1753 and 1759, during which time they were the leading printers of New York.

[F] Lieutenant-Governor Cadwallader Colden.—Ib.

Well, as I predicted that matters would be—
To the stamp-act succeeded a tax upon Tea:
What chest-fulls were scattered, and trampled, and drowned,
And yet the whole tax was but threepence per pound!
May the hammer of Death on my noddle descend,
And Satan torment me to time without end,
If this was a reason to fly into quarrels,
And feuds that have ruined our manners and morals;
A parson himself might have sworn round the compass,
That folks for a trifle should make such a rumpus,
Such a rout as to set half the world in a rage,
Make France, Spain, and Holland with Britain engage,
While the Emperor, the Swede, the Russ, and the Dane,
All pity John Bull—and run off with his gain.
But this was the season that I must lament—
I first was a whig with an honest intent;
Not a Yankee[218] among them talked louder or bolder,
With his sword by his side, or his gun on his shoulder;
Yes, I was a whig, and a whig from my heart,
But still was unwilling with Britain to part—
I thought to oppose her was foolish and vain,
I thought she would turn and embrace us again,
And make us as happy as happy could be,
By renewing the æra of mild Sixty-Three:
And yet, like a cruel, undutiful son,
Who evil returns for the good to be done,
Unmerited odium on Britain to throw,[219]
I printed some treason for Philip Freneau,
Some damnable poems reflecting on Gage,[220]
The King and his Council, and writ with such rage,
So full of invective, and loaded with spleen,
So sneeringly smart, and so hellishly keen,
That, at least in the judgment of half our wise men,
Alecto herself put the nib to his pen.

At this time arose a certain king Sears,[221]
Who made it his study to banish our fears:
He was, without doubt, a person of merit,
Great knowledge, some wit, and abundance of spirit;
Could talk like a lawyer, and that without fee,
And threatened perdition to all that drank tea.
Long sermons did he against Scotchmen prepare,[222]
And drank like a German, and drove away care;
Ah! don't you remember what a vigorous hand he put
To drag off the great guns, and plague captain Vandeput.[G]
That night[H] when the Hero (his patience worn out)
Put fire to the cannons and folks to the rout,
And drew up his ship with a spring on her cable,
And gave us a second confusion of Babel,
And (what was more solid than scurrilous language)
Poured on us a tempest of round shot and langrage;
Scarce a broadside was ended 'till another began again
—By Jove! it was nothing but Fire away Flanagan![I]
Some thought him saluting his Sally's and Nancy's,[223]
'Till he drove a huge ball through the roof of Sam Francis;[J]
The town by his flashes was fairly enlightened,
The women miscarried, the beaux were all frighten'd;
For my part, I hid in a cellar (as sages
And Christians were wont in the primitive ages:
Thus the Prophet of old that was wrapt to the sky,
Lay snug in a cave 'till the tempest went by,
But, as soon as the comforting spirit had spoke,
He rose and came out with his mystical cloak)
Yet I hardly could boast of a moment of rest,
The dogs were a-howling, the town was distrest!
But our terrors soon vanished, for suddenly Sears
Renewed our lost courage and dried up our tears.
Our memories, indeed, must have strangely decayed
If we cannot remember what speeches he made,
What handsome harangues upon every occasion,
How he laughed at the whim of a British invasion!
"P—x take 'em (said he) do ye think they will come?
"If they should—we have only to beat on our drum,
"And run up the flag of American freedom,
"And people will muster by millions to bleed 'em!
"What freeman need value such blackguards as these!
"Let us sink in our channel some Chevaux de frise
—"And then let 'em come—and we'll show 'em fair play—
"But they are not madmen—I tell you—not they!"
From this very day 'till the British came in,
We lived, I may say, in the Desert of Sin;
Such beating, and bruising, and scratching, and tearing;
Such kicking, and cuffing, and cursing and swearing!
But when they advanced with their numerous fleet,
And Washington made his nocturnal retreat,[K]
(And which they permitted, I say, to their shame,
Or else your New Empire had been but a name)
We townsmen, like women, of Britons in dread,
Mistrusted their meaning, and foolishly fled;
Like the rest of the dunces I mounted my steed,
And galloped away with incredible speed,
To Newark I hastened,—but trouble and care
Got up on the crupper and followed me there!
There I scarcely got fuel to keep myself warm,
And scarcely found spirits to weather the storm;
And was quickly convinced I had little to do,
(The Whigs were in arms, and my readers were few)
So after remaining one cold winter season,
And stuffing my papers with something like treason,
And meeting misfortunes and endless disasters,
And forced to submit to a hundred new masters,
I thought it more prudent to hold to the one—
And (after repenting of what I had done,
And cursing my folly and idle pursuits)
Returned to the city, and hung up my boots.

[G] Captain of the Asia man of war, who cannonaded the city.—Freneau's note.

[H] August, 1775.—Ib.

[I] A cant phrase among privateers men.—Freneau's note.

[J] A noted Inn-holder in New-York.—Ib. "Black Sam."—Ed. 1786.

[K] From Long-Island.—Freneau's note.

As matters have gone, it was plainly a blunder,
But then I expected the Whigs must knock under,
And I always adhere to the sword that is longest,
And stick to the party that's like to be strongest:
That you have succeeded is merely a chance,
I never once dreamt of the conduct of France!—
If alliance with her you were promised—at least
You ought to have showed me your Star in the East,
Nor let me go off uninformed as a beast.
When your army I saw without stockings or shoes,
Or victuals—or money, to pay them their dues,
(Excepting your wretched Congressional paper,
That stunk in my nose like the smoke of a taper,
A cart load of which for a dram might be spent all,
That damnable bubble the old Continental,
That took people in at this wonderful crisis,
With its mottoes and emblems, and cunning devices;
Which, bad as it was, you were forced to admire,
And which was, in fact, the pillar of fire,
To which you directed your wandering noses,
Like the Jews in the desert conducted by Moses)
When I saw them attended with famine and fear,
Distress in their front, and Howe in their rear;
When I saw them for debt incessantly dunned,
Not a shilling to pay them laid up in your fund;
Your ploughs at a stand, and your ships run ashore—
When this was apparent (and need I say more?)
I handled my cane, and I looked at my hat,
And cryed—"God have mercy on armies like that!"
I took up my bottle, disdaining to stay,
And said—"Here's a health to the Vicar of Bray,"
And cocked up my beaver, and—strutted away.

Ashamed of my conduct, I sneaked into town,
(Six hours and a quarter the sun had been down)
It was, I remember, a cold frosty night,
And the stars in the firmament glittered as bright
As if (to assume a poetical stile)
Old Vulcan had give them a rub with his file.
'Till this cursed night, I can honestly say,
I ne'er before dreaded the dawn of the day;
Not a wolf or a fox that is caught in a trap
E'er was so ashamed of his nightly mishap—
I couldn't help thinking what ills might befall me,
What rebels and rascals the British would call me,
And how I might suffer in credit and purse,
If not in my person, which still had been worse:
At length I resolved (as was surely my duty)
To go for advice to parson Auchmuty;[L]
The parson, who now I hope is in glory,
Was then upon earth, and a terrible[224] tory,
Not Cooper[M] himself, of ideas perplext,
So nicely could handle and torture a text,
When bloated with lies, through his trumpet he sounded
The damnable sin of opposing a crowned head;
Like a penitent sinner, and dreading my fate,
In the grey of the morning I knocked at his gate;
(No doubt he was vexed that I roused him so soon,
For his saintship was mostly in blankets 'till noon.)
At length he approached in his vestments of black—
(Alas, my poor heart! it was then on the rack,
Like a man in an ague, or one to be tried;
I shook—and recanted, and blubbered, and sighed)
His gown, of itself, was amazingly big,
Besides, he had on his canonical wig,
And frowned at a distance; but, when I came near,
Looked pleasant and said—"What, Hugh, are you here!
"Your heart, I am certain, is horribly hardened,
"But if you confess—your sin will be pardoned;
"In spite of my preachments, and all I could say,
"Like the prodigal son, you wandered away,
"Now tell me, dear penitent, which is the best,
"To be with the rebels, pursued and distrest,
"Devoid of all comfort, all hopes of relief,
"Or else to be here, and partake the king's beef?
"More people resemble the snake than the dove,
"And more are converted by terror than love:
"Like a sheep on the mountains, or rather a swine,
"You wandered away from the ninety and nine:
"Awhile at the offers of mercy you spurned,
"But your error you saw, and at length have returned:
"Our Master will therefore consider your case,
"And restore you again to favour and grace,
"Great light shall arise from utter confusion,
"And rebels shall live to lament their delusion."
"Ah, rebels! (said I) they are rebels indeed—
"Chastisement, I hope, by the king is decreed:
"They have hung up his subjects with bed-cords and halters,
"And banished his prophets, and thrown down his altars.
"And I—even I—while I ventured to stay,
"They sought for my life—to take it away!
"I therefore propose to come under your wing,
"A foe to rebellion—a slave to the king."

[L] A high church Episcopalian, then rector of Trinity Church, N. Y., since deceased.—Freneau's note.

[M] Miles Cooper, President of Kings (now Columbia College).—Ib.

Such solemn confession,[225] in scriptural stile
Worked out my salvation, at least for a while;
The parson pronounced me deserving of grace,
And so they restored me to printing and place.
But days, such as these, were too happy to last:
The sand of felicity settled too fast!
When I swore and protested I honoured the throne
The least they could do was to let me alone;
Though George I compared to an angel above,
They wanted some solider proofs of my love;
And so they obliged me each morning to come
And turn in the ranks at the beat of the drum,
While often, too often (I tell it with pain)
They menaced my head with a hickory cane,
While others, my betters, as much were opprest—
But shame and confusion shall cover the rest.
You, doubtless, will think I am dealing in fable
When I tell you I guard an officer's stable—
With usage like this my feelings are stung;
The next thing will be, I must heave out the dung!
Six hours in the day is duty too hard,
And Rivington sneers whene'er I mount guard,
And laughs till his sides are ready to split
With his jests, and his satires, and sayings of wit:
Because he's excused, on account of his post
He cannot go by without making his boast,
As if I was all that is servile and mean—
But Fortune, perhaps, may alter the scene,
And give him his turn to stand in the street,
Burnt brandy supporting his animal heat—[226]
But what for the king or the cause has he done
That we must be toiling while he can look on?
Great conquests he gave them on paper—'tis true[227]
When Howe was retreating, he made him pursue;
Alack! it's too plain that Britons must fall—
When loaded with laurels—they go to the wall.
From hence you may guess I do nothing but grieve,
And where we are going I cannot conceive—
The wisest among us a change are expecting,
It is not for nothing, these ships are collecting,
It is not for nothing, that Matthews, the mayor,
And legions of Tories, for sailing prepare;
It is not for nothing, that John Coghill Knap
Is filing his papers, and plugging his tap;
See Skinner himself, the fighting attorney,
Is boiling potatoes, to serve a long journey;
But where they are going, or meaning to travel,
Would puzzle John Faustus himself to unravel,
Perhaps to Penobscot, to starve in the barrens,
Perhaps to St. John's, in the gulph of St. Lawrence;
Perhaps to New-Scotland, to perish with cold,
Perhaps to Jamaica, like slaves to be sold,
Where, scorched by the summer, all nature repines,
Where Phœbus, great Phœbus, too glaringly shines,
And fierce from the zenith diverging his ray
Oppresses the isle with a torrent of day.
Since matters are thus, with proper submission
Permit me to offer my humble Petition:
(Though the form is uncommon, and lawyers may sneer,
With truth I can tell you, the scribe is sincere.)

That, since it is plain we are going away,
You will suffer Hugh Gaine unmolested to stay,
His sand is near run (life itself is a span)
So leave him to manage the best that he can:
Whoe'er are his masters, or monarchs, or regents,
For the future he's ready to swear them allegiance;
The Crown he will promise to hold in disgrace:[228]
The Bible—allow him to stick in its place,
'Till that, in due season, you wish to put down
And bid him keep shop at the sign of the crown.
If the Turk with his turban should set up at last here
While he gives him protection, he'll own him his master,
And yield due obedience (when Britain is gone)
Though ruled by the sceptre of Presbyter John.
My press, that has called you (as tyranny drove her)
Rogues, rebels, and rascals, a thousand times over,
Shall be at your service by day and by night,
To publish whate'er you think proper to write;
Those types which have raised George the third to a level
With angels—shall prove him as black as the devil,
To him that contrived him a shame and disgrace,
Nor blest with one virtue to honour his race!
Who knows but, in time, I may rise to be great,
And have the good fortune to manage a State?
Great noise among people great changes denotes,
And I shall have money to purchase their votes—
The time is approaching, I venture to say,
When folks worse than me will come into play,
When your double faced[229] people will give themselves airs,
And aim to take hold of the helm of affairs,
While the honest bold soldier, who sought your renown,
Like a dog in the dirt, shall be crushed and held down.
Of honours and profits allow me a share!
I frequently dream of a president's chair!
And visions full often intrude on my brain,
That for me to interpret, would rather be vain.
Blest seasons advance, when Britons[230] shall find
That they can be happy, and you[231] can be kind,
When Rebels no longer at Traitors shall spurn,
When Arnold himself will in triumph return!
But my paper informs me it's time to conclude;
I fear my Address has been rather too rude—
If it has—for my boldness your pardon I pray,
And further, at present, presume not to say,
Except that (for form's sake) in haste I remain
Your humble Petitioner—honest—Hugh Gaine.[232]

[214] First published in the Freeman's Journal in several installments, the first appearing Jan. 8, 1783. Hugh Gaine began as a printer in New York in 1750, and two years later established the New York Mercury. His imprint for many years was "Printed by Hugh Gaine, Printer, Bookseller, Stationer, at the Bible and Crown, in Hanover Square." Upon the beginning of hostilities with England he at first sided with the patriots. "Gaine's political creed it seems was to join the strongest party. When the British troops were about to take possession of New York in 1776, he left the city and set up his press at Newark; but soon after, in the belief that appearances were against the ultimate success of the United States, be privately withdrew from Newark and returned to New York. At the conclusion of the war, he petitioned the State legislature for leave to remain in the city and, having obtained permission, his press was employed in book printing, etc., but his newspaper was discontinued when the British army left."—Thomas' History of Philadelphia. I have used the text from the edition of 1809.

[215] "It is to be questioned if Gaine ever wrote a petition."—Paul Leicester Ford.

[216] "Drug shop."—Ed. 1786.

[217] "Dog house."—Ib.

[218] "Fellow."—Ed. 1786.

[219] "To gain a mere trifle, a shilling or so."—Ed. 1786.

[220] General Gage's Soliloquy, and General Gage's Confession, both printed in 1775.

[221] "Under orders from the New York Convention Isaac Sears, in the night of the twenty-fourth of August [1775] removed cannon from the battery of the city. Captain Vandeput of the Asia, a British man-of-war in the harbor of the city, kept up a heavy but ineffective fire on the working party, who succeeded in removing twenty-one eighteen pounders with their carriages. It was feared that a bombardment would follow and families began to retreat into the country."—Bancroft.

[222] This line and the following not in the 1786 edition.

[223] "At first we supposed it was only a sham."—Ed. 1786.

[224] "Moderate."—Ed. 1786.

[225] "Pitiful whining."—Ed. 1795.

[226]

"With his paunch of a hog, and his brains of an oyster,
Whence the mischief came he with his radical moisture."—Ed. 1786.

[227] This line and the three following not in the edition of 1786.

[228] This line and the three following not in the original version.

[229] "The false-hearted Tory."—Ed. 1786.

[230] "Tories."—Ed. 1786.

[231] "Whigs."—Ib.

[232] Dr. Francis, in his paper on Christopher Colles, records this story:

"While on one of his visits at Gaine's a customer saluted him loudly by name, the sound of which arrested the attention of the old Royalist, who, lifting up his eyes, interrogated him: 'Is your name Freneau?' 'Yes,' answered the Republican poet. 'Philip Freneau?' rejoined Gaine. 'Yes sir! the same.' 'Then, sir,' warmly uttered Gaine, 'you are a very clever fellow. Let me have the pleasure of taking you by the hand. Will you walk round the corner and join me in my parlor. We will take a glass of wine together. You, sir, have given me and my paper a wide reputation."

STANZAS[233]

Occasioned by the Departure of the British from Charleston,
December 14, 1782

His triumphs of a moment done,
His race of desolation run,
The Briton, yielding to his fears,
To other shores with sorrow steers:

To other shores—and coarser climes
He goes, reflecting on his crimes,
His broken oaths, a murdered Hayne,
And blood of thousands, spilt in vain.

To Cooper's stream, advancing slow,
Ashley no longer tells his woe;
No longer mourns his limpid flood
Discoloured deep with human blood.

Lo! where those social streams combine,
Again the friends of Freedom join;
And, while they stray, where once they bled,
Rejoice to find their tyrants fled.

Since memory paints that dismal day
When British squadrons held the sway,
And circling close on every side,
By sea and land retreat denied—

Can she recall that mournful scene,
And not the virtues of a Greene,
Who great in war—in danger tried,
Has won the day, and crushed their pride.

Through barren wastes and ravaged lands,
He led his bold undaunted bands;
Through sickly climes his standard bore
Where never army marched before:

By fortitude, with patience joined,
(The virtues of a noble mind)
He spread, where'er our wars are known,
His country's honour and his own.

Like Hercules, his generous plan
Was to redress the wrongs of men;
Like him, accustomed to subdue,
He freed a world from monsters too.

Through every want and every ill
We saw him persevering still,
Through Autumn's damps and Summer's heat,
'Till his great purpose was complete.

Like the bold eagle, from the skies
That stoops, to seize his trembling prize,
He darted on the slaves of kings
At Camden plains and Eutaw Springs.

Ah! had our friends that led the fray
Survived the ruins of that day,
We should not damp our joy with pain,
Nor, sympathizing, now complain.

Strange! that of those who nobly dare
Death always claims so large a share,
That those of virtue most refined
Are soonest to the grave consigned!—

But fame is theirs—and future days
On pillared brass shall tell their praise;
Shall tell—when cold neglect is dead—
"These for their country fought and bled."

[233] Published in the Freeman's Journal, February 19, 1783, and copied by the Charleston Weekly Gazette, May 13 following. Text from the edition of 1809.

ON THE BRITISH KING'S SPEECH[234]

Recommending Peace with the American States

Grown sick of war, and war's alarms,
Good George has changed his note at last—
Conquest and death have lost their charms;
He, and his nation stand aghast,
To think what fearful lengths they've gone,
And what a brink they stand upon.

Old Bute and North, twin sons of hell,
If you advised him to retreat
Before our vanquished thousands fell,
Prostrate, submissive at his feet:
Awake once more his latent flame,
And bid us yield you all you claim.[235]

The Macedonian wept and sighed
Because no other world was found
Where he might glut his rage and pride,
And by its ruin be renowned;
The world that Sawney wished to view
George fairly had—and lost it too!

Let jarring powers make war or peace,
Monster!—no peace can greet your breast:
Our murdered friends can never cease
To hover round and break your rest!
The Furies will your bosom tear,
Remorse, distraction, and despair
And hell, with all its fiends, be there!

Cursed be the ship that e'er sets sail
Hence, freighted for your odious shore;
May tempests o'er her strength prevail,
Destruction round her roar!
May Nature all her aids deny,
The sun refuse his light,
The needle from its object fly,
No star appear by night:
'Till the base pilot, conscious of his crime,
Directs the prow to some more Christian[236] clime.

Genius! that first our race designed,
To other kings impart
The finer feelings of the mind,
The virtues of the heart;
Whene'er the honours of a throne
Fall to the bloody and the base,
Like Britain's tyrant, pull them down,
Like his, be their disgrace!

Hibernia, seize each native right!
Neptune, exclude him from the main;
Like her that sunk with all her freight,
The Royal George,[237] take all his fleet,
And never let them rise again:
Confine him to his gloomy isle,
Let Scotland rule her half,
Spare him to curse his fate awhile,
And Whitehead,[A] thou to write his epitaph.

[A] William Whitehead, Poet Laureat to his Majesty—author of the execrable birth-day Odes.—Freneau's note, Ed. 1786.

[234] First published in the Freeman's Journal, March 12, 1783. "King George of England was mastered by a consuming grief for the loss of America, and knew no ease of mind by day or by night. When on the fifth of December [1782], in his speech at the opening of Parliament, he came to read that he had offered to declare the colonies of America free and independent States, his manner was constrained and his voice full."—Bancroft.

[235] "And feed with hope his heart's desire."—Ed. 1786.

[236] "Grateful."—Ed. 1786.

[237] The Royal George, 108 guns, while being refitted at Spithead, August 29, 1782, was heeled over too far by her crew, causing her suddenly to sink. Admiral Kempenfelt and nearly 800 men perished in this disaster.

A NEW-YORK TORY'S EPISTLE[238]

To one of his Friends in Pennsylvania.—Written previous to his Departure for Nova Scotia

May, 1783

Dark glooms the day that sees me leave this shore,
To which fate whispers I must come no more:
From civil broils what dire disasters flow—
Those broils condemn me to a land of woe
Where barren pine trees shade the dreary steep,
Frown o'er the soil or murmur to the deep,
Where sullen fogs their heavy wings expand,
And nine months' winter chills the dismal land!
Could no kind stars have mark'd a different way,
Stars that presided on my natal day?—
Why is not man endued with power to know
The ends and upshots of events below?
Why did not heaven (some other gift deny'd)
Teach me to take the true-born Buckskin side,
Show me the balance of the wavering fates
And fortune smiling on these new-born States!
Friend of my heart!—my refuge and relief,
Who help'd me on through seven long years of grief,
Whose better genius taught you to remain
In the soft quiet of your rural reign,
Who still despised the Rebels and their cause,
And, while you paid the taxes, damn'd their laws,
And wisely stood spectator of the fray,
Nor trusted George, whate'er he chose to say;
Thrice happy thou, who wore a double face,
And as the balance turn'd could each embrace;
Too happy Janus! had I shar'd thy art,
To speak a language foreign to my heart,
And stoop'd from pomp and dreams of regal state,
To court the friendship of the men I hate,
These strains of woe had not been penn'd to-day,
Nor I to foreign climes been forc'd away:
Ah! George—that name provokes my keenest rage,
Did he not swear, and promise, and engage
His loyal sons to nurture and defend,
To be their God, their father and their friend—
Yet basely quits us on a hostile coast,
And leaves us wretched where we need him most:
His is the part to promise and deceive,
By him we wander and by him we grieve;
Since the first day that these dissentions grew,
When Gage to Boston brought his blackguard crew,[239]
From place to place we urge our vagrant flight
To follow still this vapour of the night,
From town to town have run our various race,
And acted all that's mean and all that's base—
Yes—from that day until this hour we roam,
Vagrants forever from our native home!
And yet, perhaps, fate sees the golden hour
When happier hands shall crush rebellious power,
When hostile tribes their plighted faith shall own
And swear subjection to the British throne,
When George the Fourth shall their petitions spurn,
And banish'd Tories to their fields return.
From dreams of conquest, worlds and empires won
Britain awaking, mourns her setting sun,
No rays of joy her evening hour illume,
'Tis one sad chaos, one unmingled gloom!
Too soon she sinks unheeded to the grave,
No eye to pity and no hand to save:
What are her crimes that she alone must bend?
Where are her hosts to conquer and defend—
Must she alone with these new regions part,
These realms that lay the nearest to her heart,
But soar'd at once to independent power,
Not sunk like Scotland in the trying hour?—
See slothful Spaniards golden empires keep,
And rule vast realms beyond the Atlantic deep;
Must we alone surrender half our reign,
And they their empires and their worlds retain?
Britannia, rise—send Johnstone to Peru,
Seize thy bold thunders and the war renew,
Conquest or ruin—one must be thy doom,
Strike—and secure a triumph or a tomb!
But we, sad outcasts from our native reign,
Driven from these shores, a poor deluded train,
In distant wilds, conducted by despair,
Seek, vainly seek, a hiding place from care!
Even now yon' tribes, the foremost of the band,
Croud to the ships and cover all the strand:
Forc'd from their friends, their country, and their God,
I see the unhappy miscreants leave the sod!
Matrons and men walk sorrowing side by side
And virgin grief, and poverty, and pride,
All, all with aching hearts prepare to sail
And late repentance that has no avail!
While yet I stand on this forbidden ground
I hear the death-bell of destruction sound,
And threat'ning hosts with vengeance on their brow
Cry, "Where are Britain's base adherents now?"
These, hot for vengeance, by resentment led,
Blame on our hearts the failings of the head;
To us no peace, no favours they extend,
Their rage no bounds, their hatred knows no end;
In one firm league I see them all combin'd,
We, like the damn'd, can no forgiveness find—
As soon might Satan from perdition rise,
And the lost angels gain their vanish'd skies
As malice cease in their dark souls to burn,
Or we, once fled, be suffer'd to return.
Curs'd be the union that was form'd with France,
I see their lillies and the stars advance!
Did they not turn our triumphs to retreats,
And prove our conquests nothing but defeats?—
My heart misgives me as their chiefs draw near,
I feel the influence of all potent fear,
Henceforth must I, abandon'd and distrest,
Knock at the door of pride, a beggar guest,
And learn from years of misery and pain
Not to oppose fair Freedom's cause again!—
One truth is clear from changes such as these,[240]
Kings cannot always conquer when they please,
Nor are they rebels who mere freedom claim,
Conquest alone can ratify the name—
But great the task, their efforts to controul
When genuine virtue fires the stubborn soul;
The warlike beast in Lybian deserts plac'd
To reign the master of the sun-burnt waste,
Not tamely yields to bear a servile chain,
Force may attempt it, and attempt in vain,
Nervous and bold, by native valour led,
His prowess strikes the proud invader dead,
By force nor fraud from freedom's charms beguil'd
He reigns secure the monarch of the wild.

Tantalus.

[238] Freeman's Journal, May 7, 1783. In the later editions it was entitled "Renegado Epistle." Text from the edition of 1786.

[239] Two added lines in the later editions:

"Amused with conquests, honours, riches, fame,
Posts, titles, earldoms—and a deathless name."

[240]

"From nature constant still
Kings hold not worlds or empires at their will."—Ed. 1795.

MANHATTAN CITY[241]

A Picture

Fair mistress of a warlike State,
What crime of thine deserves this fate?
While other ports to Freedom rise,
In thee that flame of honour dies.

With wars and horrors overspread,
Seven years, and more, we fought and bled:
Seized British hosts and Hessian bands,
And all—to leave you in their hands.

While British tribes forsake our plains,
In you, a ghastly herd[242] remains:
Must vipers to your halls[243] repair;
Must poison taint that purest air?

Ah! what a scene torments the eye:
In thee, what putrid monsters lie!
What dirt, and mud, and mouldering walls,
Burnt domes, dead dogs, and funerals!

Those grassy banks, where oft we stood,[244]
And fondly viewed the passing flood;
There, owls obscene, that daylight shun,
Pollute the waters, as they run.

Thus in the east—once Asia's queen—
Palmyra's tottering towers are seen;
While through her streets the serpent feeds,
Thus she puts on her mourning weeds!

Lo! Skinner there for Scotia hails
The sweepings of Cesarean jails:[245]
While, to receive the odious[246] freight,
A thousand sable transports wait.

Had he been born in days of old
When men with gods their 'squires[247] enrolled,
Hermes had claimed his aid above,
Arch-quibbler in the courts of Jove.[248]

O chief, that wrangled at the bar—
Grown old in less successful war;
What crowds of miscreants round you stand,
What vagrants bow to your command!

[241] In the edition of 1786 entitled "New-York, September, 1783."

[242] "A motley crew."—Ed. 1786.

[243] "Through thy streets."—Ib.

[244] "I stood."—Ed. 1786.

[245]

"Lo! Skinner there collects a crew,
(Their temples brushed with Stygian dew)"—Ib.

[246] "Ghastly."—Ib.

[247] "Beasts."—Ib.

[248]

"Like Nero's horse, he had been made
A consul for some Nero's aid."—Ib.

VERSES[249]

Occasioned by General Washington's arrival in Philadelphia, on his way to his seat in Virginia

December, 1783

1

The great, unequal conflict past,
The Briton banish'd from our shore,
Peace, heav'n-descended, comes at last,
And hostile nations rage no more;
From fields of death the weary swain
Returning, seeks his native plain.

2

In every vale she smiles serene,
Freedom's bright stars more radiant rise,
New charms she adds to every scene,
Her brighter sun illumes our skies;
Remotest realms admiring stand,
And hail the Hero of our land:

3

He comes!—the Genius of these lands—
Fame's thousand tongues his worth confess,
Who conquer'd with his suffering bands,
And grew immortal by distress:
Thus calms succeed the stormy blast,
And valour is repaid at last.

4

O Washington!—thrice glorious name,
What due rewards can man decree—
Empires are far below thy aim,
And sceptres have no charms for thee;
Virtue alone has thy regard,
And she must be thy great reward.

5

Encircled by extorted power,
Monarchs must envy thy Retreat,
Who cast, in some ill fated hour,
Their country's freedom at their feet;
'Twas thine to act a nobler part
For injur'd Freedom had thy heart.

6

For ravag'd realms and conquer'd seas
Rome gave the great imperial prize,
And, swell'd with pride, for feats like these,
Transferr'd her heroes to the skies:—
A brighter scene your deeds display,
You gain those heights a different way.

7

When Faction rear'd her snaky head,[250]
And join'd with tyrants to destroy,
Where'er you march'd the monster fled,
Tim'rous her arrows to employ;
Hosts catch'd from you a bolder flame,
And despots trembled at your name.

8

Ere war's dread horrors ceas'd to reign,
What leader could your place supply?—
Chiefs crowded to the embattled plain,
Prepar'd to conquer or to die—
Heroes arose—but none like you
Could save our lives and freedom too.

9

In swelling verse let kings be read,
And princes shine in polish'd prose;
Without such aid your triumphs spread
Where'er the convex ocean flows,
To Indian worlds by seas embrac'd,
And Tartar, tyrant of the waste.

10

Throughout the east you gain applause,
And soon the Old World, taught by you,
Shall blush to own her barbarous laws,
Shall learn instruction from the New:
Monarchs shall hear the humble plea,
Nor urge too far the proud decree.

11

Despising pomp and vain parade,
At home you stay, while France and Spain
The secret, ardent wish convey'd,
And hail'd you to their shores in vain:
In Vernon's groves you shun the throne,
Admir'd by kings, but seen by none.

12

Your fame, thus spread to distant lands,
May envy's fiercest blasts endure,
Like Egypt's pyramids it stands,
Built on a basis more secure;
Time's latest age shall own in you
The patriot and the statesman too.

13

Now hurrying from the busy scene,
Where thy Potowmack's waters flow,
May'st thou enjoy thy rural reign,
And every earthly blessing know;
Thus He[A] whom Rome's proud legions sway'd,
Return'd, and sought his sylvan shade.

[A] Cincinnatus.—Freneau's note.

14

Not less in wisdom than in war
Freedom shall still employ your mind,
Slavery shall vanish, wide and far,
'Till not a trace is left behind;
Your counsels not bestow'd in vain
Shall still protect this infant reign.

15

So when the bright, all-cheering sun
From our contracted view retires,
Though fools may think his race is run,
On other worlds he lights his fires:
Cold climes beneath his influence glow,
And frozen rivers learn to flow.

16

O say, thou great, exalted name!
What Muse can boast of equal lays,
Thy worth disdains all vulgar fame,
Transcends the noblest poet's praise,
Art soars, unequal to the flight,
And genius sickens at the height.

17

For states redeem'd—our western reign
Restor'd by thee to milder sway,
Thy conscious glory shall remain
When this great globe is swept away,
And all is lost that pride admires,
And all the pageant scene expires.

[249] Published in the Freeman's Journal, December 10, 1783. Washington arrived in Philadelphia from New York, December 8th. The earliest version of this poem remained practically unchanged in the later editions. The text follows the edition of 1786.

[250] "Bristly head."—Ed. 1809.

RIVINGTON'S CONFESSIONS[251]

Addressed to the Whigs of New-York

December 31, 1783

PART I

Long life and low spirits were never my choice,
As long as I live I intend to rejoice;
When life is worn out, and no wine's to be had
'Tis time enough then to be serious and sad.

'Tis time enough then to reflect and repent
When our liquor is gone, and our money is spent,
But I cannot endure what is practis'd by some
This anticipating of evils to come:

A debt must be paid, I am sorry to say,
Alike, in their turns, by the grave and the gay,
And due to a despot that none can deceive
Who grants us no respite and signs no reprieve.

Thrice happy is he that from care can retreat,
And its plagues and vexations put under his feet;
Blow the storm as it may, he is always in trim,
And the sun's in the zenith forever to him.

Since the world then in earnest is nothing but care,
(And the world will allow I have also my share)
Yet, toss'd as I am in the stormy expanse,
The best way, I find, is to leave it to chance.

Look round, if you please, and survey the wide ball
And chance, you will find, has direction of all:
'Twas owing to chance that I first saw the light,
And chance may destroy me before it is night!

'Twas a chance, a mere chance, that your arms gain'd the day,
'Twas a chance that the Britons so soon went away,
To chance by their leaders the nation is cast
And chance to perdition will send them at last.

Now because I remain when the puppies are gone
You would willingly see me hang'd, quarter'd and drawn,
Though I think I have logic sufficient to prove
That the chance of my stay—is a proof of my love.

For deeds of destruction some hundreds are ripe,
But the worst of my foes are your lads of the type:
Because they have nothing to put on their shelves
They are striving to make me as poor as themselves.

There's Loudon[252] and Kollock,[253] these strong bulls of Bashan,
Are striving to hook me away from my station,
And Holt,[254] all at once, is as wonderful great
As if none but himself was to print for the State.

Ye all are convinc'd I'd a right to expect
That a sinner returning you would not reject—
Quite sick of the scarlet and slaves of the throne,
'Tis now at your option to make me your own.

Suppose I had gone with the Tories and rabble
To starve, or be drown'd on the shoals of cape Sable,
I had suffer'd, 'tis true—but I'll have you to know,
You nothing had gain'd by the voice of my woe.

You say that with grief and dejection of heart
I pack'd up my awls with a view to depart,
That my shelves were dismantled, my cellars unstor'd,
My boxes afloat, and my hampers on board:

And hence you infer (I am sure without reason)
That a right you possess to entangle my weazon—
Yet your barns I ne'er burnt, nor your blood have I spilt,
And my terror alone was no proof of my guilt.

The charge may be true—for I found it in vain
To lean on a staff that was broken in twain,
And ere I had gone at Port Roseway to fix,
I had chose to sell drams on the margin of Styx.

I confess, that, with shame and contrition opprest,
I sign'd an agreement to go with the rest,
But ere they weigh'd anchor to sail their last trip,
I saw they were vermin, and gave them the slip.

Now, why you should call me the worst man alive,
On the word of a convert, I cannot contrive,
Though turn'd a plain honest republican, still
You own me no proslelyte, do what I will.

My paper is alter'd—good people, don't fret;
I call it no longer the Royal Gazette:[255]
To me a great monarch has lost all his charms,
I have pull'd down his Lion, and trampled his Arms.

While fate was propitious, I thought they might stand,
You know I was zealous for George's command,
But since he disgrac'd it, and left us behind,
If I thought him an angel—I've alter'd my mind.

On the very same day that his army went hence
I ceas'd to tell lies for the sake of his pence;
And what was the reason—the true one is best—
I worship no suns when they move to the west:

In this I resemble a Turk or a Moor,
Bright Phœbus ascending, I prostrate adore;
And, therefore, excuse me for printing some lays,
An ode or a sonnet in Washington's praise.

His prudence alone[256] has preserv'd your dominions,
This bravest and boldest of all the Virginians!
And when he is gone—I pronounce it with pain—
We scarcely shall meet with his equal again.[257]

Old Plato asserted that life is a dream
And man but a shadow (whate'er he may seem)[258]
By which it is plain he intended to say
That man, like a shadow, must vanish away:

If this be the fact, in relation to man,
And if each one is striving to get what he can,
I hope, while I live, you will all think it best,
To allow me to bustle along with the rest.

A view of my life, though some parts might be solemn,
Would make, on the whole, a ridiculous volume:
In the life that's hereafter (to speak with submission)
I hope I shall publish a better edition:

Even swine you permit to subsist in the street;—
You pity a dog that lies down to be beat—
Then forget what is past—for the year's at a close—
And men of my age have some need of repose.

PART II

But as to the Tories that yet may remain,
They scarcely need give you a moment of pain:
What dare they attempt when their masters are fled;—
When the soul is departed who wars with the dead?

Poor souls! for the love of the king and his nation
They have had their full quota of mortification;
Wherever they fought, or whatever they won
The dream's at an end—the delusion is done.

The Temple you rais'd was so wonderful large
Not one of them thought you could answer the charge,
It seem'd a mere castle constructed of vapour,
Surrounded with gibbets and founded on Paper.

On the basis of freedom you built it too strong!
And Clinton[259] confess'd, when you held it so long,
That if any thing human the fabric could shatter
The Royal Gazette must accomplish the matter.[A]

An engine like that, in such hands as my own
Had shaken king Codjoe[B] himself from his throne,
In another rebellion had ruin'd the Scot,
While the Pope and Pretender had both gone to pot.

If you stood my attacks, I have nothing to say—
I fought, like the Swiss, for the sake of my pay;
But while I was proving your fabric unsound
Our vessel miss'd stay, and we all went aground.

Thus ended in ruin what madness begun,
And thus was our nation disgrac'd and undone,
Renown'd as we were, and the lords of the deep,
If our outset was folly, our exit was sleep.

A dominion like this, that some millions had cost!—
The king might have wept when he saw it was lost;—
This jewel—whose value I cannot describe;
This pearl—that was richer than all his Dutch tribe.

When the war came upon us, you very well knew
My income was small and my riches were few—
If your money was scarce, and your prospects were bad,
Why hinder me printing for people that had?

'Twould have pleas'd you, no doubt, had I gone with a few setts
Of books, to exist in your cold Massachusetts;
Or to wander at Newark, like ill fated Hugh,
Not a shirt to my back, nor a soal to my shoe.

Now, if we mistook (as we did, it is plain)
Our error was owing to wicked Hugh Gaine,
For he gave us such scenes of your starving and strife
As prov'd that his pictures were drawn from the life.

On the waves of the Styx had he rode quarantine,
He could not have look'd more infernally lean
Than the day, when returning dismay'd and distrest,
Like the doves to their windows, he flew to his nest.[260]

The part that he[261] acted, by some men of sense
Was wrongfully held to be malice propense,
When to all the world it was perfectly plain,
One principle rul'd him[262]—a passion for gain.

You pretend I have suffer'd no loss in the cause,
And have, therefore, no right to partake of your laws:
Some people love talking—I find to my cost,
I too am a loser—my character's lost![263]

Nay, did not your printers repeatedly stoop
To descant and reflect on my Portable Soup?
At me have your porcupines darted the quill,
You have plunder'd my Office,[C] and publish'd my Will.[264]

Resolv'd upon mischief, you held it no crime
To steal my Reflections,[265] and print them in rhyme,
When all the world knew, or at least they might guess,
That the time to reflect was no time to confess;[266]

You never consider'd my children and wife,[267]
That my lot was to toil and to struggle[268] through life;
My windows you broke—they are all on a jar,
And my house you have made a mere old man of war.

And still you insist I've no right to complain!—
Indeed if I do, I'm afraid it's in vain—
Yet am willing to hope you're too learnedly read
To hang up a printer for being misled.

If this be your aim, I must think of a flight—
In less than a month I must bid you good-night,
And hurry away to that whelp ridden shore
Where Clinton and Carleton retreated before.

From signs in the sky, and from tokens on land
I'm inclin'd to suspect my departure's at hand:
The man in the moon is unusually big,
And Inglis, they tell me, has grown a good Whig.[269]

For many days past, as the town can attest,
The tail of the weather-cock hung to the west—[270]
My shop, the last evening, seem'd all in a blaze,
And a hen crow'd at midnight, my waiting man says;

Even then, as I lay with strange whims in my head,
A ghost hove in sight, not a yard from my bed,
It seem'd Gen'ral Robertson,[271] brawly array'd,
But I grasp'd at the substance, and found him a shade!

He appear'd as of old, when, head of the throng,
And loaded with laurels, he waddled along—
He seem'd at the foot of my bedstead to stand
And cry'd—"Jemmy Rivington, reach me your hand;

"And Jemmy, (said he) I am sorry to find
"Some demon advis'd you to loiter behind;
"The country is hostile—you had better get off it,
"Here's nothing but squabbles, all plague and no profit!

"Since the day that Sir William came here with his throng
"He manag'd things so that they always went wrong,
"And tho' for his knighthood, he kept Meschianza,
"I think he was nothing but mere Sancho Pança.

"That famous conductor of moon-light retreats,
"Sir Harry, came next with his armies and fleets,
"But, finding the rebels were dying and dead,
"He grounded his arms and retreated to bed.

"Other luck we had once at the battle of Boyne!
"But here they have ruin'd Earl Charles and Burgoyne,
"Here brave col'nel Monckton was thrown on his back,
"And here lies poor André! the best of the pack."

So saying, he flitted away in a trice,
Just adding, "he hop'd I would take his advice"—
Which I surely shall do if you push me too hard—
And so I remain, with eternal regard,

James Rivington, printer, of late, to the king,
But now a republican—under your wing—
Let him stand where he is—don't push him down hill,
And he'll turn a true Blue-Skin, or just what you will.

[A]

"Si Pergama dextra
Defendi possent, etiam hac defensa fuissent."—Virg.
—Freneau's note.

[B] The Negro king in Jamaica, whom the English declared independent in 1739. See our Freeman's Journal, No. 37, for the treaty.—Freneau's note in 1783.

[C] November, 1775.—Freneau's note. On November 27, 1775, a band of armed men, under Sears of Connecticut, entered the city on horseback, destroyed his press and scattered his types.

[251] First published in the Freeman's Journal, December 31, 1783. The text follows the 1786 version.

[252] A New York printer, publisher of The New York Packet during the Revolutionary period. From 1776 until 1783 he published the paper at Fishkill.

[253] Shepard Kollock, soldier-editor of the Revolution. Established the New Jersey Journal at Chatham, N. J., in 1779. Removed in 1783 to New York, where he undertook the New York Gazetteer. Later, in 1787, he moved to Elizabeth-Town, N. J., and revived his first journal, which he successfully edited for thirty-one years. Kollock died in Philadelphia, July 28, 1839.

[254] John Holt, printer, born in Williamsburg, Virginia, in 1721, died in New York City, January 30, 1784. Holt founded in 1776 the New York Journal, which during the Revolution bore the famous device of a snake cut into parts, with the motto "Unite or Die."

[255] After the war Rivington removed from the head-line of his paper the arms of Great Britain and changed the title to Rivington's New York Gazette and Universal Advertiser.

[256] "His prudence and caution."—Ed. 1795.

[257] The edition of 1809 added at this point the following six lines not in the earlier editions:

"The gods for that hero did trouble prepare,
But gave him a mind that could feed upon care,
They gave him a spirit, serene but severe,
Above all disorder, confusion, and fear;
In him it was fortune where others would fail:
He was born for the tempest, and weathered the gale."

[258] "A cloud, or a stream."—Ed. 1795.

[259] "Carleton."—Ed. 1795.

[260] In the later editions this stanza was inserted after stanza 1, Part II, and made to refer to the Tories.

[261] "That I acted."—Ed. 1795.

[262] "Rul'd me."—Ib.

[263] "My Pension is lost!"—Ed. 1795.

[264] See page 120.

[265] See page 190.

[266]

"When all the town knew (and a number confess'd)
That papers, like these, were no cause of arrest."—Ed. 1795.

[267] "My struggles and strife."—Ib.

[268] "To worry."—Ib.

[269] In place of these lines, the edition of 1795 has the following:

"Old Argo the ship,—in a peep at her star,
I found they were scraping her bottom for TAR."

[270] "A boy with a feather-bed troubled my rest."—Ed. 1795.

[271] Royal Governor of New York. He arrived in the city March 21, 1780. He was considered harsh and arbitrary by the patriots.

A NEWS-MAN'S ADDRESS[272]

What tempests gloom'd the by-past year—
What dismal prospects then arose!
Scarce at your doors I dar'd appear,
So many were our griefs and woes:
But time at length has chang'd the scene,
Our prospects, now, are more serene.

Bad news we brought you every day,
Your seamen slain, your ships on shore,
The army fretting for their pay—
('Twas well they had not fretted more!)
'Twas wrong indeed to wear out shoes,
To bring you nothing but bad news.

Now let's be joyful for the change—
The folks that guard the English throne
Have given us ample room to range,
And more, perhaps, than was their own;
To western lakes they stretch our bounds,
And yield the Indian hunting grounds.

But pray read on another year,
Remain the humble newsman's friend;
And he'll engage to let you hear
What Europe's princes next intend.—
Even now their brains are all at work
To rouse the Russian on the Turk.

Well—if they fight, then fight they must,
They are a strange contentious breed;
One good effect will be, I trust,
The more are kill'd, the more you'll read;
For past experience clearly shews,
That Wrangling is the Life of News.

[272] From the edition of 1795. The poem was first published as a broadside in 1784, with the title, "New-Year Verses, For those who carry the Pennsylvania Gazette To the Customers. January 1, 1784," and was reproduced almost verbatim in the 1786 edition.

NEW YEAR'S VERSES[273]

Addressed to the customers of the Freeman's Journal, by the Lad who carries it

January 7, 1784

Blest be the man who early prov'd
And first contriv'd to make it clear
That Time upon a dial mov'd,
And trac'd that circle call'd a year;

Ere he arose, the savage, man,
No bounds to years or seasons knew,
On Nature's book his reckoning ran,
And social festivals were few.

In after days, when folks grew wise
New wonderments were daily found,
Systems they built on pumpkin pies,
And prov'd that every thing went round.

Experience shows they reason'd right,
(With laurels we their tombs should crown)
For half the world is in such plight
That one would swear it upside down.

Now I am one, (and pray attend)
Who, marching in a smaller sphere,
To set you right, my service lend,
By bringing Papers through the year,

Which to your Honours may impart
A thousand new invented schemes,
The works of wit, and toils of art,
News, commerce, politics, and dreams:

Though in a sheet, at random cast,
Our motley knowledge we dispose,
From such a mass, in ages past,
Have less substantial fabrics rose;

The Sybil wise, as Virgil says,
Her writings to the leaves consign'd,
Which soon were borne a thousand ways,
Derang'd and scatter'd by the wind.

Not such neglect in me is seen—
Soon as my leaves have left the press
I haste to bring them, neat and clean,
At all times in a New Year's dress.

Though winds their ancient spite retain,
And strive to tear them from my hold,
I bear them safe through wind and rain,
Despising heat, despising cold.

While thus employ'd, from week to week,
You surely will not think it hard
If, with the rest, I come to seek
Some humble token of regard.

Nor will you deem my conduct strange
If what I long have thought be true—
That life itself is constant change,
And death, the want of something new.

[273] Text from the 1786 edition. The poem appears in the 1795 edition under the title "A News-Carrier's Petition."

THE HAPPY PROSPECT[274]

Though clad in winter's gloomy dress all Nature's works appear,
Yet other prospects rise to bless the new returning year:
The active sail again is seen to greet our western shore,
Gay plenty smiles with brow serene, and wars distract no more.

No more the vales, no more the plains an iron harvest yield;
Peace guards our doors, impells our swains to till the grateful field:
From distant climes, no longer foes (their years of misery past)
Nations arrive, to find repose in these domains at last.

And, if a more delightful scene attracts the mortal eye,
Where clouds nor darkness intervene, behold, aspiring high,
On Freedom's soil those Fabrics plann'd, on virtue's basis laid,
That make secure our native land, and prove our toils repaid.

Ambitious aims and pride severe, would you at distance keep,
What wanderer would not tarry here, here charm his cares to sleep!
O, still may health her balmy wings o'er these fair fields expand,
While commerce from all climates brings the products of each land.

Through toiling care and lengthen'd views, that share alike our span,
Gay, smiling hope her heaven pursues, the eternal friend of man:
The darkness of the days to come she brightens with her ray,
And smiles o'er Nature's gaping tomb, when sickening to decay!

[274] This is Freneau's hymn of thanksgiving at the close of the war. Text from the 1795 edition, where, as far as I can discover, it was first published.

THE DYING INDIAN[275]

TOMO-CHEQUI

"On yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
Vigour, and youth, and active days are past—
Relentless demons urge me to that shore
On whose black forests all the dead are cast:—
Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
For I must go to shades below,
Where all is strange and all is new;
Companion to the airy throng!—
What solitary streams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy, must I rove along!

To what strange lands must Chequi take his way!
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace:
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chace,
But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend,
But sickly orchards there
Do fruits as sickly bear,
And apples a consumptive visage shew,
And withered hangs the hurtle-berry blue.

Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!
Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and sad deluding waters flow—
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales, indeed, they tell
Of shades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the western hills,
But when did ghost return his state to shew;
Or who can promise half the tale is true?

I too must be a fleeting ghost!—no more—
None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
For emptier groves below!
Ye charming solitudes,
Ye tall ascending woods,
Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,
Whose aspect still was sweet,
Whether the sun did greet,
Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams—
Adieu to all!

To all, that charmed me where I strayed,
The winding stream, the dark sequestered shade;
Adieu all triumphs here!
Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And seas, and stars, and skies—farewell,
For some remoter sphere!

Perplexed with doubts, and tortured with despair,
Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?
Nature at last these ruins may repair,
When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep
Some real world once more may be assigned,
Some new born mansion for the immortal mind!
Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods,
To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray,
Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!
Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trusty bow and arrows by my side,
The cheerful bottle and the venison store;
For long the journey is that I must go,
Without a partner, and without a guide."
He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep,
Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!

[275] Text from the edition of 1809. First published in the Freeman's Journal, March 17, 1784. It was inserted without change into the edition of 1786, where it bore the title: "The Dying Indian, or Last Words of Shalum. March, 1784. Debemur morti nos, nostraque." The two later editions were unchanged save in title.

LINES[276]

Intended for Mr. Peale's Exhibition

May 10, 1784

1

Toward the skies
What columns rise
In Roman style, profusely great!
What lamps ascend,
What arches bend,
And swell with more than Roman state!

2

High o'er the central arch display'd
Old Janus shuts his temple door,
And shackles war in darkest shade;
Saturnian times in view once more.

3

Pride of the human race, behold
In Gallia's king the virtues glow,
Whose conduct prov'd, whose goodness told,
That kings can feel for human woe.
Thrice happy France in Louis blest,
Thy genius droops her head no more;
In the calm virtues of the mind
Equal to him no Titus shin'd—
No Trajan—whom mankind adore.

4

Another scene too soon displays!
Griefs have their share, and claim their part,
They monuments to ruin raise,
And shed keen anguish o'er the heart:
Those heroes that in battle fell
Demand a sympathetic tear,
Who fought, our tyrants to repell—
Memory preserves their laurels here.
In vernal skies
Thus tempests rise,
And clouds obscure the brightest sun—
Few wreathes are gain'd
With blood unstain'd,
No honours without ruin won.

5

The arms of France three lillies mark—
In honour's dome with these enroll'd
The plough, the sheaf, the gliding barque
The riches of our State unfold.

6

Ally'd in Heaven, a sun and stars
Friendship and peace with France declare—
The branch succeeds the spear of Mars,
Commerce repairs the wastes of war:
In ties of concord ancient foes engage
Proving the day-spring of a brighter age.

7

These States defended by the brave,
Their military trophies, see!
The virtue that of old did save
Shall still maintain them great and free:
Arts shall pervade the western wild,
And savage hearts become more mild.

8

Of science proud, the source of sway,
Lo! emblematic figures shine;
The arts their kindred forms display,
Manners to soften and refine:
A stately tree to heaven its summit sends
And cluster'd fruit from thirteen boughs depends.

9

With laurel crown'd
A chief renown'd
(His country sav'd) his faulchion sheaths;
Neglects his spoils
For rural toils
And crowns his plough with laurel wreaths:
While we this Roman chief survey,
What apt resemblance strikes the eye!
Those features to the soul convey
A Washington in fame as high,
Whose prudent, persevering mind
Patience with manly courage join'd,
And when disgrace and death were near,
Look'd through the black distressing shade,
Struck hostile Britons with unwonted fear
And blasted their best hopes, and pride in ruin laid.

10

Victorious virtue! aid me to pursue
The tributary verse to triumphs due—
Behold the peasant leave his lowly shed,
Where tufted forests round him grow;—
Tho' clouds the dark sky overspread,
War's dreadful art his arm essays,
He meets the hostile cannon's blaze,
And pours redoubled vengeance on the foe.

11

Born to protect and guard our native land,
Victorious virtue! still preserve us free;
Plenty—gay child of peace, thy horn expand,
And, Concord, teach us to agree!
May every virtue that adorns the soul
Be here advanc'd to heights unknown before;
Pacific ages in succession roll,
'Till Nature blots the scene,
Chaos resumes her reign
And heaven with pleasure views its works no more.

[276] Published in the Freeman's Journal, May 19, 1784, which the text follows. Practically unchanged for the later editions. The following description of this arch appeared in the Journal, May 12th:

"Monday at noon, the sheriff, attended by the proper officers, made proclamation of the Definitive Treaty of Peace concluded between America and Great-Britain. At the same time the state flag was hoisted on Market street wharf, and in the evening the transparent paintings which were designed in celebration of the general peace, and were to have been shewn on the 22d January last, but prevented by an unfortunate accident; being revived by subscription, and executed by the ingenious Mr. Peale, were exhibited, and afforded great satisfaction to many thousands of spectators.

The following is a Description of the Triumphal Arch and its ornaments:

The Arch is fifty Feet and six Inches wide, and thirty-five Feet and six Inches high, exclusive of the Ballustrade, which is three Feet and nine Inches in height. The Arch is fourteen Feet wide in the clear, and each of the smaller Arches nine feet. The Pillars are of the Ionic Order. The Entablature, all the other Parts, and the Proportions correspond with that Order; and the whole Edifice is finished in the Style of Architecture proper for such a Building, and used by the Romans. The Pillars are adorned with spiral Festoons of Flowers in their natural Colours.... [Then follows a half-column description of the various ornaments and devices.]

The whole Building illuminated by about twelve hundred Lamps."

THE HURRICANE[277]

Happy the man who, safe on shore,
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmov'd, he hears the tempests roar,
That on the tufted groves expire:
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble barque must bear them all.

Now to their haunts the birds retreat,
The squirrel seeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,
All, all are blest but wretched we—
Foredoomed a stranger to repose,
No rest the unsettled ocean knows.

While o'er the dark abyss[A] we roam,
Perhaps, with last departing gleam,
We saw the sun descend in gloom,
No more to see his morning beam;
But buried low, by far too deep,
On coral beds, unpitied, sleep!

But what a strange, uncoasted strand
Is that, where fate permits no day—
No charts have we to mark that land,
No compass to direct that way—
What Pilot shall explore that realm,
What new Columbus take the helm!

While death and darkness both surround,
And tempests rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no sound,
No comfort in this dreadful hour—
What friendship can in tempests be,
What comfort on this raging sea?

The barque, accustomed to obey,
No more the trembling pilots guide:
Alone she gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burst on either side—
Thus, skill and science both must fall;
And ruin is the lot of all.

[A] Near the east end of Jamaica, July 30, 1784.—Freneau's note.

[277] First published in the April 13, 1785, issue of the Freeman's Journal, under the title, "Verses, made at Sea, in a Heavy Gale," and reprinted verbatim in the 1786 edition. In the August 20, 1788, issue of the Journal the poem was republished in connection with the following note (in italics): "In that violent hurricane at Jamaica, on the night of the 30th of July, 1784, in which, no more than eight, out of 150 sail of vessels, in the ports of Kingston and Port-Royal, were saved, capt. Freneau was at sea, and arrived at Kingston next morning, a mere wreck. On that occasion, the following beautiful lines, extracted from the first volume of his writings, were penned." Text from the edition of 1809.

TO THE KEEPER OF THE KING'S WATER WORKS[278]

Near Kingston,[279] in the island of Jamaica, on being refused a puncheon of water

Written August, 1784

"The celestial Deities protect and relieve strangers in every country, as long as those strangers respect and submit to the laws of the country."

—Kien-Lhi, alias John Tuck, Viceroy of Canton.

Can he, who o'er two Indies holds the sway,
Where'er the ocean flows, whose fleets patrole,
Who bids Hibernia's rugged sons obey,
And at whose nod (you say) shakes either pole:—

Can he, whose crown a thousand jewels grace
Of worth untold—can he, so rich, deny
One wretched puncheon from this ample waste,
Begg'd by his quondam subject—very dry?

Vast are the springs in yonder cloud-capt hill:
Why, then, refuse the abundant flowing wave?
Where hogs, and dogs, and keepers drink their fill,
May we not something from such plenty crave?

Keeper!—must we with empty cask return!
Just view the limpid stream that runs to waste!—
Denied the stream that flows from Nature's urn,
By locks and bolts secur'd from rebel taste?

Well!—if we must, inform the royal ear,
Poor are some kings that now in Britain live:
Tell him, that Nature is no miser here;
Tell him—that he withholds—what beggars give.

[278] From the edition of 1809. The poem seems first to have appeared in the National Gazette of January 12, 1792, with the following note: "The following lines were written some years ago (Sept. 1784) on board the brig Dromilly, in Kingston harbour, Jamaica; and sent to the keeper of the King's waterworks, near Rock fort; who had refused the writer a puncheon of water from a reservoir that was, by royal order, appropriated to the use of the royal navy." The present text is somewhat varied from that in the edition of 1795.

[279] "Rock-Fort."—Ed. 1795.

LINES[280]

Written at Port-Royal, in the Island of Jamaica

Here, by the margin of the murmuring main,
While her proud remnants I explore in vain,
And lonely stray through these dejected lands
Fann'd by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands,
Where the dull Spaniard once possess'd these shades,
And ports defended by his Pallisades[A]—
Tho' lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh,
Nor shall the Muse the unenvied gift deny.
Of all the towns that grac'd Jamaica's isle
This was her glory, and the proudest pile,
Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise,
And commerce swell'd her glory to the skies:
St. Jago, seated on a distant plain,
Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main,
Unnotic'd streams her Cobra's[B] margin lave
Where yond' tall plantains shade her glowing wave,
And burning sands or rock surrounded hill
Confess its founder's fears—or want of skill.
While o'er these wastes with wearied step I go,
Past scenes of death return, in all their woe,[281]
O'er these sad shores in angry pomp he pass'd,
Mov'd in the winds, and rag'd with every blast—
Here,[C] opening gulphs confess'd the almighty hand,
Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land,
Here, piles on piles an instant tore away,
Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay,
Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast,
Or time to call the sexton, or the priest.
Where yond' tall barque, with all her ponderous load,
Commits her anchor to its dark abode,
Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow
To quench the sulphur of the caves below,
Here midnight sounds torment the sailor's ear,
And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts here,[282]
Sad songs of woe prevent the hours of sleep,
And Fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep;
Dull Superstition hears the ghostly hum,
Smit with the terrors of the world to come.
What now is left of all thy boasted pride!
Lost are thy glories that were spread so wide,
A spit of sand is thine, by heaven's decree,
And wasting shores that scarce resist the sea:
Is this Port-Royal on Jamaica's coast,
The Spaniard's envy, and the Briton's boast!
A shatter'd roof o'er every hut appears,
And mouldering brick-work prompts the traveller's fears;
A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see,
Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!—
One only inn with tiresome search I found
Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round;—
His was the part to wait the impatient call,
He was our landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all;
His wary eyes on every side were cast,
Beheld the present, and revolv'd the past,
Now here, now there, in swift succession stole,
Glanc'd at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl.
No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids[283]
Walk on these wastes or wander in these shades;
To other shores past times beheld them go,
And some are slumbering in the caves below;
A negro tribe but ill their place supply,
With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;[284]
A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town,
Where banish'd Tories come to seek renown,
Where worn-out slaves their bowls of beer retail,
And sun-burnt strumpets watch the approaching sail.
Here (scarce escap'd the wild tornado's rage)
Why sail'd I here to swell my future page!
To these dull scenes with eager haste I came
To trace the reliques of their ancient fame,
Not worth the search!—what domes are left to fall,
Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all—
All shall be lost!—tho' hosts their aid implore,
The Twelve Apostles[D] shall protect no more,
Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain;
No priest shall mutter, and no saint remain,
Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade,
Where the dark negro his dull music play'd,
Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand
And points, still grieving, to his native land,
Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore,
And pants for countries he must see no more—
Where shall I go, what Lethe shall I find
To drive these dark ideas from my mind!
No buckram heroes can relieve the eye,
And George's honours only raise a sigh—
Not even these walls a glad remembrance claim,[285]
Where grief still wastes a half deluded dame,
Whom to these coasts a British Paris bore,
And basely left, lost virtue to deplore.—
In foreign climes detain'd from all she lov'd,
By friends neglected, long by fortune prov'd,
While sad and solemn pass'd the unwelcome day,
What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay!
Deceiv'd in all—for meanness could deceive—
Expecting still, and still condemn'd to grieve,
She scarcely saw, to different hearts allied,
That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride.—
Are griefs like thine to Florio's bosom known?
Must these, alas, be ceaseless in your own?—
Life is a dream—its varying shades I see,
But this base wanderer hardly dreams of thee.
Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain,
Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain;
Where Nature still the toils of art transcends—
In this dull spot the fine delusion ends,
Where burning sands are borne by every blast
And these mean fabrics still bewail the past;
Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside,
And threatening moons advance the imperious tide:—
Ye stormy winds, awhile your wrath suspend,
Who leaves the land, a bottle, and a friend,
Quits this bright isle for yon' blue seas and sky,
Or even Port-Royal quits—without a sigh!

Sept. 1784.

[A] Pallisades a narrow strip of land about seven miles in length, running nearly from north to south, and forming the harbours of Port Royal and Kingston.—Freneau's note, 1809 edition.

[B] A small river falling into Kingston Bay, nearly opposite Port Royal—and which has its source in the hills beyond Spanish Town.—Freneau's note, 1809 edition.

[C] Old Port-Royal contained more than 1500 buildings, and these for the most part large and elegant. This unfortunate town was for a long time reckoned the most considerable mart of trade in the West Indies. It was destroyed on the 17th of June, 1692, by an earthquake which in two minutes sunk the far greater part of the buildings; in which disaster near 3000 people lost their lives.—Freneau's note.

[D] A Battery so called, on the side of the harbour opposite to Port-Royal.—Freneau's note.

[280] First published in the 1788 edition, the text of which I have followed. For the 1809 edition Freneau made numerous verbal changes. On an average, he changed a word in every line. No poem of Freneau's shows more clearly his peculiar mania for revision. In the 1795 edition the title is "Port Royal," in the 1809 edition it is "Written at Port Royal, in the Island of Jamaica—September, 1784."

[281] The edition of 1809 adds:

"Here for their crimes (perhaps) in ages fled,
Some vengeful fiend, familiar with the dead—"

[282] The edition of 1809 adds:

"Of ghosts all restless!—(cease they to complain—
More than a century should relieve their pain—)."

A footnote adds the comment: "A superstition, at present, existing only among the ignorant."

[283] "Handsome Yankee maids."—Ed. 1809.

[284] The edition of 1809 adds:

"That gloomy race lead up the evening dance,
Skip on the sands, or dart the alluring glance:
Sincere are they?—no—on your gold they doat—
And in one hour—for that would cut your throat.
All is deceit—half hell is in their song
And from the silent thought?—You have done us wrong!"

[285] This line and the fifteen following omitted from the later editions.

TO SIR TOBY[286]

A Sugar Planter in the interior parts of Jamaica, near the City of San Jago de la Vega, (Spanish Town) 1784

"The motions of his spirit are black as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus."
—Shakespeare.

If there exists a hell—the case is clear—
Sir Toby's slaves enjoy that portion here:
Here are no blazing brimstone lakes—'tis true;
But kindled Rum too often burns as blue;
In which some fiend, whom nature must detest,
Steeps Toby's brand, and marks poor Cudjoe's breast.[A]
Here whips on whips excite perpetual fears,
And mingled howlings vibrate on my ears:
Here nature's plagues abound, to fret and teaze,
Snakes, scorpions, despots, lizards, centipees—
No art, no care escapes the busy lash;
All have their dues—and all are paid in cash—
The eternal driver keeps a steady eye
On a black herd, who would his vengeance fly,
But chained, imprisoned, on a burning soil,
For the mean avarice of a tyrant, toil!
The lengthy cart-whip guards this monster's reign—
And cracks, like pistols, from the fields of cane.
Ye powers! who formed these wretched tribes, relate,
What had they done, to merit such a fate!
Why were they brought from Eboe's[B] sultry waste,
To see that plenty which they must not taste—
Food, which they cannot buy, and dare not steal;
Yams and potatoes—many a scanty meal!—
One, with a gibbet wakes his negro's fears,
One to the windmill nails him by the ears;
One keeps his slave in darkened dens, unfed,
One puts the wretch in pickle ere he's dead:
This, from a tree suspends him by the thumbs,
That, from his table grudges even the crumbs!
O'er yond' rough hills a tribe of females go,
Each with her gourd, her infant, and her hoe;
Scorched by a sun that has no mercy here,
Driven by a devil, whom men call overseer—
In chains, twelve wretches to their labours haste;
Twice twelve I saw, with iron collars graced!—
Are such the fruits that spring from vast domains?
Is wealth, thus got, Sir Toby, worth your pains!—
Who would your wealth on terms, like these, possess,
Where all we see is pregnant with distress—
Angola's natives scourged by ruffian hands,
And toil's hard product shipp'd to foreign lands.
Talk not of blossoms, and your endless spring;
What joy, what smile, can scenes of misery bring?—
Though Nature, here, has every blessing spread,
Poor is the labourer—and how meanly fed!—
Here Stygian paintings light and shade renew,
Pictures of hell, that Virgil's[C] pencil drew:
Here, surly Charons make their annual trip,
And ghosts arrive in every Guinea ship,
To find what beasts these western isles afford,
Plutonian scourges, and despotic lords:—
Here, they, of stuff determined to be free,
Must climb the rude cliffs of the Liguanee;[D]
Beyond the clouds, in sculking haste repair,
And hardly safe from brother traitors there.—[E]

[A] This passage has a reference to the West India custom (sanctioned by law) of branding a newly imported slave on the breast, with a red hot iron, as an evidence of the purchaser's property.—Freneau's note.

[B] A small negro kingdom near the river Senegal.—Freneau's note.

[C] See Eneid, Book 6th.—and Fenelon's Telemachus, Book 18.—Ib.

[D] The mountains northward of Kingston.—Freneau's note.

[E] Alluding to the Independent negroes in the blue mountains, who for a stipulated reward, deliver up every fugitive that falls into their hands, to the English Government.—Ib.

[286] Text from the edition of 1809. The poem seems first to have been published in the National Gazette of July 21, 1792, under the title, "The Island Field Hand," with the note: "Written some years ago at a sugar plantation in Jamaica." The present text contains numerous minor variations from the edition of 1795. The four lines beginning "The eternal driver" are original in the 1809 edition.

ELEGY ON MR. ROBERT BELL[287]

The celebrated humourist, and truly philanthropic Book-seller formerly of Philadelphia, written, 1786

By schools untaught, from Nature's source he drew
That flow of wit which wits with toil pursue,
Above dependence, bent to virtue's side;
Beyond the folly of the folio's pride;
Born to no power, he took no splendid part,
Yet warm for freedom glowed his honest heart
Foe to all baseness, not afraid to shame
The little tyrant that usurped his claim:
Bound to no sect, no systems to defend,
He loved his jest, a female, and his friend:—
The tale well told, to each occasion fit,
In him was nature—and that nature wit:
Alike to pride and wild ambition dumb,
He saw no terrors in the world to come.
But, slighting sophists and their flimsy aid,
To God and Reason left the works they made.
In chace of fortune, half his life was whim,
Yet fortune saw no sycophant in him;
Bold, open, free, the world he called his own,
But wished no wealth that cost a wretch a groan—
Too social Bell! in others so refined,
One sneaking virtue ne'er possessed your mind—
Had Prudence only held her share of sway,
Still had your cup been full, yourself been gay!
But while we laughed, and while the glass went round,
The lamp was darkened—and no help was found;
On distant shores you died, where none shall tell,
"Here rest the virtues and the wit of Bell."

[287] First published in the Freeman's Journal, February 28, 1787, with the explanation, "Written more than two years ago." The date in the title above, taken from the 1809 edition, is doubtless wrong.

"It is believed that Robert Bell, an Englishman or a Scotchman, who came to Philadelphia about 1772 or 1773, was the first person who kept a circulating library in this city. He had his place of business in Third street below Walnut. He was also one of the first to establish book auctions here, in which effort he met very serious opposition from the booksellers. He published several works prior to the Revolutionary War, but during that struggle he seems to have left the city. He died in Richmond, Va., Sept. 26, 1784."—Watson's Annals.

He published Freneau's American Independence in Philadelphia in 1778.

ON THE FIRST AMERICAN SHIP[288]

Empress of China, Capt. Greene

That explored the rout to China, and the East-Indies, after the Revolution, 1784

With clearance from Bellona won
She spreads her wings to meet the Sun,
Those golden regions to explore
Where George forbade to sail before.

Thus, grown to strength, the bird of Jove,
Impatient, quits his native grove,
With eyes of fire, and lightning's force
Through the blue æther holds his course.

No foreign tars are here allowed
To mingle with her chosen crowd,
Who, when returned, might, boasting, say
They shewed our native oak the way.

To that old track no more confined,
By Britain's jealous court assigned,
She round the Stormy Cape[A] shall sail,
And, eastward, catch the odorous gale.

[A] Cabo Tormentosa (The Cape of Storms) so called by Vasco da Gama, and by the earliest Portuguese adventurers to India—now called the cape of Good Hope.—Freneau's note.

To countries placed in burning climes
And islands of remotest times
She now her eager course explores,
And soon shall greet Chinesian shores.

From thence their fragrant teas to bring
Without the leave of Britain's king;
And Porcelain ware, enchased in gold,
The product of that finer mould.

Thus commerce to our world conveys
All that the varying taste can please;
For us, the Indian looms are free,
And Java strips her spicy tree.

Great pile proceed!—and o'er the brine
May every prosperous gale be thine,
'Till freighted deep with Asia's stores,
You reach again your native shores.

[288] Text from the edition of 1809.

THE NEWSMONGER[289]

A Character

An insect lives among mankind
For what wise ends by fate designed
'Tis hard, 'tis very hard, to find.

In pain for all, but thanked by few
Not twice a year he gets his due—
Yet, patiently he struggles through.

Beneath some garret roof restrained
To one dull place forever chained
His word is, "little money gained."

The flowers that deck the summer field,
The bloom of spring, too long concealed,
To him no hour of pleasure yield.

His life is everlasting whim;
The seasons change—but scarce for him—
On sheets of news his eyes grow dim.

He life maintains on self-esteem,
He plans, contrives, and lives by—scheme—
And blots good paper—many a ream.

Distrest for those he never saw—
Of kings and nobles not in awe,
He scorns their mandates, and their law.

Relief he finds for others' woes—
The wants of all the world he knows—
His boots are only out at toes.

Now, Europe's feuds distract his brains:
Now, Asia's news his head contains—
But still his labour for his pains.

The river Scheldt he opens wide,
And Joseph's ships in triumph ride,—
The Dutchmen are not on his side.

On great affairs condemned to fret,—
The interest on our foreign debt,
He hopes good Louis may forget.

He fears the banks will hurt our trade;
And fall they must—without his aid—
Meanwhile his taylor goes unpaid.

Our western posts, which Britons keep
In spite of treaties, break his sleep—
He plans their capture—at one sweep.

He grumbles at the price of flour,
And mourns and mutters, many an hour,
That congress have so little power,

Although he has no ships to lose,
The Algerines he loves to abuse—
And hopes to hear—some bloody news.

The French (he thinks) will soon prepare
To undertake some grand affair—
So 'tis but war "we need not care."

Where Mississippi laves the plain
He hopes the bold Kentucky swain,
Will seize the forts, and plague Old Spain:

Such morning whims, such evening dreams!
Through wakeful nights he plans odd schemes,
To dispossess her of those streams.

He prophesies, the time must come
When few will drink West India rum—
Our spirits will be proof at home.

The Tories on New Scotland's coast,
He thinks may of full bellies boast
In half a century—at most.

Then shakes his head, and shifts the scene—
Talks much about the "Empress Queen"—
And wonders what the Austrians mean?

He raves, and scolds and seems afraid
The States will break by China trade,
"Since specie for their tea is paid."

Then tells, that, "just about next June,
Lunardi in his new balloon
Will make a journey—to the moon."

Thus, all the business of mankind,
And all the follies we might find
Are huddled in his shattered mind.

'Till taught to think of new affairs,
At last, with death, he walks down stairs,
And leaves—the wide world to his heirs.

[289] Published in the Freeman's Journal, February 21, 1787. In the 1809 edition, which the text follows, 1784 is given as the date of composition.

SKETCHES OF AMERICAN HISTORY[290]

This American world, all our histories say,
Secluded from Europe, long centuries lay,
And peopled by beings whom white-men detest,
The sons of the Tartars, that came from the west.

These Indians, 'tis certain, were here long before ye all,
And dwelt in their wigwams from time immemorial;
In a mere state of nature, untutored, untaught,
They did as they pleased, and they spoke as they thought—

No priests they had then for the cure of their souls,
No lawyers, recorders, or keepers of rolls;
No learned physicians vile nostrums concealed—
Their druggist was Nature—her shop was the field.

In the midst of their forests how happy and blest,
In the skin of a bear or buffalo drest!
No care to perplex, and no luxury seen
But the feast, and the song, and the dance on the green.

Some bowed to the moon, and some worshipped the sun,
And the king and the captain were centered in one;
In a cabin they met, in their councils of state,
Where age and experience alone might debate.

With quibbles they never essayed to beguile,
And Nature had taught them the orator's style;
No pomp they affected, not quaintly refined
The nervous idea that glanced on the mind.

When hunting or battle invited to arms,
The women they left to take care of their farms—
The toils of the summer did winter repay,
While snug in their cabins they snored it away.

If death came among them his dues to demand,
They still had some prospects of comfort at hand—
The dead man they sent to the regions of bliss,
With his bottle and dog, and his fair maids to kiss.

Thus happy they dwelt in a rural domain,
Uninstructed in commerce, unpractised in gain,
'Till, taught by the loadstone to traverse the seas,
Columbus came over, that bold Genoese.

From records authentic, the date we can shew,
One thousand four hundred and ninety and two
Years, borne by the seasons, had vanished away,
Since the babe in the manger at Bethlehem lay.

What an æra was this, above all that had passed,
To yield such a treasure, discovered at last—
A new world, in value exceeding the old,
Such mountains of silver, such torrents of gold!

Yet the schemes of Columbus, however well planned
Were scarcely sufficient to find the main land;
On the islands alone with the natives he spoke,
Except when he entered the great Oronoque:

In this he resembled old Moses, the Jew,
Who, roving about with his wrong-headed crew,
When at length the reward was no longer denied,
From the top of Mount Pisgah he saw it, and died.

These islands and worlds in the watery expanse,
Like most mighty things, were the offspring of chance,
Since steering for Asia, Columbus they say,
Was astonished to find such a world in his way!

No wonder, indeed, he was smit with surprize—
This empire of Nature was new to their eyes—
Cut short in their course by so splendid a scene,
Such a region of wonders intruding between!

Yet great as he was, and deserving no doubt,
We have only to thank him for finding the rout;
These climes to the northward, more stormy and cold,
Were reserved for the efforts of Cabot the bold.

Where the sun in December appears to decline
Far off to the southward, and south of the line,
A merchant[A] of Florence, more fortunate still,
Explored a new track, and discovered Brazil:

[A] Americus Vespucius.—Freneau's note.

Good Fortune, Vespucius, pronounced thee her own,
Or else to mankind thou hadst scarcely been known—
By giving thy name, thou art ever renowned—
Thy name to a world that another had found!

Columbia, the name was, that merit decreed,
But Fortune and Merit have never agreed—
Yet the poets, alone, with commendable care
Are vainly attempting the wrong to repair.

The bounds I prescribe to my verse are too narrow
To tell of the conquests of Francis Pizarro;
And Cortez 'tis needless to bring into view,
One Mexico conquered, the other Peru.

Montezuma with credit in verse might be read,
But Dryden has told you the monarch[B] is dead!
And the woes of his subjects—what torments they bore,
Las Casas, good bishop, has mentioned before:

[B] Indian Emperor, a tragedy.—Freneau's note.

Let others be fond of their stanzas of grief—
I hate to descant on the fall of the leaf—
Two scenes are so gloomy, I view them with pain,
The annals of death, and the triumphs of Spain.

Poor Atahualpa we cannot forget—
He gave them his utmost—yet died in their debt,
His wealth was a crime that they could not forgive,
And when they possessed it, forbade him to live.

Foredoomed to misfortunes (that come not alone)
He was the twelfth Inca that sat on the throne,
Who fleecing his brother[C] of half his domains,
At the palace of Cusco confined him in chains.

[C] Huascar, who was legal heir to the throne.—Ib.

But what am I talking—or where do I roam?
'Tis time that our story was brought nearer home—
From Florida's cape did Cabot explore
To the fast frozen region of cold Labradore.

In the year fourteen hundred and ninety and eight
He came, as the annals of England relate,
But finding no gold in the lengthy domain,
And coasting the country, he left it again.

Next Davis—then Hudson adventured, they say,
One found out a streight, and the other a bay,
Whose desolate region, or turbulent wave
One present bestowed him—and that was a grave.

In the reign of a virgin (as authors discover)
Drake, Hawkins, and Raleigh in squadrons came over
While Barlow and Grenville succeeded to these,
Who all brought their colonies over the seas.

These, left in a wilderness teeming with woes,
The natives, suspicious, concluded them foes,
And murdered them all without notice or warning,
Ralph Lane, with his vagabonds, scarcely returning.

In the reign of king James (and the first of the name,)
George Summers, with Hacluit, to Chesapeake came,
Where far in the forests, not doomed to renown,
On the river Powhatan[D] they built the first town.[E]

[D] James River, Virginia.—Freneau's note.

[E] James Town.—Ib.

Twelve years after this, some scores of dissenters
To the northernmost district came seeking adventures;
Outdone by the bishops, those great faggot fighters;
They left them to rule with their cassocks and mitres.

Thus banished forever, and leaving the sod,
The first land they saw was the pitch of Cape Cod,
Where famished with hunger and quaking with cold
They planned their New-Plymouth—so called from the old.

They were, without doubt, a delightful collection;—
Some came to be rid of a Stuart's direction,
Some sailed with a view to dominion and riches,
Some to pray without book, and a few to hang witches.

Some, came on the Indians to shed a new light,
Convinced long before that their own must be right,
And that all who had died in the centuries past
On the devil's lee shore were eternally cast.

These exiles were formed in a whimsical mould,
And were awed by their priests, like the Hebrews of old;
Disclaimed all pretences to jesting and laughter,
And sighed their lives through, to be happy hereafter.

On a crown immaterial their hearts were intent,
They looked towards Zion, wherever they went,
Did all things in hopes of a future reward,
And worried mankind—for the sake of the Lord.

With rigour excessive they strengthened their reign,
Their laws were conceived in the ill-natured strain,
With mystical meanings the saint was perplext,
And the flesh and the devil were slain by a text.

The body was scourged, for the good of the soul,
All folly discouraged by peevish controul,
A knot on the head was the sign of no grace,
And the Pope and his comrade were pictured in lace.

A stove in their churches, or pews lined with green,
Were horrid to think of, much more to be seen,
Their bodies were warmed with the linings of love,
And the fire was sufficient that flashed from above.

'Twas a crime to assert that the moon was opaque,
To say the earth moved, was to merit the stake;
And he that could tell an eclipse was to be,
In the college of Satan had took his degree.

On Sundays their faces were dark as a cloud—
The road to the meeting was only allowed,
And those they caught rambling, on business or pleasure,
Were sent to the stocks, to repent at their leisure.

This day was the mournfullest day in the week—
Except on religion, none ventured to speak—
This day was the day to examine their lives,
To clear off old scores, and to preach to their wives.

Their houses were forts, that seemed proof against light;
Their parlours, all day, were the blackness of night:
And, as if at their thresholds a cannon did roar,
The animals hardly dared open their door
'Till the sun disappeared—then, like a mole's snout
In the dusk of the evening, their noses popped out.

In the school of oppression though woefully taught,
'Twas only to be the oppressors they sought;
All, all but themselves were be-deviled and blind,
And their narrow-souled creed was to serve all mankind.

This beautiful system of nature below
They neither considered, nor wanted to know,
And called it a dog-house wherein they were pent,
Unworthy themselves, and their mighty descent.

They never perceived that in Nature's wide plan
There must be that whimsical creature called Man,
Far short of the rank he affects to attain,
Yet a link in its place, in creation's vast chain.

Whatever is foreign to us and our kind
Can never be lasting, though seemingly joined—
The hive swarmed at length, and a tribe that was teazed
Set out for Rhode-Island to think as they pleased.

Some hundreds to Britain ran murmuring home—
While others went off in the forests to roam,
When they found they had missed what they looked for at first,
The downfall of sin, and the reign of the just.

Hence, dry controversial reflections were thrown,
And the old dons were vexed in the way they had shown;
So those that are held in the work-house all night
Throw dirt the next day at the doors, out of spite.

Ah pity the wretches that lived in those days,
(Ye modern admirers of novels and plays)
When nothing was suffered but musty, dull rules,
And nonsense from Mather and stuff from the schools!

No story, like Rachel's, could tempt them to sigh,
Susanna and Judith employed the bright eye—
No fine spun adventures tormented the breast,
Like our modern Clarissa, Tom Jones, and the rest.

Those tyrants had chosen the books for your shelves,
(And, trust me, no other than writ by themselves,
For always by this may a bigot be known,
He speaks well of nothing but what is his own.)

From indwelling evil these souls to release,
The Quakers arrived with their kingdom of peace—
But some were transported and some bore the lash,
And four they hanged fairly, for preaching up trash.

The lands of New-England (of which we now treat)
Were famous, ere that, for producing of wheat;
But the soil (or tradition says strangely amiss)
Has been pestered with pumpkins from that day to this.

Thus, feuds and vexations distracted their reign,
(And perhaps a few vestiges still may remain)
But time has presented an offspring as bold,
Less free to believe, and more wise than the old.

Their phantoms, their wizzards, their witches are fled,
Matthew Paris's[F] story with horror is read—
His daughters, and all the enchantments they bore—
And the demon, that pinched them, is heard of no more.

[F] See Neale's History of New England.—Freneau's note.

Their taste for the fine arts is strangely increased,
And Latin's no longer a mark of the beast:
Mathematics, at present, a farmer may know,
Without being hanged for connections below.

Proud, rough, Independent, undaunted and free,
And patient of hardships, their task is the sea,
Their country too barren their wish to attain,
They make up the loss by exploring the main.

Wherever bright Phœbus awakens the gales
I see the bold Yankees expanding their sails,
Throughout the wide ocean pursuing their schemes,
And chacing the whales on its uttermost streams.

No climate, for them, is too cold or too warm,
They reef the broad canvass, and fight with the storm;
In war with the foremost their standards display,
Or glut the loud cannon with death, for the fray.

No valour in fable their valour exceeds,
Their spirits are fitted for desperate deeds;
No rivals have they in our annals of fame,
Or if they are rivalled, 'tis York has the claim.

Inspired at the sound, while the name she repeats,
Bold Fancy conveys me to Hudson's retreats—
Ah, sweet recollection of juvenile dreams
In the groves, and the forests that skirted his streams!

How often, with rapture, those streams were surveyed,
When, sick of the city, I flew to the shade—
How often the bard, and the peasant shall mourn
Ere those groves shall revive, or those shades shall return!

Not a hill, but some fortress disfigures it round!
And ramparts are raised where the cottage was found!
The plains and the vallies with ruin are spread,
With graves in abundance, and bones of the dead.

The first that attempted to enter the streight
(In anno one thousand six hundred and eight)
Was Hudson (the same that we mentioned before,
Who was lost in the gulph that he went to explore.)

For a sum that they paid him (we know not how much)
This captain transferred all his right to the Dutch;
For the time has been here, (to the world be it known,)
When all a man sailed by, or saw, was his own.

The Dutch on their purchase sat quietly down,
And fixed on an island to lay out a town;
They modelled their streets from the horns of a ram,
And the name that best pleased them was, New Amsterdam.

They purchased large tracts from the Indians for beads,
And sadly tormented some runaway Swedes,
Who (none knows for what) from their country had flown,
To live here in peace, undisturbed and alone.

New Belgia, the Dutch called their province, be sure,
But names never yet made possession secure,
For Charley (the second that honoured the name)
Sent over a squadron, asserting his claim:

(Had his sword and his title been equally slender,
In vain had they summoned Mynheer to surrender)
The soil they demanded, or threatened their worst,
Insisting that Cabot had looked at it first.

The want of a squadron to fall on their rear
Made the argument perfectly plain to Mynheer—
Force ended the contest—the right was a sham,
And the Dutch were sent packing to hot Surinam.

'Twas hard to be thus of their labours deprived,
But the age of Republics had not yet arrived—
Fate saw—though no wizzard could tell them as much—
That the crown, in due time, was to fare like the Dutch.

[290] Published in the Freeman's Journal, December 15, 1784, under the pseudonym "K." Republished in the editions of 1795 and 1809. Text from the latter edition.

THE PROGRESS OF BALLOONS[291]

"Perdomita tellus, tumida cesserunt freta,
"Inferna nostros regna sensere impetus;
"Immune cœlum est, degnus Alcidæ labor,
"In alta mundi spatia sublimes feremur."
—Senec. Herc. Furens.

Assist me, ye muses, (whose harps are in tune)
To tell of the flight of the gallant balloon!
As high as my subject permit me to soar
To heights unattempted, unthought of before,
Ye grave learned Doctors, whose trade is to sigh,
Who labour to chalk out a road to the sky,
Improve on your plans—or I'll venture to say,
A chymist, of Paris, will show us the way.
The earth on its surface has all been survey'd,
The sea has been travell'd—and deep in the shade
The kingdom of Pluto has heard us at work,
When we dig for his metals wherever they lurk.
But who would have thought that invention could rise
To find out a method to soar to the skies,
And pierce the bright regions, which ages assign'd
To spirits unbodied, and flights of the mind.
Let the gods of Olympus their revels prepare—
By the aid of some pounds of inflammable air
We'll visit them soon—and forsake this dull ball
With coat, shoes and stockings, fat carcase and all!
How France is distinguish'd in Louis's reign!
What cannot her genius and courage attain?
Thro'out the wide world have her arms found the way,
And art to the stars is extending her sway.
At sea let the British their neighbours defy—
The French shall have frigates to traverse the sky,
In this navigation more fortunate prove,
And cruise at their ease in the climates above.
If the English should venture to sea with their fleet,
A host of balloons in a trice they shall meet.
The French from the zenith their wings shall display,
And souse on these sea-dogs and bear them away.
Ye sages, who travel on mighty designs,
To measure meridians and parallel lines—
The task being tedious—take heed, if you please—
Construct a balloon—and you'll do it with ease.
And ye who the heav'n's broad concave survey,
And, aided by glasses, its secrets betray,
Who gaze, the night through, at the wonderful scene,
Yet still are complaining of vapours between,
Ah, seize the conveyance and fearlesly rise
To peep at the lanthorns that light up the skies,
And floating above, on our ocean of air,
Inform us, by letter, what people are there.
In Saturn, advise us if snow ever melts,
And what are the uses of Jupiter's belts;
(Mars being willing) pray send us word, greeting,
If his people are fonder of fighting than eating.
That Venus has horns we've no reason to doubt,
(I forget what they call him who first found it out)
And you'll find, I'm afraid, if you venture too near,
That the spirits of cuckolds inhabit her sphere.
Our folks of good morals it wofully grieves,
That Mercury's people are villains and thieves,
You'll see how it is—but I'll venture to shew
For a dozen among them, twelve dozens below.
From long observation one proof may be had
That the men in the moon are incurably mad;
However, compare us, and if they exceed
They must be surprizingly crazy indeed.
But now, to have done with our planets and moons—
Come, grant me a patent for making balloons—
For I find that the time is approaching—the day
When horses shall fail, and the horsemen decay.
Post riders, at present (call'd Centaurs of old)
Who brave all the seasons, hot weather and cold,
In future shall leave their dull poneys behind
And travel, like ghosts, on the wings of the wind.
The stagemen, whose gallopers scarce have the power
Through the dirt to convey you ten miles in an hour,
When advanc'd to balloons shall so furiously drive
You'll hardly know whether you're dead or alive.
The man who at Boston sets out with the sun,
If the wind should be fair, may be with us at one,
At Gunpowder Ferry drink whiskey at three
And at six be at Edentown, ready for tea.
(The machine shall be order'd, we hardly need say,
To travel in darkness as well as by day)
At Charleston by ten he for sleep shall prepare,
And by twelve the next day be the devil knows where[292].
When the ladies grow sick of the city in June,
What a jaunt they shall have in the flying balloon!
Whole mornings shall see them at toilets preparing,
And forty miles high be their afternoon's airing.
Yet more with its fitness for commerce I'm struck;
What loads of tobacco shall fly from Kentuck,
What packs of best beaver—bar-iron and pig,
What budgets of leather from Conocoheague!
If Britain should ever disturb us again,
(As they threaten to do in the next George's reign)
No doubt they will play us a set of new tunes,
And pepper us well from their fighting balloons.
To market the farmers shall shortly repair
With their hogs and potatoes, wholesale, thro' the air,
Skim over the water as light as a feather,
Themselves and their turkies conversing together.
Such wonders as these from balloons shall arise—
And the giants of old, that assaulted the skies
With their Ossa on Pelion, shall freely confess
That all they attempted was nothing to this.

[291] Freeman's Journal, December 22, 1784. The year 1782, in which Cavallo made his memorable experiments, may be taken as the initial date in the history of aerial navigation. In October, 1753, Rozier ventured upon the first balloon ascension, though he ventured only fifty feet from the ground. On November 21st of the same year, with the Marquis d'Arlandes, he made the first aerial expedition, ascending from the castle la Muette in the presence of a vast multitude and remaining in the air twenty-five minutes. Text follows the edition of 1786 which bears the date "1785."

[292] Freneau's wild dream has been realized, but not in the way which he indicated.

ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA[293]

And Peopling the Western Country

To western woods, and lonely plains,
Palemon from the crowd departs,
Where Nature's wildest genius reigns,
To tame the soil, and plant the arts—
What wonders there shall freedom show,
What mighty states successive grow!

From Europe's proud, despotic shores
Hither the stranger takes his way,
And in our new found world explores
A happier soil, a milder sway,
Where no proud despot holds him down,
No slaves insult him with a crown.

What charming scenes attract the eye,
On wild Ohio's savage stream!
There Nature reigns, whose works outvie
The boldest pattern art can frame;
There ages past have rolled away,
And forests bloomed but to decay.

From these fair plains, these rural seats,
So long concealed, so lately known,
The unsocial Indian far retreats,
To make some other clime his own,
When other streams, less pleasing, flow,
And darker forests round him grow.

Great Sire[A] of floods! whose varied wave
Through climes and countries takes its way,
To whom creating Nature gave
Ten thousand streams to swell thy sway!
No longer shall they useless prove,
Nor idly through the forests rove;

[A] Mississippi.—Freneau's note.

Nor longer shall your princely flood
From distant lakes be swelled in vain,
Nor longer through a darksome wood
Advance, unnoticed, to the main,
Far other ends, the heavens decree—
And commerce plans new freights for thee.

While virtue warms the generous breast,
There heaven-born freedom shall reside,
Nor shall the voice of war molest,
Nor Europe's all-aspiring pride—
There Reason shall new laws devise,
And order from confusion rise.

Forsaking kings and regal state,
With all their pomp and fancied bliss,[294]
The traveller owns, convinced though late,
No realm so free, so blest as this—
The east is half to slaves consigned,
Where kings and priests enchain the mind.[295]

O come the time, and haste the day,
When man shall man no longer crush,
When Reason shall enforce her sway,
Nor these fair regions raise our blush,
Where still the African complains,
And mourns his yet unbroken chains.

Far brighter scenes a future age,
The muse predicts, these States will hail,
Whose genius may the world engage,
Whose deeds may over death prevail,
And happier systems bring to view,
Than all the eastern sages knew.
[1784.]

[293] First published in Bailey's Pocket Almanac for 1785, and reprinted almost without change in the later editions of Freneau. Text from the edition of 1809.

[294] (A debt that reason deems amiss).—Ed. 1786.

[295] And half to slavery more refin'd.—Ib.

THE SEASONS MORALIZED[296]

They who to warmer regions run,
May bless the favour of the sun,
But seek in vain what charms us here,
Life's picture, varying with the year.

Spring, and her wanton train advance
Like Youth to lead the festive dance,
All, all her scenes are mirth and play,
And blushing blossoms own her sway.

The Summer next (those blossoms blown)
Brings on the fruits that spring had sown,
Thus men advance, impelled by time,
And Nature triumphs in her prime.

Then Autumn crowns the beauteous year,
The groves a sicklier aspect wear;
And mournful she (the lot of all)
Matures her fruits, to make them fall.

Clad in the vestments of a tomb,
Old age is only Winter's gloom—
Winter, alas! shall spring restore,
But youth returns to man no more.

[296] First published in Bailey's Pocket Almanac for 1785. The edition of 1809 is used.

ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL LAURENS[297]

Since on her plains this generous chief expired,
Whom sages honoured, and whom France admired;[298]
Does Fame no statues to his memory raise,
Nor swells one column to record his praise
Where her palmetto shades the adjacent deeps,
Affection sighs, and Carolina weeps!
Thou, who shalt stray where death this chief confines,
Revere the patriot, subject of these lines:
Not from the dust the muse transcribes his name,
And more than marble shall declare his fame
Where scenes more glorious his great soul engage,
Confest thrice worthy in that closing page
When conquering Time to dark oblivion calls,
The marble totters, and the column falls.
Laurens! thy tomb while kindred hands adorn,
Let northern muses, too, inscribe your urn.—
Of all, whose names on death's black list appear,
No chief, that perished, claimed more grief sincere,
Not one, Columbia, that thy bosom bore,
More tears commanded, or deserved them more!
Grief at his tomb shall heave the unwearied sigh,
And honour lift the mantle to her eye:
Fame through the world his patriot name shall spread,
By heroes envied and by monarchs read:
Just, generous, brave—to each true heart allied:
The Briton's terror, and his country's pride;
For him the tears of war-worn soldiers ran,
The friend of freedom, and the friend of man.
Then what is death, compared with such a tomb,
Where honour fades not, and fair virtues bloom;
When silent grief on every face appears,
The tender tribute of a nation's tears;
Ah! what is death, when deeds like his, thus claim
The brave man's homage, and immortal fame!

[297] Published in the Freeman's Journal, October 17, 1787, introduced as follows:

"Mr. Bailey,

The subsequent lines were written two or three years after the event that occasioned them, but have never been printed. If you think them in any degree worthy of the memory of the patriotic young officer they attempt to celebrate (and whose death has been so deeply regretted throughout America) I must request you to insert them in your Journal.

A. B."

The 1788 edition prints the poem with this title: "To the Memory of the brave, accomplished and patriotic Col. John Laurens, Who in the 27th year of his age, was killed in an engagement with a detachment of the British from Charleston, near the river Cambahee, in South Carolina, August 1782." The text follows the edition of 1809.

[298] In 1780 Laurens was sent by Congress on a mission to France for a loan and supplies, in which he was successful.

ON THE VICISSITUDES OF THINGS[299]

"The constant lapse of rolling years
Awakes our hopes, provokes our fears
Of something yet unknown;
We saw the last year pass away,
But who, that lives can safely say,
The next shall be his own?"

So hundreds talk—and thousands more
Descant their moral doctrines o'er;
And when the preaching's done,
Each goes his various, wonted way,
To labour some, and some to play—
So goes the folly on.

How swift the vagrant seasons fly;
They're hardly born before they die,
Yet in their wild career,
Like atoms round the rapid wheel,
We seem the same, though changing still,
Mere reptiles of a year.

Some haste to seek a wealthy bride,
Some, rhymes to make on one that died;
And millions curse the day,
When first in Hymen's silken bands
The parson joined mistaken hands,
And bade the bride obey.

While sad Amelia vents her sighs,
In epitaphs and elegies,
For her departed dear,
Who would suppose the muffled bell,
And mourning gowns, were meant to tell,
Her grief will last—a year?

In folly's path how many meet—
What hosts will live to lie and cheat—
How many empty pates
May, in this wise, eventful year,
In native dignity appear
To manage Rising States!

How vain to sigh!—the wheel must on
And straws are to the whirlpool drawn,
With ships of gallant mien—
What has been once, may time restore;
What now exists, has been before—
Years only change the scene.

In endless circles all things move;
Below, about, far off, above,
This motion all attain—
If Folly's self should flit away,
She would return some New year's day,
With millions in her train.

Sun, moon, and stars, are each a sphere,
The earth the same, (or very near),
Sir Isaac has defined—
In circles each coin is cast,
And hence our cash departs so fast,
Cash—that no charm can bind.

From you to us—from us it rolls
To comfort other cloudy souls:—
If again we make it square,[A]
Perhaps the uneasy guest will stay
To cheer us in some wintry day,
And smooth the brow of care.

[A] The old Continental.—Freneau's note.

[299] This appeared first as the regular New Year's sheet of the Freeman's Journal, January 1, 1785. Its original title was, "New Year's Verses, addressed to the Customers of the Freeman's Journal by the Lad who carries it." Text from the edition of 1809.

PEWTER-PLATTER ALLEY[300]

In Philadelphia

(As it appeared in January, 1784)

From Christ-Church graves, across the way,
A dismal, horrid place is found,
Where rushing winds exert their sway,
And Greenland winter chills the ground:
No blossoms there are seen to bloom,
No sun pervades the dreary gloom!

The people of that gloomy place
In penance for some ancient crime
Are held in a too narrow space,
Like those beyond the bounds of time,
Who darkened still, perceive no day,
While seasons waste, and moons decay.

Cold as the shade that wraps them round,
This icy region prompts our fear;
And he who treads this frozen ground
Shall curse the chance that brought him here—
The slippery mass predicts his fate,
A broken arm, a wounded pate.

When August sheds his sultry beam,
May Celia never find this place,
Nor see, upon the clouded stream,
The fading summer in her face;
And may she ne'er discover there
The grey that mingles with her hair.

The watchman sad, whose drowsy call
Proclaims the hour forever fled,
Avoids this path to Pluto's hall;
For who would wish to wake the dead!—
Still let them sleep—it is no crime—
They pay no tax to know the time.

No coaches here, in glittering pride,
Convey their freight to take the air,
No gods nor heroes here reside,
Nor powdered beau, nor lady fair—
All, all to warmer regions flee,
And leave the glooms to Towne[A] and me.

[A] Benjamin Towne, then Printer of the Evening Post.—Freneau's note.

[300] Freeman's Journal, February 23, 1795.

ON THE DEATH OF THE REPUBLICAN
PATRIOT AND STATESMAN,
GENERAL JOSEPH REED[A]

[A] First published in the Freeman's Journal, March 9, 1785, with the following introduction:

"On Saturday morning last [March 5] departed this life in the forty-third year of his age, General Joseph Reed, Esq., formerly President of this State; and on Sunday his remains were interred in the Presbyterian burying ground in Arch Street. His funeral was attended by his excellency the President and the Superior Executive Council, the Honourable the Speaker and the General Assembly, the Militia Officers and a greater number of citizens than we've ever seen here on any similar occasion." Text follows the edition of 1809.

Reed was one of the leading figures of the Revolutionary era. As delegate to the Continental Congress, aide and secretary to Washington, Adjutant General, volunteer soldier, and Governor of Pennsylvania, he was an active and able man, and his early death was much regretted.

Soon to the grave[301] descends each honoured name
That raised their country to this blaze[302] of fame:
Sages, that planned, and chiefs that led the way
To Freedom's temple, all too soon decay,
Alike submit to one impartial[303] doom,
Their glories closing in perpetual gloom,
Like the pale[304] splendours of the evening, fade,
While night advances, to complete the shade.
Reed, 'tis for thee we shed the unpurchased tear,
Bend o'er thy tomb, and plant our laurels there:
Your acts, your life,[305] the noblest pile transcend,
And Virtue, patriot Virtue, mourns her friend,
Gone to those realms, where worth may claim regard,
And gone where virtue meets her best reward.
No single art engaged his vigorous[306] mind,
In every scene his active genius shined:
Nature in him, in honour to our age,
At once composed the soldier and the sage—
Firm to his purpose, vigilant, and bold,
Detesting traitors, and despising gold,
He scorned all bribes from Britain's hostile throne
For all his country's wrongs he held[307] his own.
Reed, rest in peace: for time's impartial page
Shall raise the blush on[308] this ungrateful age:
Long in these climes thy name shall flourish fair,
The statesman's pattern, and the poet's care;
Long in these climes[309] thy memory shall remain,
And still new tributes from new ages gain,
Fair to the eye that injured honour rise—
Nor traitors triumph while the patriot dies.

The following are the variations in the 1786 edition:

[301] Swift to the dust.

[302] These heights.

[303] Unalter'd.

[304] Dim.

[305] Thy own brave deeds.

[306] Manly.

[307] Were thrice.

[308] Blast the wrongs of.

[309] On these plains.

A RENEGADO EPISTLE[310]

To the Independent Americans

We Tories, who lately were frightened away,
When you marched into York all in battle array,
Dear Whigs, in our exile have somewhat to say.

From the clime of New Scotland we wish you to know
We still are in being—mere spectres of woe,
Our dignity high, but our spirits are low.

Great people we are, and are called the king's friends;
But on friendships like these what advantage attends?
We may stay and be starved[311] when we've answered his ends!

The Indians themselves, whom no treaties can bind,
We have reason to think are perversely inclined—
And where we have friends is not easy to find.

From the day we arrived on this desolate shore
We still have been wishing to see you once more,
And your freedom enjoy, now the danger is o'er.

Although we be-rebelled you up hill and down,
It was all for your good—and to honour a crown
Whose splendours have spoiled better eyes than our own.

That traitors we were, is no more than our due,
And so may remain for a century through,
Unless we return, and be tutored by you.

Although with the dregs of the world we are classed,
We hope your resentment will soften at last,
Now your toils are repaid, and our triumphs are past.

When a matter is done, 'tis a folly to fret—
But your market-day mornings we cannot forget,
With your coaches to lend, and your horses to let.

Your dinners of beef, and your breakfasts of toast!
But we have no longer such blessings to boast,
No cattle to steal, and no turkies to roast.

Such enjoyments as these, we must tell you with pain,
'Tis odds we shall only be wishing in vain
Unless we return, and be brothers again.

We burnt up your mills and your meetings, 'tis true,
And many bold fellows we crippled and slew—
(Aye! we were the boys that had something to do!)

Old Huddy[312] we hung on the Neversink shore—
But, Sirs, had we hung up a thousand men more,
They had all been avenged in the torments we bore,

When Asgill to Jersey you foolishly fetched,
And each of us feared that his neck would be stretched,
When you were be-rebelled, and we were be-wretched.

In the book of destruction it seems to be written
The Tories must still be dependent on Britain—
The worst of dependence that ever was hit on.

Now their work is concluded—that pitiful jobb—
They send over convicts to strengthen our mob—
And so we do nothing but snivel and sob.

The worst of all countries has fallen to our share,
Where winter and famine provoke our despair,
And fogs are for ever obscuring the air.

Although there be nothing but sea dogs to feed on,
Our friend Jemmy Rivington made it an Eden—
But, alas! he had nothing but lies to proceed on.

Deceived we were all by his damnable schemes—
When he coloured it over with gardens and streams,
And grottoes and groves, and the rest of his dreams.

Our heads were so turned by that conjuror's spell,
We swallowed the lies he was ordered to tell—
But his "happy retreats" were the visions of hell.

We feel so enraged we could rip up his weazon,
When we think of the soil he described with its trees on,
And the plenty that reigned, and the charms of each season.

Like a parson that tells of the joys of the blest
To a man to be hanged—he himself thought it best
To remain where he was, in his haven of rest.

Since he helped us away by the means of his types,
His precepts should only have lighted our pipes,
His example was rather to honour your stripes.

Now, if we return, as we're bone of your bone,
We'll renounce all allegiance to George and his throne
And be the best subjects that ever were known.

In a ship, you have seen (where the duty is hard)
The cook and the scullion may claim some regard,
Though it takes a good fellow to brace the main yard.

Howe'er you despise us, because you are free,
The world's at a loss for such people as we,
Who can pillage on land, and can plunder at sea.

So long for our rations they keep us in waiting—
The Lords and the Commons, perhaps, are debating
If Tories can live without drinking or eating.

So we think it is better to see you, by far—
And have hinted our meaning to governor Parr[A]—
The worst that can happen is—feathers and tar.

Nova-Scotia, Feb. 1784.

[A] Then Governor of Nova-Scotia.—Freneau's note.

[310] Text from the edition of 1809. First published in the Freeman's Journal, March 30, 1785, under the title, "A New York Tory's Epistle."

[311] "We may starve and be damn'd."—Ed. 1786.

[312] See note to poem "On Gen. Robertson's Proclamation," Vol. II, p. 162.

THE AMERICAN SIBERIA[313]

When Jove from darkness smote the sun,
And Nature earth from chaos won,
One part she left a barren waste
By stormy seas and fogs embraced.

Jove saw her vile neglect, and cried,
"What madness did your fancy guide—
Why have you left so large a space
With winter brooding o'er its face?

No trees of stately growth ascend,
Eternal fogs their wings expand—
My favorite—man—I placed not there,
But spirits of a darker sphere.

If Nature's self neglects her trade
What strange confusion will be made:
Such climes as these I doomed to fall
On Saturn's cold unsocial ball:

But such a blemish, here, to see—
How can it else but anger me?
Where chilling winds forever freeze,
What fool will fix on lands like these?"

Nature, abashed, thus made reply:
"When earth I formed, I don't deny,
Some parts I portioned out for pain,
Hard storms, dull skies, and—little gain.

Mankind are formed with different souls:
Some will be suited near the poles,
Some pleased beneath the scorching line,
And some, New Scotland, will be thine.

Yet, in due time, my plastic hand
Shall mould it o'er, if you command;
By you I act—if you stand still
The world comes tumbling down the hill!"

Untouched—(said Jove)—remain the place!
In days to come I'll form a race,
Born to betray their country's cause,
And aid an alien monarch's laws.

When traitors to their country die,
To lands, like this, their phantoms fly;
But when the brave by death decay
The mind explores a different way.

Then, Nature, hold your aiding hand—
Let fogs and tempests chill the land;
While this degenerate work of thine
To knaves and knapsacks I resign.

[313] Text follows the edition of 1809.

EPISTLE TO SYLVIUS[314]

On the Folly of Writing Poetry

Of all the fools that haunt our coast
The scribbling tribe I pity most:
Their's is a standing scene of woes,
And their's no prospect of repose.

Then, Sylvius, why this eager claim
To light your torch at Clio's flame?
To few she shews sincere regard,
And none, from her, should hope reward.

A garret high, dark dismal room,
Is still the pensive poet's doom:
Hopes raised to heaven must be their lot,
Yet bear the curse, to be forgot.

Hourly they deal with Grecian Jove,
And draw their bills on banks above:
Yet stand abashed, with all their fire,
When brought to face some country 'squire.

To mend the world, is still their aim:
The world, alas! remains the same,
And so must stand to every age,
Proof to the morals of the page!

The knave that keeps a tippling inn,
The red-nosed boy that deals out gin,
If aided by some paltry skill
May both be statesmen when they will.

The man that mends a beggar's shoes,
The quack that heals your negro's bruise,
The wretch that turns a cutler's stone,
Have wages they can call their own:

The head, that plods in trade's domains,
Gets something to reward its pains;
But Wit—that does the world beguile,
Takes for its pay—an empty smile!

Yet each presumes his works will rise,
And gain a name that never dies;
From earth, and cold oblivion freed,
Immortal, in the poets' creed!

Can Reason in that bosom reign
Which fondly feeds a hope so vain,
When every age that passes by
Beholds a crowd of poets die!

Poor Sappho's fate shall Milton know—
His scenes of grief and tales of woe
No honours, that all Europe gave,
No merit—shall from ruin save.

To all that write and all that read
Fate shall, with hasty step, succeed!
Even Shakespeare's page, his mirth, his tears
May sink beneath this weight of years.

Old Spenser's doom shall, Pope, be thine
The music of each moving line
Scarce bribes an age or two to stay,
Admire your strain—then flit away.

The people of old Chaucer's times
Were once in raptures with his rhymes,
But Time—that over verse prevails,
To other ears tells other tales.

Why then so sad, dear rhyming friends—
One common fate on both attends,
The bards that sooth the statesman's ear,
And him—who finds no audience there.

Mere structures formed of common earth,
Not they from heaven derive their birth,
Or why through life, like vagrants, pass
To mingle with the mouldering mass?—

Of all the souls, from Jove that came
To animate this mortal frame,
Of all the myriads, on the wing,
How few can taste the Muse's spring!

Sejanus, of mercantile skill,
Without whose aid the world stands still,
And by whose wonder-working play
The sun goes round—(his flatterers say)

Sejanus has in house declared
"These States, as yet, can boast no bard,
And all the sing-song of our clime
Is merely nonsense, fringed with rhyme."

With such a bold, conceited air
When such assume the critic's chair,
Low in the dust is genius laid,
The muses with the man in trade.

Then, Sylvius, come—let you and I
On Neptune's aid, once more rely:
Perhaps the muse may still impart
Her balm to ease the aching heart.

Though cold might chill and storms dismay,
Yet Zoilus will be far away:
With us at least, depart and share
No garret—but resentment there.

[314] On Nov. 24, 1785, Freneau sailed from Middletown Point as Master of the sloop Monmouth bound for southern ports. This lyric, first published in the edition of 1788, seems to have been his valedictory to the muse for a season. His conflict with Oswald and other critics had much embittered him. The text is from the edition of 1809.

THE DEPARTURE[315]

1785

From Hudson's cold, congealing streams
As winter comes, I take my way
Where other suns prompt other dreams,
And shades, less willing to decay,
Beget new raptures in the heart,
Bid spleen's dejective crew depart,
And wake the sprightly lay.

Good-natur'd Neptune, now so mild,
Like rage asleep, or madness chain'd,
By dreams amus'd or love beguil'd,
Sleep on 'till we our port have gain'd.
The gentle breeze that curls the deep,
Shall paint a finer dream on sleep!—
Ye nymphs, that haunt his grottoes low,
Where sea green trees on coral grow,
No tumults make
Lest he should wake,
And thus the passing shade betray
The sails that o'er his waters stray.

Sunk is the sun from yonder hill,
The noisy day is past;
The breeze decays, and all is still,
As all shall be at last;
The murmuring on the distant shore,
The dying wave is all I hear,
The yellow fields now disappear,
No painted butterflies are near,
And laughing folly plagues no more.

The woods that deck yon' fading waste,
That every wanton gale embrac'd,
Ere summer yet made haste to fly;
How smit with frost the pride of June!
How lost to me! how very soon
The fairy prospects die!
Condemn'd to bend to winter's stroke,
Low in the dust the embowering oak
Has bid the fading leaf descend,
Their short liv'd verdure at an end;
How desolate the forests seem,
Beneath whose shade
The enamour'd maid
Was once so fond to dream.

What now is left of all that won
The eye of mirth while summer stay'd—
The birds that sported in the sun,
The sport is past, the song is done;
And nature's naked forms declare,
The rifled groves, the vallies bare,
Persuasively, tho' silent, tell,
That at the best they were but drest
Sad mourners for the funeral bell!

Now while I spread the venturous sail
To catch the breeze from yonder hill,
Say, what does all this folly mean?
Why grieve to pass the wat'ry scene?
Is fortitude to heaven confin'd?—
No—planted also in the mind,
She smooths the ocean when she will.

But life is pain—what ills must try,
What malice dark and calumny,
Indifference, with her careless eye,
And slander, with her tale begun;
Bold ignorance, with forward air,
And cowardice, that has no share
In honours gain'd, or trophies won.

To these succeed, (and these are few
Of nature's dark, unseemly crew)
Unsocial pride, and cold disgust,
Servility, that licks the dust;
Those harpies that disgrace the mind;
Unknown to haunt the human breast
When pleasure her first garden dress'd—
But vanish'd is the shade so gay,
And lost in gloom the summer day
That charm'd the soul to rest.

What season shall restore that scene
When all was calm and all serene,
And happiness no empty sound,
The golden age, that pleas'd so well?—
The Mind that made it shall not tell
To those on life's uncertain road;
Where lost in folly's idle round,
And seeking what shall ne'er be found
We press to one abode.

[315] This poem was first published in the Freeman's Journal, April 18, 1787, with a note "Written at leaving Sandy Hook on a voyage to the West Indies." It is dated Nov. 26, 1785; it was, therefore, written at sea. It was published in the 1788 edition, which the text follows, and omitted from the 1809 edition.

A NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS[316]

Old Eighty-Five discharg'd and gone,
Another year comes hastening on
To quit us in its turn:
With outspread wings and running glass
Thus Time's deluding seasons pass,
And leave mankind to mourn.

But strains like this add grief to grief;—
We are the lads that give relief
With sprightly wit and merry lay:
Our various page to all imparts
Amusement fit for social hearts,
And drives the monster, spleen, away.

Abroad our leaves of knowledge fly,
And twice a week they live and die;
Short seasons of repose!
Fair to your view our toils display
The monarch's aim, what patriots say,
Or sons of art disclose:

Whate'er the barque of commerce brings
From sister States, or foreign kings,
No atom we conceal:
All Europe's prints we hourly drain,
All Asia's news our leaves contain,
And round our world we deal.

If falsehoods sometimes prompt your fears,
And horrid news from proud Algiers,
That gives our tars such pain;
Remember all must have their share,
And all the world was made for care,
The monarch and the swain.

If British isles (that once were free,
In Indian seas, to you and me)
All entrance still restrain,
Why let them starve with all their host
When British pride gives up the ghost,
And courts our aid in vain.

We fondly hope some future year
Will all our clouded prospects clear,
And commerce stretch her wings;
New tracks of trade new wealth disclose,
While round the globe our standard goes
In spite of growling kings.

Materials thus together drawn
To tell you how the world goes on
May surely claim regard;
One simple word we mean to say,
This is our jovial New Year's day,
And now, our toils reward.

[316] Freneau arrived in Charleston Dec. 8, and remained there until Jan. 23, when he cleared for Sunbury. On Jan. 1st, he wrote the above verses for the carriers of the Charleston Columbian Herald. They were republished in the editions of 1788 and 1795, which later edition the text follows.

LITERARY IMPORTATION[317]

However we wrangled with Britain awhile
We think of her now in a different stile,
And many fine things we receive from her isle;
Among all the rest,
Some demon possessed
Our dealers in knowledge and sellers of sense
To have a good bishop imported from thence.

The words of Sam Chandler[A] were thought to be vain,
When he argued so often and proved it so plain
"That Satan must flourish till bishops should reign:"
Though he went to the wall
With his project and all,
Another bold Sammy[B], in bishop's array,
Has got something more than his pains for his pay.

[A] "Who laboured for the establishment of an American Episcopacy, previously to the revolutionary war."—Freneau's note.

[B] Bishop Samuel Seabury, of Connecticut.—Ib.

It seems we had spirit to humble a throne,
Have genius for science inferior to none,
But hardly encourage a plant of our own:
If a college be planned,
'Tis all at a stand
'Till to Europe we send at a shameful expense,
To send us a book-worm to teach us some sense.

Can we never be thought to have learning or grace
Unless it be brought from that horrible[318] place
Where tyranny reigns with her impudent face;
And popes and pretenders,
And sly faith-defenders
Have ever been hostile to reason and wit,
Enslaving a world that shall conquer them yet.

'Tis a folly to fret at the picture I draw:
And I say what was said by a Doctor Magraw;[C]
"If they give us their Bishops, they'll give us their law."
How that will agree
With such people as we,
Let us leave to the learned to reflect on awhile,
And say what they think in a handsomer stile.

[C] A noted practitioner in physic, formerly of N. York.—Freneau's note, Ed. 1788.

[317] First published, as far as can be learned, in the 1788 edition, and dated Charleston, S. C., 1786. The text is taken from the edition of 1809.

[318] "Damnable."—Ed. 1788.

THE ENGLISHMAN'S COMPLAINT[319]

In Carolina

Arriving from Britain with cargo so nice
Once more have I touched at these regions of rice!
Dear Ashley, with pleasure thy stream I review:
But how changed are these plains that we wished to subdue.

If through the wild woods he extended his reign,
And death and the hangman were both in his train,
Cornwallis no longer disturbs your repose,
His lordship is dead or at least in a doze.

By Sullivan's island how quiet we pass;
Fort Johnson no longer salutes us, alas!—
The season has been you did nothing but mourn,
But now you will laugh at a Briton's return!

Instead of gay soldiers that walked the parade,
Here is nothing but draymen and people in trade;
Instead of our navy that thundered around,
Here is nothing but ships without guns to be found.

Instead of Lord Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour,
Whose names and whose notions you cannot endure,
But whom in their glory you could not forget
When puffed by the froth of the Royal Gazette:

Instead of those tyrants, who homewards have flown,
This country is ruled by a race of its own,
Whom once we could laugh at—but now we must say
Seem rising to be in a handsomer way.

To us and our island eternally foes,
How tedious you are in forgetting your woes,
Your plundered plantations you still will remember,
Although we have left you—three years last December!

[319] This first appeared in the 1788 edition. The date of composition is indicated by the last line. The British evacuated the city in 1782. The edition of 1809 has been followed.

THE WILD HONEY SUCKLE[320]

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died—nor were those flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
The space between, is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.

[320] Freneau doubtless wrote this poem in Charleston, S. C., in July, 1786. It appeared first in the Freeman's Journal, August 2, 1786, and was republished in the edition of 1788, and in the later editions, almost without change. The poet probably refers to the Rhododendron Viscosum, or as some call it the Asalia viscosun since it is the only flower popularly known as the wild honeysuckle that is both white and fragrant. According to Chapman's Southern Flora, it flowers in the latitude of Charleston in July and August. The text is from the edition of 1809.

ON A BOOK CALLED UNITARIAN THEOLOGY[321]

In this choice work, with wisdom penned, we find
The noblest system to reform mankind,
Bold truths confirmed, that bigots have denied,
By most perverted, and which some deride.
Here, truths divine in easy language flow,
Truths long concealed, that now all climes shall know
Here, like the blaze of our material sun,
Enlightened Reason proves, that God is One—
As that, concentered in itself, a sphere,
Illumes all Nature with its radiance here,
Bids towards itself all trees and plants aspire,
Awakes the winds, impels the seeds of fire,
And still subservient to the Almighty plan,
Warms into life the changeful race of man;
So—like that sun—in heaven's bright realms we trace
One Power of Love, that fills unbounded space,
Existing always by no borrowed aid,
Before all worlds—eternal, and not made—
To That indebted, stars and comets burn,
Owe their swift movements, and to That return!
Prime source of wisdom, all-contriving mind,
First spring of Reason, that this globe designed;
Parent of order, whose unwearied hand
Upholds the fabric that his wisdom planned,
And, its due course assigned to every sphere,
Revolves the seasons, and sustains the year!—
Pure light of Truth! where'er thy splendours shine,
Thou art the image of the power divine;
Nought else, in life, that full resemblance bears,
No sun, that lights us through our circling years,
No stars, that through yon' charming azure stray,
No moon, that glads us with her evening ray,
No seas, that o'er their gloomy caverns flow,
No forms beyond us, and no shapes below!
Then slight—ah slight not, this instructive page,
For the mean follies of a dreaming age:
Here to the truth, by Reason's aid aspire,
Nor some dull preacher of romance admire;
See One, Sole God, in these convincing lines,
Beneath whose view perpetual day-light shines;
At whose command all worlds their circuits run,
And night, retiring, dies before the sun!
Here, Man no more disgraced by Time appears,
Lost in dull slumbers through ten thousand years;
Plunged in that gulph, whose dark unfathomed wave
Men of all ages to perdition gave;
An empty dream, or still more empty shade,
The substance vanished, and the form decayed:—
Here Reason proves, that when this life decays,
Instant, new life in the warm bosom plays,
As that expiring, still its course repairs
Through endless ages, and unceasing years.
Where parted souls with kindred spirits meet,
Wrapt to the bloom of beauty all complete;
In that celestial, vast, unclouded sphere,
Nought there exists but has its image here!
All there is Mind!—That Intellectual Flame,
From whose vast stores all human genius came,
In which all Nature forms on Reason's plan—
Flows to this abject world, and beams on Man!

[321] This was published in the Freeman's Journal, Oct 4, 1786, under the title "On the Honourable Emanuel Swedenborg's Universal Theology." A column advertisement of the book appeared in the Journal Oct. 25. The poem was reprinted in the 1788 collection and in the later edition of 1809, which the text follows.

TO ZOILUS[322]

[A Severe Critic]

Six sheets compos'd, struck off, and dry
The work may please the world (thought I)—
If some impell'd by spleen or spite,
Refuse to read, then let them write:
I too, with them, shall have my turn,
And give advice—to tear or burn.

Now from the binder's, hurried home,
In neat array my leaves are come:
Alas, alas! is this my all?
The volume is so light and small,
That, aim to save it as I can,
'Twill fly before Myrtilla's fan.

Why did I no precautions use?
To curb these frolics of the Muse?
Ah! why did I invoke the nine
To aid these humble toils of mine—
That now forebode through every page
The witling's sneer, the critic's rage.

Did I, for this, so often rise
Before the sun illum'd the skies,
And near my Hudson's mountain stream
Invoke the Muses' morning dream,
And scorn the winds that blew so cool!
I did—and I was more the fool.

Yet slender tho' the book, and small,
And harmless, take it all in all,
I see a monstrous wight appear,
A quill suspended from his ear;
Its fate depends on his decree,
And what he says must sacred be!

A brute of such terrific mien
At wild Sanduski ne'er was seen,
And in the dark Kentuckey groves
No beast, like this, for plunder roves,
Nor dwells in Britain's lowering clime
A reptile, so severe on rhyme.

The monster comes, severe and slow,
His eyes with arrowy lightnings glow,
Takes up the book, surveys it o'er,
Exclaims, "damn'd stuff!"—but says no more:
The book is damn'd by his decree,
And what he says must gospel be!

But was there nothing to his taste?—
Was all my work a barren waste—
Was not one bright idea sown,
And not one image of my own?—
Its doom was just, if this be true:
But Zoilus shall be sweated too.

Give me a cane of mighty length,
A staff proportion'd to my strength,
Like that, by whose destructive aid
The man of Gath his conquests made;
Like that, which once on Etna's shore
The shepherd of the mountain bore:

For wit traduc'd at such a rate
To other worlds I'll send him, straight,
Where all the past shall nothing seem,
Or just be imag'd, like a dream;
Where new vexations are design'd,
No dull quietus for the mind!

Arm'd with a staff of such a size
Who would not smite this man of lies:
Here, scribbler, help me! seize that pen
With which he blasts all rhyming men:
His goose-quill must not with him go
To persecute the bards below.—

How vast a change an hour may bring!
How abject lies this snarling thing!
No longer wit to him shall bow,
To him the world is nothing now;
And all he writ, and all he read
Is, with himself, in silence laid!

Dead tho' he be—(not sent to rest)
No keen remorse torments my breast:
Yet, something in me seems to tell
I might have let him live, as well;—
'Twas his to snarl, and growl, and grin,
And life had, else, a burthen been.

[322] This was first published in the Freeman's Journal, Oct 11, 1786, though it undoubtedly was written before the poet left Philadelphia. It was republished in the 1788 edition under the title "The Pamphleteer and the Critic." The text follows the 1795 edition.

ON THE LEGISLATURE OF GREAT-BRITAIN
PROHIBITING THE SALE, IN LONDON, OF

Doctor David Ramsay's History of the Revolutionary war in South Carolina[323]

Some bold bully Dawson, expert in abusing,
Having passed all his life in the practice of bruising;
At last, when he thinks to reform and repent,
And wishes his days had been soberly spent,
Though a course of contrition in earnest begins,
He scarcely can bear to be told of his sins.
So the British, worn out with their wars in the west
(Where burning and murder their prowess confessed)
When, at last, they agreed 'twas in vain to contend
(For the days of their thieving were come to an end)
They hired some historians to scribble and flatter,
And foolishly thought they could hush up the matter.
But Ramsay[324] arose, and with Truth on his side,
Has told to the world what they laboured to hide;
With his pen of dissection, and pointed with steel,
If they ne'er before felt he has taught them to feel,
Themselves and their projects has truly defined,
And dragged them to blush at the bar of mankind.
As the author, his friends, and the world might expect,
They find that the work has a damning effect—
In reply to his Facts they abuse him and rail,
And prompted by malice, prohibit the sale.
But, we trust, their chastisement is only begun;
Thirteen are the States—and he writes but of one;
Ere the twelve that are silent their story have told,
The king will run mad, and the book will be sold.

[323] Freeman's Journal, Oct. 11, dated Philadelphia, Oct. 9. The text follows the edition of 1809.

[324] David Ramsay's "History of the Revolution in South Carolina," was published at Trenton, New Jersey, in 1785.

THE DEATH SONG OF A CHEROKEE INDIAN[325]

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, ye tormentors: your threats are in vain
For the son of Alknomock can never complain.

Remember the woods, where in ambush he lay,
And the scalps which he bore from your nation away!
Why do ye delay?—'till I shrink from my pain?
Know the son of Alknomock can never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low
The flame rises high, you exult in my pain?
Know the son of Alknomock will never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone:
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son
Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain
And thy son, O Alknomock, has scorned to complain.

[325] The first trace I can find of this poem is in the initial number of Matthew Carey's American Museum, Jan. 1, 1787, where it is placed among the selected poetry and assigned to P. Freneau. This testimony of Carey's as to its genuineness carries with it considerable weight. Knapp, who in 1829 reviewed the poem as Freneau's, doubtless had before him a copy of the Museum. The poem, however, is not included in any of the poet's collections and I can find no earlier newspaper appearance, although my search has not been exhaustive. The authenticity of a poem suspected to be Freneau's may always be gravely doubted if it is not found to be included in his collected works, for he hoarded his poetic product, especially in his earlier period, with miserly care.

The poem appeared in 1806 among the poems of Mrs. John Hunter with the title "The Death Song, written for and adapted to, an original Indian air." Several of Mrs. Hunter's best poems had been long in circulation before she was induced to collect them. In 1822 Maria Edgeworth introduced the poem into her book "Rosamond," ascribing it to her. She added the following note: "The idea of this ballad was suggested several years ago by hearing a gentleman who resided many years among the tribe called the Cherokees, sing a wild air, which he assured me was customary for these people to chant with a barbarous jargon implying contempt for their enemies in the moments of torture and death. I have endeavored to give something of the characteristic spirit and sentiment of those brave savages."

STANZAS

Written at the foot of Monte Souffriere, near the Town of Basseterre, Guadaloupe[326]

These Indian isles, so green and gay
In summer seas by nature placed—
Art hardly told us where they lay,
'Till tyranny their charms defaced:
Ambition here her efforts made,
And avarice rifled every shade.

Their genius wept, his sons to see
By foreign arms untimely fall,
And some to distant climates flee,
Where later ruin met them all:
He saw his sylvan offspring bleed,
That envious natures might succeed.

The Chief, who first o'er untried waves
To these fair islands found his way,
Departing, left a race of slaves,
Cortez, your mandate to obey,
And these again, if fame says true,
To extirpate the vulgar crew.

No more to Indian coasts confined,
The Patron, thus, indulged his grief;
And to regret his heart resigned,
To see some proud European chief,
Pursue the harmless Indian race,
Torn by his dogs in every chace.[327]

Ah, what a change! the ambient deep
No longer hears the lover's sigh;
But wretches meet, to wail and weep
The loss of their dear liberty:
Unfeeling hearts possess these isles,
Man frowns—and only nature smiles.

Proud of the vast extended shores
The haughty Spaniard calls his own,
His selfish heart restrains his stores,
To other climes but scarcely known:[328]
His Cuba lies a wilderness,
Where slavery digs what slaves possess.

Jamaica's sweet, romantic vales
In vain with golden harvests teem;
Her endless spring, her fragrant gales
More than Elysian magic seem:[329]
Yet what the soil profusely gave
Is there denied the toiling slave.

Fantastic joy and fond belief
Through life support the galling chain;
Hope's airy prospects banish griefs,
And bring his native lands again:
His native groves a heaven display,
The funeral is the jocund day.

For man oppressed and made so base,
In vain from Jove fair virtue fell;
Distress be-glooms the toiling race,
They have no motive to excel:
In death alone their miseries end,
The tyrant's dread—is their best friend.

How great their praise let truth declare,
Who touched with honour's sacred flame,
Bade freedom to some coasts repair
To urge the slave's neglected claim;
And scorning interest's swinish plan,
Gave to mankind the rights of man.

Ascending there, may freedom's sun
In all his force serenely clear,
A long, unclouded circuit run,
Till little tyrants disappear;
And a new race, not bought or sold,
Rise from the ashes of the old.

[326] Published in the Freeman's Journal of Jan. 31, 1787, with the introduction "The following verses, wrote by Mr. Freneau are subjoined to a short and accurate account of the West Indies in the printer's Pocket Almanac for the present year." The title of the poem suffered many variations in later editions. In the 1788 edition, where it was reprinted from the Journal, it was entitled "Stanzas written In a blank leaf of Burke's History of the West India Islands," and it was signed "Pennsylvania, 1786." In the 1795 edition it was entitled "Caribbeana," and in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed, it received the title above given. The poem was carefully revised for the edition of 1795.

[327]

"While he to tears his heart resign'd
With pain he saw the falling leaf;
'And thus (he cry'd) our reign must end,
We, like the leaves, must now descend.'"
Ed. 1788.

[328]

"No other world may share those stores
To other worlds so little known."     Ed. 1788.

[329]

"Did more to me than magic seem."     Ib.

ON THE CREW OF A CERTAIN VESSEL[330]

Several of whom happened to be of similar names to Celebrated Foreign Clergymen

In life's unsettled, odd career
What changes every day appear
To please or plague the eye:
A goodly brotherhood of priests
Are here transformed to swearing beasts
Who heaven and hell defy.

Here Bonner, bruised with many a knock,
Has changed his surplice for a frock;
Old Erskine swabs the decks,
And Watts, who once such pleasure took
In writing Hymns—here, turned a cook,
Sinners no longer vex.

Here Burnet, Tillotson, and Blair,
With Jemmy Hervey, curse and swear,
Here Cudworth mixes grog;
Pearson the crew to dinner hails,
A graceless Sherlock trims the sails,
And Bunyan heaves the log.

[330] The index to the edition of 1795 instead of "vessel" gives "ship of war." The text follows the edition of 1809.

THE BERMUDA ISLANDS[331]

"Bermuda, walled with rocks, who does not know,
That happy island, where huge lemons grow," &c.
Waller's Battle of the Summer Islands.

These islands fair with many a grove are crowned,
With cedars tall, gay hills, and verdant vales,
But dangerous rocks on every side is found,
Fatal to him who unsuspecting sails.

The gay Palmetto shades the adjacent wave:
Blue, ocean water near the lime-tree breaks!—
I leave the scene!—this stormy quarter leave,
And rove awhile by Harrington's sweet lake.

In every vale fair woodland nymphs are seen
In bloom of youth, to mourn some absent love,
Who, wandering far on Neptune's rude domain,
Heaves the fond sigh at every new remove.

From hill to hill I see Amanda stray,
Searching, with anxious view, the encircling main,
To espy the sail, so long, so far away,
Rise from the waves, and bless her sight again.

Now, on some rock, with loose, dishevelled hair,
Near dashing waves, the sorrowing beauty stands,
Hoping that each approaching barque may bear
Homeward the wandering youth from foreign lands.

Oh! may no gales such faithful loves destroy,
No hidden rock to Hymen fatal prove:
And thou, fond swain, thy nicest art employ
Once more on these sweet isles to meet your love.

When verging to the height of thirty-two,
And east or west you guide the dashy prow;
Then fear by night the dangers of this shore,
Nature's wild garden, placed in sixty-four.[A]
Here many a merchant his lost freight bemoans,
And many a gallant ship has laid her bones.

[A] Lat. 32 deg. 20 min. N.—Long. 63.40 W.—and about 780 miles East of the coast of South Carolina.—Freneau's note.

[331] During several weeks in 1778 Freneau resided in Bermuda. While there he seems to have been greatly impressed by an instance of inconstancy. He has in several prose sketches, notably in "Light Summer Reading," 1788, and in the following series of poems, composed at different times, described the incident. There is a tradition that Freneau spent several weeks in the family of the Governor of Bermuda and that it was the daughter of this official who was the unfortunate Amanda. Some traditions have mentioned Freneau himself as the lover. The text is from the edition of 1809.

FLORIO TO AMANDA[332]

Lamp of the pilot's hope! the wanderer's dream,
Far glimmering o'er the wave, we saw thy beam:
Forced from your aid by cold December's gale
As near your isle we reefed the wearied sail:
From bar to bar, from cape to cape I roam,
From you still absent, still too far from home.—
What shall repay me for these nights of pain,
And weeks of absence on this restless main,
Where every dream recalls that charming shade,
Where once, Amanda, once with you I strayed,
And fondly talked, and counted every tree,
And minutes, ages, when removed from thee.
What sad mistake this wandering fancy drew
To quit my natives shores, the woods, and You,
When safely anchored on that winding stream,
Where you were all my care, and all my theme:
There, pensive, loitering, still from day to day,
The pilot wondered at such strange delay,
Musing, beheld the northern winds prevail,
Nor once surmised that Love detained the sail.
Blest be the man, who, fear beneath him cast,
From his firm decks first reared the tapering mast;
And catching life and motion from the breeze,
Stretched his broad canvas o'er a waste of seas;
And taught some swain, whom absence doomed to mourn
His distant fair one—taught a quick return:
He, homeward borne by favouring gales, might find
Remembrance welcome to his anxious mind,
And grateful vows, and generous thanks might pay
To Him, who filled the sail, and smoothed the way.
To me, indeed! the heavens less favouring prove:
Each day, returning, finds a new remove—
Sorrowing, I spread the sail, while slowly creeps
The weary vessel o'er a length of deeps;
Her northern course no favouring breeze befriends,
Hail, storm, and lightning, on her path attends:
Here, wintry suns their shrouded light restrain,
Stars dimly glow, and boding birds complain;
Here, boisterous gales the rapid Gulph controul,
Tremendous breakers near our Argo roll;
Here cloudy, sullen Hatteras, restless, raves
Scorns all repose, and swells his weight of waves:
Here, drowned so late, sad cause of many a tear,
Amyntor floats upon his watery bier;
By bursting seas to horrid distance tossed,
Thou, Palinurus, in these depths wert lost,
When, torn by waves, and conquered by the blast,
Art strove in vain, and ruin seized each mast.
Now, while the winds their wonted aid deny,
For other ports, from day to day, we try
Strive, all we can, to gain the unwilling shore,
Dream still of you—the faithful chart explore;
See other groves, in happier climates placed
Untouched their bloom, and not one flower defaced.
Did Nature, there, a heaven of pleasure shew,
Could they be welcome, if not shared with you?—
Lost are my toils—my longing hopes are vain:
Yet, 'midst these ills, permit me to complain,
And half regret, that, finding fortune fail,
I left your cottage—to direct the sail:
Unmoved, amidst this elemental fray,
Let me, once more, the muses' art essay,
Once more—amidst these scenes of Nature's strife,
Catch at her forms and mould them into life;
By Fancy's aid, to unseen coasts repair,
And fondly dwell on absent beauty there.

[332] On Jan. 20, 1789, Freneau was at Castle Ireland, Bermuda, where eleven years before he had passed five delightful weeks in the family of the English Governor. The above lines were written on the tempestuous return voyage, doubtless inspired by her who soon afterward became his wife. The text follows the 1809 version.

PHILANDER: OR THE EMIGRANT[333]

While lost so long to his Arcadian shade,
Careless of fortune and of fame he stray'd,
Philander to a barbarous region came
And found a partner in a colder shade,
Fair as Amanda; and perhaps might claim
With her the impassion'd soul, and friendship's holy flame;
For sprightly loves upon her bosom play'd,
And youth was in her blush, and every shepherd said
She was a modest and accomplish'd dame.
What have I done, (the wandering shepherd cry'd)
Thus to be banish'd from a face so fair,
(For now the frosts had spoil'd the daisies' pride,
And he once more for roving did prepare)
Ah, what have I to do with swelling seas
Who once could pipe upon the hollow reed?—
I take no joy in such rude scenes as these,
Nor look with pleasure on the vagrant weed
That gulphy streams from rugged caverns bore,
Which floats thro' every clime, and never finds a shore!
But other fields and other flowers were mine,
'Till wild disorder drove me from the plain.
And the black dogs of war were seen to join,
Howl o'er the soil, and dispossess the swain:
Why must I leave these climes of frost and snow?—
Were it not better in these glooms to stay,
And, while on high the autumnal tempests blow,
Let others o'er the wild seas take their way,
And I with my Livinia's tresses play?—
Ah, no, no, no! the imperious wave demands
That I must leave these shores, and lose these lands
And southward to the high equator stray:
But Fancy now has lost her vernal hue;
See Nature in her wintry garb array'd—
And where is that fine dream which once she drew
While yet by Cambria's stream she fondly play'd!
Lavinia heard his long complaint, and said,
Wouldst thou, for me, detain the expecting sail—?
Go, wanderer, go—the trees have lost their shade,
And my gay flowers are blasted by the gale,
And the bright stream is chill'd that wandered thro' the vale:
Ah, why, Philander, do you sigh, so sad!
Why all this change in such a jovial lad?
Smooth seas shall be your guard, and, free from harms,
Restore you, safely, to Lavinia's arms!
Or should the eastern tempest rend your sail,
Trust me, dear shepherd, should the seas prevail,
And you be laid in Neptune's cradle low,
The winds will bring me back the woeful tale
When I must to the long shore weeping go,
And while I see the ruffian surge aspire,
Some consolation will it be to know
No pain or anguish can afflict the head
The limbs or stomach, when the heart is dead.

Thus long discoursing, on the bank they stood,
The heavy burthen'd barque at anchor lay,
While the broad topsails, from the yards unfurl'd,
Shook in the wind, and summon'd him away;
Brisk blew the gales, and curl'd the yielding flood,
Nor had he one excuse to urge his stay—
Be chang'd (he said) ye winds that blow so fair;
Why do not tempests harrow up the deep,
And all but the moist south in quiet sleep!

To the bleak shore the parting lovers came,
And while Philander did his sighs renew,
So near the deep they bade their last farewell
That the rough surge, to quench the mutual flame
Burst in and broke the embrace, and o'er Lavinia flew;
While a dark cloud hung lowering o'er the main,
From whence the attendants many an omen drew,
And said Philander would not come again!

Now to their various heights the sails ascend,
And southward from the land their course they bore.
Lavinia mourn'd the lover and the friend,
And stood awhile upon the sandy shore,
'Till interposing seas the hull conceal'd,
And distant sails could only greet her view,
Like a faint cloud that brush'd the watery field,
And swell'd by whistling winds, impetuous, flew:
Then to a neighbouring hill the nymph withdrew,
And the dear object from that height survey'd,
'Till all was lost and mingled with the main,
And night descended, with her gloomy shade,
And kindled in the heavens her starry train.

Safe to the south the ocean-wading keel
In one short month its rapid course achiev'd,
And the cold star, that marks the Arctic pole,
Was in the bosom of the deep receiv'd:
And now the weary barque at anchor rode
Where Oronoko pours his sultry wave,
Moist Surinam, by torrents overflow'd,
And Amazonia vends the fainting slave;—
Philander, there, not fated to return,
Perceiv'd destruction in his bosom burn,
And the warm flood of life too fiercely, glow:
The vertic sun a deadly fever gave,
And the moist soil bestow'd his bones a grave,
Deep in the waste, where oceans overflow,
And Oronoko's streams the forests lave.

Oft' to the winding shore Lavinia came
Where fond Philander bade his last adieu,
(And that steep hill which gave her the last view)
Till seven long years had round their orbits ran,
Yet no Philander came, or none she knew;
Alas (she cry'd) for every nymph but me
Each sea-bleach'd sail some welcome wanderer brings,
And all but I get tidings of their friends;
Sad Mariamne drowns herself in woe
If one poor month Amyntor quits her arms,
And says, "from Ashley's stream he comes too slow,"—
And bodes the heavy storm, and midnight harms:
What would she say, if doom'd to wait, like me,
And mourn long years, and no Philander see!

[333] The text follows the edition of 1795.

THE FAIR SOLITARY[334]

No more these groves a glad remembrance claim
Where grief consumes a half deluded dame,
Whom to these isles a modern Theseus bore,
And basely left, frail virtue to deplore;—

In foreign climes detained from all she loved,
By friends neglected, long by Fortune proved,
While sad and solemn passed the unwelcome day
What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay?

Deceived in all; for meanness could deceive,
Expecting still, and still condemned to grieve,
She scarcely saw—to different hearts allied
That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride!
Are griefs, like thine, to Florio's bosom known?—
Must these, alas! be ceaseless in your own?

Life is a dream!—its varying shades I see;
But this cold wanderer hardly dreams of thee—
The bloom of health, which bade all hearts adore,
To your pale cheek what physic shall restore?
Vain are those drugs that art and love prepares,
No art redeems the waste of sighs and tears!

[334] Published in the 1795 edition under the title "The Mourning Nun." Text from the edition of 1809.

AMANDA IN A CONSUMPTION[335]

Smit by the glance of your bright eyes
When I, Amanda, fondly gaze,
Strange feelings in my bosom rise
And passion all my reason sways:
Worlds I would banish from my view,
And quit the gods—to talk with you.

The smile that decks your fading cheek,
To me a heavy heart declares;
When you are silent I would speak
But cowardice alarms my fears:
All must be sense that you do prize,
All that I say—be grave and wise.

When wandering in the evening shade
I shared her pain, and calmed her grief,
A thousand tender things I said,
But all I said gave no relief:
When from her hair I dried the dew,
She sighed, and said—I am not for you!

When drooping, dull, and almost dead
With fevers brought from sultry climes,
She would not wrap my fainting head;
But recommended me some rhymes
On patience and on fortitude,
And other things—less understood.

When, aiming to engage her heart
With verses from the muses' stock;
She sighed, regardless of the art,
And counted seconds by the clock;
"And thus, (she said) will verse decay,
"And thus the muse will pass away!"

When languishing upon her bed
In willow shades, remote from towns,
We came; and while Priscilla read
Of chrystal skies and golden crowns:
She bade us at a distance stand,
And leaned her head upon her hand.

So, drooping hangs the fading rose,
When summer sends the beating shower:
So, to the grave Amanda goes,
Her whole duration—but an hour!
Who shall controul the sad decree,
Or what, fair girl, recover thee?

Such virtue in that spirit dwells—
Such fortitude amidst such pain!—
And, now, with pride my bosom swells,
To think I have not lived in vain.
For, slighting all the sages knew,
I learn philosophy from you.

[335] The Freeman's Journal printed this poem on Feb. 7, 1787, with the date of composition Jan. 26, 1787. The lady's name in this original version was Cynthia. The poem was reprinted in the 1788 collection as a part of the story "Light Summer Reading." The half mad poet, who is infatuated with the lovely Marcia, writes the verses and inscribes them "To Marcia." It seems to have been a favorite with the poet. He republished it in the National Gazette in 1792 under the title "Marcella in a Consumption." Text from the edition of 1809.

ELEGIAC LINES[336]

With life enamoured, but in death resigned,
To seats congenial flew the unspotted mind:
Attending spirits hailed her to that shore
Where this world's winter chills the soul no more.
Learn hence, to live resigned;—and when you die
No fears will seize you, when that hour is nigh.

Transferred to heaven, Amanda has no share
In the dull business of this world of care.
Her blaze of beauty, even in death admired,
A moment kindled, but as soon expired.
Sweet as the favourite offspring of the May
Serenely mild, not criminally gay:

Adorned with all that nature could impart
To please the fancy and to gain the heart;
Heaven ne'er above more innocence possessed,
Nor earth the form of a diviner guest:
A mind all virtue!—flames descended here
From some bright seraph of some nobler sphere;
Yet, not her virtues, opening into bloom,
Nor all her sweetness saved her from the tomb,
From prospects darkened, and the purpose crossed,
Misfortune's winter,—and a lover lost;
Nor such resemblance to the forms above,
The heart of goodness, and the soul of love!

Ye thoughtless fair!—her early death bemoan,
Sense, virtue, beauty, to oblivion gone.[337]

[336] In the 1788 edition this appeared as two poems. The opening six lines had the title "Epitaph" and the remainder was entitled "Lines on the Death of a Lady." In the 1809 edition, the text of which is followed here, the poem was placed in the group of Amanda poems.

[337] "And while you mourn your fate, think on your own."—Ed. 1788.

THE INSOLVENT'S RELEASE[338]

(By H. Salem)

Not from those dismal dreary coasts I come
Where wizzard Faustus chews his brimstone rolls,
Nor have I been to wrangle with the men
Of that sad country, where, for want of rum,
Dead putrid water from the stagnant fen
Is drank, unmingled, by departed souls:
Nor from that dog-house do I bring you news,
Where Macedonian Philip[A] mends old shoes,
But from that dreadful place arrived,
Where men in debt at cribbage play,
And I most cunningly contrived
To fatten on two groats a day—
Full on my back now turned the key,
The 'squire himself is not so free.

When to these rugged walls, a fathom thick,
I came, directed by the sheriff's stick,
Alas, said I, what can they mean to do!
I am not conscious of one roguish trick!
I am no thief—I took no Christian's life,
Nor have I meddled with the parson's wife,
(Which would have been a dreadful thing you know)
Then, by these gloomy walls, this iron gate
Appointed by the wisdom of your state
To shut in little rogues, and keep out great;
Tell me, ye pretty lads, that deal in law,
Ye men of mighty wigs, ye judges, say—
Say! by the jailor's speckled face
That never beamed one blush of grace;
How long must I
In prison lie
For just nine guineas—that I cannot pay!

Return, ye happy times, when all were free,
No jails on land, no nets at sea;
When mountain beasts unfettered ran,
And man refused to shut up man,
As men of modern days have shut up me!—
This is the dreary dark abode
Of poverty and solitude;
Such was the gloomy cell where Bunyan lay
While his dear pilgrim helped the time away—
Such was the place where Wakefield's vicar drew
Grave morals from the imprisoned crew,
And found both time to preach and pray.
In bed of straw and broken chair
What consolation could be found!
No gay companions ventured there
To push the ruddy liquor round!
From jug of stone
I drank, alone,
A beverage, neither clear nor strong
No table laid,
No village maid
Came there to cheer me with her song;
My days were dull, my nights were long!
My evening dreams,
My morning schemes
Were how to break that cruel chain,
And, Jenny, be with you again.

[A] See Lucian's Dialogues; to the following effect:

"Great scholars have in Lucian read,
When Philip, king of Greece, was dead
His soul and body did divide.
And each part took, a different side;
One rose a star, the other fell
Below—and mended shoes in hell."—Freneau's note.

[338] The version in the Freeman's Journal is dated Philadelphia, April 10, 1787. The title in the 1788 version is "The Insolvent's Release and Miseries of a Country Jail." The "H. Salem" was first added in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed.

MAY TO APRIL[339]

Without your showers, I breed no flowers,
Each field a barren waste appears;
If you don't weep, my blossoms sleep,
They take such pleasures in your tears.

As your decay made room for May,
So I must part with all that's mine:
My balmy breeze, my blooming trees
To torrid suns their sweets resign!

O'er April dead, my shades I spread:
To her I owe my dress so gay—
Of daughters three, it falls on me
To close our triumphs on one day:

Thus, to repose, all Nature goes;
Month after month must find its doom:
Time on the wing, May ends the Spring,
And Summer dances on her tomb!

[339] First published in the Freeman's Journal where it was signed Philadelphia, April 16, 1787. Text from the edition of 1809.

TO AN AUTHOR[340]

Your leaves bound up compact and fair,
In neat array at length prepare,
To pass their hour on learning's stage,[341]
To meet the surly critic's rage;
The statesman's slight, the smatterer's[342] sneer—
Were these, indeed, your only[343] fear,
You might be tranquil and resigned:
What most should touch your fluttering mind;[344]
Is that, few critics[345] will be found
To sift[346] your works, and deal the wound.

Thus, when one fleeting year is past
On some bye-shelf your book is cast—[347]
Another comes, with something new,[348]
And drives you fairly out of view:
With some to praise, but more to blame,
The mind[349] returns to—whence it came;
And some alive, who scarce could read[350]
Will publish satires on the dead.

Thrice happy Dryden[A], who could meet
Some rival bard in every street!
When all were bent on writing well
It was some credit to excel:—[351]

[A] See Johnson's lives of the English Poets.—Freneau's note.

Thrice happy Dryden, who could find
A Milbourne for his sport designed—
And Pope, who saw the harmless rage
Of Dennis bursting o'er his page
Might justly spurn the critic's aim,
Who only helped to swell his fame.

On these bleak climes by Fortune thrown,
Where rigid Reason reigns alone,
Where lovely Fancy has no sway,
Nor magic forms about us[352] play—
Nor nature takes her summer hue
Tell me, what has the muse to do?—

An age employed in edging steel
Can no poetic raptures feel;
No solitude's attracting power,[353]
No leisure of the noon day hour,
No shaded stream, no quiet grove
Can this fantastic century move;

The muse of love in no request—
Go—try your fortune[354] with the rest,
One of the nine you should engage,[355]
To meet the follies of the age:—

On one, we fear, your choice must fall—
The least engaging of them all—[356]
Her visage stern—an angry style—
A clouded brow—malicious smile—
A mind on murdered victims placed—
She, only she, can please the taste!

[340] First published in the 1788 edition. It doubtless records the poet's mood a year or two after his first book, the 1786 collection, was given to the public. Its original title was "An Author's Soliloquy." In 1795 the title was changed to "An Author on Authorship." Text from the 1809 edition.

[341] "Time's broad stage."—Ed. 1788.

[342] "Pedants."—Ib.

[343] The poem in the 1788 version is wholly in the first person.

[344] "What most torments my boding mind."—Ed. 1788.

[345] "No critic."—Ib.

[346] "Read."—Ib.

[347] "With dead men's works my book is class'd."—Ib.

[348] This line and the following not in the original version.

[349] "Soul."—Ib.

[350]

"And I must wear the marks of time
Who hardly flourish'd in my prime."—Ed. 1788.

[351] In the 1788 version two lines follow:

"While those condemn'd to stand alone
Can only by themselves be known."—Ib.

[352] "Around her."—Ib.

[353]

"No fabled Love's enchanting power,
Nor tale of Flora's painted bower,
Nor woodland haunt, or murmuring grove,
Can their prosaic bosoms move."—Ib.

[354] "I'll try my fortune."—Ib.

[355]

"Which of the Nine shall I engage
To suit the humour of the age."—Ib.

[356] Followed by:

"So late she does her wreathes prepare
I hardly think them worth my care."—Ib.

TO MISFORTUNE[357]

Dire Goddess of the haggard brow,
Misfortune! at that shrine I bow
Where forms uncouth pourtray thee still,
A leaky ship, a doctor's bill:

A poet damn'd, a beggar's prayer,
The critic's growl, the pedant's sneer,
The urgent dun, the law severe,
A smoky house, rejected love,
And friends that all but friendly prove.

Foe to the pride of scheming man
Whose frown controuls the wisest plan,
To your decree we still submit
Our views of gain, our works of wit.

Untaught by you the feeble mind
A dull repose, indeed, might find:
But life, unvext by such controul,
Can breed no vigour in the soul.

The calm that smooths the summer seas
May suit the man of sloth and ease:
But skies that fret and storms that rave
Are the best schools to make us brave.

On Heckla's heights who hopes to see
The blooming grove, the orange tree
Awhile on hope may fondly lean
'Till sad experience blots the scene.

If Nature acts on Reason's plan,
And Reason be the guide of man:
Why should he paint fine prospects there,
Then sigh, to find them disappear?

For ruin'd states or trade perplext
'Tis almost folly to be vext:
The world at last will have its way
And we its torrent must obey.

On other shores a happier guest
The mind must fix her haven of rest,
Where better men and better climes
Shall soothe the cares of future times.

[357] Published in the Freeman's Journal, July 18, 1787; dated "Philadelphia, July 16." Republished in the 1788 and 1795 editions, the latter of which I have followed.

TO CRACOVIUS PUTRIDUS[358]

The Sailor, toss'd on stormy seas,
Implores his patron-god for ease
When Luna hides her paler blaze,
And stars, obscurely, dart their rays:

For ease the Yankee, fierce in war,
His stores of vengeance points afar:
For ease, the toiling Dutchman sighs,
Which gold, nor gems, nor purple buys!

No treasur'd hoards, from India trade,
No doctor's, or the lawyer's aid
Can ease the tumults of the mind,
Or cares to gilded roofs assign'd.

The end of life he, best, completes
Whose board is spread with frugal treats,
Whose sleep no fears, no thirst of gain,
Beneath his homely shed, restrain.

Why, then, with wasting cares engage,
Weak reptiles of so frail an age—
Why, thus, to far-off climates run,
And lands beneath another sun?

For, though to China's coasts we roam,
Ourselves we ne'er can leave at home:
Care, swift as deer—as tempests strong,
Ascends the prow, and sails along.

The mind that keeps an even state,
And all the future leaves to fate,
In every ill shall pleasure share,
As every pleasure has it's care.

Fate early seal'd Montgomery's doom,
In youth brave Laurens found a tomb;
While Arnold spends in peace and pride
The years, that heaven to them denied.

A host of votes are at your call;
A seat, perhaps, in Congress-Hall;[359]
And vestments, soak'd in Stygian dye,
Where'er you go, alarm the eye:

On me, a poor and small domain,
With something of a poet's vein
The muse bestow'd—and share of pride
To spurn a scoundrel from my side.

[358] Published in the Freeman's Journal, Sept. 5, 1787. In the 1788 edition it was entitled "Horace, Lib. II, Ode 16, Imitated and addressed to Governor Parr. Otium divos rogat in patenti, &c." The poem seems to have been occasioned by the return of General Arnold to Nova Scotia from England. Text from the edition of 1795.

[359]

"An hundred slaves before you fall,
A coach and six attends your call."—Ed. 1788.

SLENDER'S JOURNEY[A][360]

Sit mihi fas audita loqui.—Virg.

[A] Mr. Robert Slender, of Philadelphia (Stocking Weaver). Freneau's note.

I. Preliminary Reflections

Tormented with landlords and pester'd with care,
This life, I protest, is a tedious affair;
And, since I have got a few dollars to spare,
I'll e'en take a jaunt, for the sake of fresh air.
Since the day I return'd to this king-hating shore
Where George and his cronies are masters no more,
And others are plac'd at the helm of affairs,
Relieving the weight of his majesty's cares;
For many long weeks, it has still been my doom
To sit like a mopus, confin'd to my loom,[B]
Whose damnable clatter so addles my brain,
That, say what they will, I am forc'd to complain.
Our citizens think, when they sit themselves down
In the gardens that grow in the skirts of the town,
They think they have got in some rural retreat,
Where the nymphs of the groves, and the singing birds meet
When only a fence shuts them out from the street;
With the smoke of the city be-clouding their eyes
They sit in their boxes, and look very wise,
Take a sip of bad punch, or a glass of sour wine;
Conceiting their pleasures are equal to mine,
Who rove where I will, and wherever I roam,
In spite of new faces, am always at home.
Poor Richard, the reel-man, had nothing to say;
He knew very well I would have my own way;—
When I said, "My dear Richard, I'm sick of the town,
"And Dutchmen that worry me, upstairs and down,
"A book of bad debts, and a score of bad smells,
"The yelping of dogs, and the chiming of bells;
"I am sick of the house, and the sight of small beer,
"And the loom may be going, tho' I am not here;
"I therefore shall leave you, and that, to be plain,
"'Till I feel in a humour to see you again."—
Poor Richard said nothing to all that I spoke,
But kindled his pipe, and redoubled his smoke.
Yet it would have been nothing but friendship in him
To have said,—"Robert Slender, 'tis only a whim:—
A trip to the Schuylkill, that nothing would cost,
Might answer your ends, and no time would be lost;
But if you are thinking to make a long stay,
Consider, good Robert, what people will say:
His rent running on, and his loom standing still—
The man will be ruin'd!—he must, if he will—!
If tradesmen will always be flaunting about,
They may live to repent it—before the year's out!"

[B] The stocking-loom was invented by a young man who paid his addresses to a handsome stocking-knitter, and being rejected, in revenge contrived this curious machine, which, it is said, consists of no less than six thousand different pieces. Freneau's note, 1788 edition.

II. Characters of the Travellers

William Snip, Merchant Taylor

As I never could relish to travel alone,
I look'd round about, but could hit upon none
Whom Satan was tempting to leave their own houses
And ramble to York with their daughters and spouses;
At last, by repeating my trouble and care,
And preaching a month on the sweets of fresh air,
And the curse and the plague of remaining in town,
Where the heat was sufficient to melt a man down,
I got a few friends to consent to the trip;
And the first I shall mention was honest Will. Snip,
Philadelphia the famous had own'd to his birth,
The gravest of towns on the face of the earth;
Where saints of all orders their freedom may claim,
And poets, and painters, and girls of the game:
To him all its streets and its alleys were known,
But his travels had never exceeded the town:—
A salesman by trade (and a dabster was he
To make a silk knee-band set snug to the knee)
With his wife (and he says I may mention her name)
Susanna Snipinda—so charming a dame,
The sun had with pleasure look'd down on her head,
So freckled was she, and her tresses so red.
To wait on the will of so handsome a lady
A youngster was order'd to hold himself ready,
A sly looking lad that was 'prentice to Snip,
And long had been learning to cabbage and clip;—
When Snip was in sight, he was mild as a lamb;
When absent, old Satan could hardly rule Sam.

III. O'Keef, a Swaggering Captain

The next I describe is bold captain O'Keef,
A killer of men, and a lover of beef:
With the heroes of old he had put in his claim,
And catch'd at their mantles, and rose into fame:
To the sound of a fife and the tune of no song
With his Andra Ferrara[C] he paddled along:
From his manners so rough, and his dealing in ruin,
He was known thro' the town by the name of Sir Bruin;
He was, among women, a man of great parts,
A captain of foot, and a master of arts:
He had, a sweet creature put under his care,
(Whose style of address was, my dear, and my dear)
A Milliner's girl, with a bundle of lace,
Whom Cynthia[D] he call'd, for the sake of her face,
At a ball or a frolic how glib his tongue ran,
He was, I may say, an unparallell'd man,
Very apt to harangue on the hosts he has slain
Of people—perhaps that may meet him again:
Yet so kind to the sex of the feminine make,
By his words, he would venture to die for their sake,
Whence some have suspected, that some he ador'd
Have more than made up for the wastes of his sword.

[C] A large kind of sword, in use among the Italians.—Freneau's note, 1795 edition.

[D] Cynthia is also a poetical name for the Moon.—Freneau's note, 1788 edition.

IV. Touppee: a French Hair Dresser

The third in succession was Monsieur Touppee,
A barber from Paris, of royal degree,
(For oft when he takes up his razor, to strap it,
He tells his descent from the house of Hugh Capet[E])
Tho' soft in the head, his discourses were long,
Now counting his honours, and now his l'argent.
This barber, tho' meaning for pleasure to stray,
Yet had some pomatum to sell by the way,
Perfumes, and fine powders, and essence of myrrh,
A bundle of brooms, and a firkin of beer:—
His merits are great (he would have us suppose)
For Louis (it seems) he has had by the nose,
Has bid him, when drooping, to hold up his chin,
And handled a tongs—at the head of the Queen.

[E] A popular French nobleman, who, A. D. 987, usurped the crown of France, and was the first of a new race of monarchs.—Freneau's note, 1788 edition.

V. Bob: a Ballad Singer

A singer of ballads was next in our train,
Who long had been dealing in ballads in vain;
He sometimes would sing in a musical tone,
And sometimes would scribble a song of his own:
Yet never was seen with his brethren to mix—
And laugh'd at your poets in coaches and six;
Who sing, like the birds, when the weather is fine;
Whose verses the ladies pronounce "so divine;"
Who ride with Augustus, wherever he goes,
And, meeting old Homer, would turn up the nose—
As to those, like himself, that were held to the ground,
He knew it was folly to feed them with sound—
He knew it was nonsense to crown them with bays,
And was too much their friend to insult them with praise.
For a dozen long years he had liv'd by the mob:
On the word of a weaver, I pitied poor Bob![361]
He had sung for the great and had rhym'd for the small,
But scarcely a shilling had got by them all—
So bad was his luck, and so poor was the trade,
And the Muses, he thought, were so sneakingly paid,
That if times didn't alter, and that very soon,
He said and he swore, he must sing his last tune.
Some devil had put it, somehow, in his head
If he took a short journey his fortune was made:
Some devil had told him (but whether in dreams
Or waking, I know not) some devil, it seems,
Had made him believe that the nymphs and the swains
Were fairly at war with their old fashion'd strains,
That the tunes which the kirk or the curates had made
(And which always had ruin'd the balladman's trade)
Were wholly disus'd, and that now was the time
For singers of catches and dealers in rhyme
To step from their stalls, where they long were disgrac'd,
Reform the old music, and fix a new taste.

VI. O'Bluster: a Seaman

A mate of a schooner, bespatter'd with tar,
Who had lately come in from Savanna-la-Mar,[F]
For, the sake of an airing had stept from his deck
And ventur'd a jaunt, at the risque of his neck,
His name and his nation no soul could mistake.—
He was Bryan O'Bluster, and much of a rake;
From morning till night he was still on the move,
Was always in taverns, or always in love:
His life was sustain'd by the virtues of grog,
And many long miles he had sail'd by the log.—
Of battles and storms he had known a full share,
And his face, it was plain, was the worse for the wear;
To see a mean fellow, lord how it would fret him;
And he hated a puppy, wherever he met him—
He was ready to bleed for the good of each State,
But since they had left the poor seamen to fate;
Themselves in the dumps, and their fair ones in tears,
And many brave fellows detain'd in Algiers!—
Had spirit sufficient to make themselves free,
But not to resent their affronts on the sea!
As this was the case—he must bid us good night,
And sail with a flag that would do itself right.
At cursing and swearing he play'd a good hand,
But never was easy a minute on land;
If the wind was a-head, or his Kitty untrue,
Why, patience was all the relief that he knew:—
In the midst of misfortune he still was serene,
And Kitty, he said, was a feeble machine:
His heart was too hard for a lady to sigh,
Yet I guess'd him a rogue by the leer in his eye:
"The world (he would say) is a whimsical dance—
And reason had taught him to leave it to chance.
In chace of dame Fortune his prime he had pass'd,
And now was beginning to fail very fast,
But thought it was folly his heart to perplex,
As Fortune was just like the rest of her sex;—
Designing, and fickle, and taken with show,
Now fond of a monkey, and now of a beau:—
Yet, still, as the goddess was made up of whim,
He meant to pursue 'till she smil'd upon him."
And tho' he was always deceiv'd in the chace,
He smooth'd up his whiskers, and wore a bold face.
On horseback he first had attempted to go,
But the horse was no fool, and had give him a throw;
He fell in a pond, and with not a dry rag on
The horse brought him back to the sign of the waggon,
Where three times he call'd for a dram of their best,
And three times the virtues of brandy confess'd;
Then took some tobacco, and soberly said,
"De'il take such a vessel; she's all by the head,
Broach'd to on a sudden, and then, d'ye see,
Myself and the saddle went over the lee."
His head was so full of his ragged command
He could scarcely believe he was yet on dry land;
He would rise in his sleep; call the watch up at four,
Ask the man at the helm how the Eddystone bore;
Then, rubbing his eyes, bawl out, "By my soul,
"We are bearing right down on the Hatteras shoal;
"The devil may trust to such pilots as you:
"We are close on the breakers—the breakers—halloo!"

[F] A seaport town in the S. W. quarter of Jamaica.—Freneau's note, 1788 edition.

VII. Ezekiel: a Rhode-Island Lawyer

The sixth, and the last, that attended our journey,
Was a man of the law, a Rhode-Island attorney,
As cunning as Satan to argue or plead,
To break an entailment, or get himself fee'd
They call'd him Ezekiel—I cannot tell what—
Perhaps I forget it—perhaps I do not—
He had once been a parson, and studied at Yale,[G]
But took to the law, when his preaching grew stale;
In his system of thinking, not well understood,
I wander'd about, like a man in a wood;
From morning 'till night he was nothing but whim,
Not a man in the town held opinions, like him:
In regard to the vulgar, he argued that Law
Was better than preaching, to keep them in awe:
That the dread of a gallows had greater effect,
And a post or a pillory claim'd more respect
From a knave—and would sooner contribute to mend,
Than all the grave precepts that ever were penn'd.

[G] Yale College in New-Haven.—Freneau's note, 1788 edition.

VIII. The Chapter of Debates

Having pitch'd on our party, there rose a dispute
On the mode of conveyance—in waggon or boat?
For my part, said Snip, I was always afraid
Of sailors, and sloops and the shallopman's trade,
And the reason thereof I will candidly tell,
My grandmother, Mopsy, was drown'd in a well;
I therefore intreat you, and fervently pray
We may go with the waggons the Burlington way.
"Hold, master," the sailor replied in a fret,
"The devil's not ready to bait for you yet:
Even this way, you know, there is water to pass,
And twenty long miles we should sail with an ass;—
But, gentlemen all, will you take my advice?
Here's Albertson's[H] sloop; she's so new and so nice,
Her bottom so sleek, and her rigging so trim,
Not Bailey[H] or Hyde[H] can be mentioned with him;
In her cabbin and steerage is plenty of room,
And how clever she looks with her flying jib-boom,
A topsail aloft, that will stand by the wind,
And a yard rigg'd athwart, for a squaresail design'd.
"Odds fish! I would sooner some little delay
Than go, like a booby, the fresh-water way
Where your cream-colour'd captains ne'er swear a bad word,
And sail without compass or quadrant on board,
Catch catfish and sturgeons, but never a whale,
Nor balance a mizen, to fight with the gale:
But Albertson goes by the route of Cape May,
Salt-water, and sees the bold porpusses play:
Where the shore of the coast the proud ocean controuls
He travels, nor strikes on the Barnegat shoals."
"You tar-smelling monster! (Snipinda rejoin'd)
Your jargon has almost distracted my mind.
If Snip should be drownded, and lost in the sea,
You never once think what a loss it would be!
I should then be a widow, dejected and sad
And where would I find such another sweet lad!
And Doctor Sangrado a letter has wrote,
And how, in three weeks he will want a new coat."—
Snip's heart, at her answer, seem'd ready to break:
"Snipinda," said he, "I would live for your sake!
If I should be drownded, indeed, it is true,
It would be a bad journey for Sam and for you!"—
For fear they should hear him, Sam whisper'd, "In troth
I would give my new hat that the devil had both."
"If Snip should be drown'd," said the valiant O'Keef,
"Poor woman! already I guess at her grief—
However, for aught that a stranger can see,
There are dozens as brisk at the needle as he,
And, tho' it were hard that the sea-fish should tear him,
I'm fully convinc'd that his brethren can spare him:
"But were I to mention the very best way,
And the quickest to boot (for they go in a day)
I would sleep over night at the sign of the Queen,[I]
(Where the wine is so good, and the beds are so clean)
Then starting by day-break, and riding in state,
Arriving in Bristol—we breakfast at eight,
Then push on our way, with a rapid career,
With nothing to hinder, and nothing to fear,
Till Trenton, and Princeton, and Brunswick are pass'd,
And safe on the Hudson they drop us at last."
When the captain had finish'd, the Frenchman arose,
And smoothing his whiskers, and squaring his toes,
With a bend of his back, and a swing of his head
Thus expressing his wish, with a flourish, he said:
"Wherever pomatums are most in demand
That route has my vote, be it water or land:
Wherever I travel, through sun-shine or glooms,
May fortune direct me to powders and plumes!—
So, gentlemen, choose, I beseech you, that road
Where ladies prefer to be dress'd in the mode."
"Hold, varlet, be still"—said the Yankee attorney,
"Are you to decide on the route of our journey?
These run-about fellows, I cannot but hate 'em,
With their rings, and their ruffles, and rolls of pomatum:
But, gentlemen, (if I may venture to speak
In the stile I was wont when I dabbled in Greek,
When I blew on my trumpet, and call'd up my pack,
Who thought I was holy because I was black;
Or, if you allow me a moral to draw
From some words that were frequent with Doctor Magraw);—
"We all have in view to arrive at one town,
"Yet each one would find out a way of his own;
"What a pity it is that we cannot agree
"To march all together to Zion"—said he—
But, since I'm convinc'd that it cannot be so,
(For his journey resembles our journey below)
Like the sects in religion, I heartily pray
That each, as he pleases, may have his own way,
Let Snip, and the captain, adventure by land,
The sailor by sea—he can reef, steer, and hand;
Let the Frenchman set out in a gaudy balloon,
(He'll either be there, or be dead, very soon,)
For my own part, I'm fond of the Burlington boat,
But still, if you're willing, I'll put it to vote:
The hint was sufficient—he put it to vote,
And fate bade us go with the Burlington boat.

[H] Commanders of Philadelphia and New-York packets.—Ib.

[I] Indian Queen.—Freneau's note, 1788 edition.

IX. The Passage to Burlington

The morning was fair, and the wind was at west,
The flood coming in, and the ladies were drest;
At the sign of the Billet we all were to meet,
And Snip was the first that appear'd in the street;
He strutted along with a mighty brisk air,
While Sam and Snipinda walked slow in the rear.
Dress'd, booted, and button'd, and "cutting a shine"
The captain came next, with his loaded carbine;
Then handed on board the milliner's maid:
The barber and ballad-man longer delay'd
For one had his ballads to sing and to play,
And the other some beards to take off by the way:
At last they arriv'd, and the sailor along,
(But he was besotted—his dram had been strong—)
The lawyer, Ezekiel, was last to appear,
With a cane in his hand and a quill at his ear.
But, just as we all were prepar'd to embark,
The wind came a-head, and the weather look'd dark:
So, whilst they were busy in hoisting the sails
And trimming close aft' to encounter the gales,
Our seaman advis'd them to take in a reef
As the vessel was light—but the skipper was deaf:
"His boat was his own"—and he knew to a hair
The "worth of her freight," and the "sail she could bear."
Then a storm coming on, we stow'd away snug,
Some link'd with a lady, and some with a jug:
Snipinda and Sam were inclining to sleep,
And the lawyer harangu'd on the risques of the deep.
O'Bluster was busy in looking for squalls,
And Cynthia discours'd upon dances and balls,
And while the poor ballad-man gave us a song
The Frenchman complain'd that his stomach felt wrong.
Arriving, at length at the end of this stage,
We quitted our cabbin (or rather our cage)
To the sign of the Anchor we then were directed,
Where captain O'Keef a fine turkey dissected;
And Bryan O'Bluster made love to egg-nog,
And pester'd the ladies to taste of his grog:
Without it (said Bryan) I never can dine,
'Tis better, by far, than your balderdash wine,
It braces the nerves and it strengthens the brain,
A world—and no grog—is a prison of pain,
And Man, the most wretched of all that are found
To creep in the dust, or to move on the ground!
It is, of all physic, the best I have seen
To keep out the cold, and to cut up the spleen—
Here, madam—miss Cynthia—'tis good—you'll confess—
Now taste—and you'll wish you had been in my mess—
With grog I'm as great as a king on his throne;
The worst of all countries is—where there is none,
New Holland, New Zealand—those islands accurs'd—
Here's health to the man that invented it first.

X. Vexations and Disasters

Coop'd up in a waggon, the curtains let down,
At three in the morning we drove out of town:
A morning more dark I ne'er saw in my life,
And the fog you might almost have cut with a knife,
It was a fit season for murders and rapes,
For drunken adventures and narrow escapes:—
So, with something to think of, but little to say,
The driver drove on, looking out for the way,
'Till we came to the brow of a horrible hill,
Six miles on our road, when the cattle stood still—
"Are you sure you have took the right road?"—queried Snip;
"I am"—said the driver—and crack'd with his whip.
Then away ran the horses, but took the wrong road,
And away went the waggon, with all its full load;
Down, deep in a valley, roll'd over and over,
Fell the flying-machine, with its curtains and cover,
Where shatter'd and shiver'd—no glimpse yet of day,
A mass of destruction, together we lay!
Then howlings were heard, that would frighten a stone,
And screeching, and screaming, and many a groan,
The bruising of heads, and the breaking of shins,
Contrition of heart, and confession of sins.
First rose from his ruins tall captain O'Keef,
And call'd to Ezekiel, and begg'd for his brief:[J]
A writ he demanded, as soon as 'twas day,
And ask'd his advice, if a suit would not lay?
Then felt for his sword, but chanc'd on a cane,
And rush'd at the stageman, to cleave him in twain.
As fortune would have it, the stageman had fled,
And Snip the whole vengeance receiv'd on his head;
The staff had been whirl'd with so deadly a sweep
Poor Will in a moment was all in a heap:
There was room to surmise that his senses were hurt,
For, in spite of our bruises, he made us some sport:
His head, he conceited, was made of new cheese;
And ask'd, if the sexton would give up his fees?—
Then, rolling away on the side of the hill,
With his head in a horse-pond, he lay very still:
At last he bawl'd out—"I'm sick at my heart!
Come hither, companions, and see me depart!
Snipinda, Snipinda!—alas, I must leave her—
And all, for the sake of this villainous weaver,
Who never would give me a moment of rest
'Till I left my dear shop-board, and thus am distrest!
But a time will arrive (if I deem not amiss)
When Slender, the weaver, will suffer for this—
May his breeches, be always too big for his wear,
Or so narrow and scant as to torture his rear;
May his waistcoat be ever too long or too short,
And the skirts of his tunic not both of a sort;—
And, when from this sorrowful jaunt you return,
Tell Doctor Sangrado 'tis needless to mourn:
Ah! tell him I firmly believ'd I was going
Where people no longer are wed-ding and wooing,
Where white linen stockings will ever be clean,
And sky-men are clad in the best of nankeen;
Where with old Continental our debts we can pay,
And a suit of best broad-cloth will last but a day;
Where with pretty brass thimbles the streets are all pav'd,
And a remnant—if not a whole piece—shall be sav'd,
Where cloth may be cabbag'd—and that without fear—
And journeymen work—thirteen months to the year!"
Snipinda was mov'd at so dismal a yell,
And groping about to find where he fell,
Exclaim'd, "I have got a sad bruise on one hip,
But matters, I fear, are much worse with poor Snip."
"Yes, yes"—answer'd Snip—"I'm preparing to go—
Be speedy, Snipinda, my pulse is so low!"
Then she went where he lay, and took hold of his head,
And whisper'd the captain, "how much he has bled!"
(For she thought, as he lay with his nose in the puddle,
That the water was blood, that had flow'd from his noddle.)
"Ah! where is the doctor, to give him a pill;
And where is the Lawyer, to write his last-will?
Ezekiel! Ezekiel! attend to his words;
If I am his widow, I must have my thirds!
But can you"—and here she reclin'd on his breast—
"And can you resolve to forsake me distrest,
Is it thus you would quit me, my joy and my love,
And leave me alone for the shop-boards above:
Is it thus you consign me to trouble and woe?—
When you are departed, ah! where shall I go?
I shall then be a widow—forsaken and sad—
And where shall I find such another sweet lad?
Who then will afford me a mint-water dram,
Gallant me to meeting—and who will flog Sam?"
By this time the story was currently spread,
And most were convinc'd that the taylor was dead,—
"The taylor is dead beyond all relief!
The taylor is dead," cry'd captain O'Keef:
"To fetch up a fashion, or trump up a whim,
Not a knight of the thimble was equal to him!"
"The taylor is dead"—(the lawyer exclaim'd)
God speed him!—'tis better to die than be maim'd:
If life is a race, as the learned pretend,
God help him! his racing is soon at an end:
His anchor is cast, and his canvas is furl'd;
A creature he was, so attach'd to the world,
So eager for money—(I say it with grief)
He never consider'd the 'fall of the leaf.'
He is come (we may say) to the end of his tether
Where the maid and her master shall lay down together.—
For the place where he's gone may we also prepare,
Where the Mind, when admitted, shall rest from her care,
And fiddles—the finest that ever were seen,
Shall play, for his comfort, a brisk Bonny Jean.
"The taylor is dead" (said the company round)
"The taylor is dead"—the dark forests resound.—
"He is dead!"—blubber'd Sam, with a counterfeit sigh—
When the sailor bawl'd out—"By my soul it's a lie!
The fellow has only a mind for some fun,
His blood is not cold, and his race is not run.
His head, it is true, may have had a small shock:
I'll bind it—'twill only be strapping a block:
Here, hand me a neck-cloth, a napkin, a clout!
Now—heave up his noddle, and strap it about!
Success to the skull that can bear a good jirk—
They only have damag'd his ginger-bread work."
The matters turn'd out as he said and he swore,
And the taylor threw open his peepers once more.

[J] A Lawyer's compend, in which he notes down the heads of arguments in Law-suits.—Freneau's note, 1795 edition.

XI. Conclusion of the Journey

When the morning appear'd, it is horrid to tell
What mischiefs the most of our crew had befel:
A bundle lay here, and a budget lay there;
The Frenchman was fretting and pulling his hair,
The horses were feeding about on the hill,
And Snip, with his head on a hassock lay still,
The driver beseech'd us the fault to excuse,
The night had been dark—and "he lost both his shoes"—
Then he rais'd up his waggon, rejoicing to find
That, by leaving the top and the curtains behind,
We still might proceed—for the body was sound,
And the wheels, upon searching, uninjur'd all 'round.
But dull and dishearten'd we travell'd along,
Our waggon dismantled, our harness all wrong:
The lawyer was vext that we went a snail's pace,
And Cynthia was sure she had lost half her lace;
While Bryan O'Bluster, who Snip had restor'd,
Asserted, that Snip was the Jonas on board,
And often declar'd, in his moments of glee,
"He would give him a souse, if he had him at sea."
At length, we arriv'd, with the marks of our fall,
And halted to dine at the town of Road-Hall:
Honest David has always a dish of the best,
But Snipinda declar'd there was nothing well drest—
"And Snip (she exclaim'd) I would ask him to eat,
But I know that he never could relish roast-meat:
I think it were better to get him some Tea,
He always was fond of slop dinners, like me,
But then he could never endure your Bohea—
La! madam, is this the best tea that you keep?
By the taste and the smell, you have purchas'd it cheap!
No Hyson or Congo to give a sick stranger!
Poor man! I've no doubt but his life is in danger!

"No doctor like Neptune for people like him,
(Quoth O'Bluster)—his illness is merely a whim:
If I had him at sea, with the rest of our crew,
He should dance to the tune of a bowl of Burgoo!"

"From all that appears (said captain O'Keef)
I judge he might venture to taste the roast beef,
Nay—I think I can guess, from the cast of his eye,
He longs to have hold of the gooseberry pye!"
"Why captain (she cry'd) would you kill the poor sinner?
If he cannot have tea, he shall go without dinner!"

At length to the Ferry we safely arrive,
Each thanking his genius he still was alive:
Poor Cynthia complain'd of abundance of harms,
The black on her face and the blue on her arms:
Snipinda exclaim'd that she wanted a patch,
For Snip, in his ravings, had give her a scratch:
The corpse of the captain was merely a wreck,
And the sailor complain'd of a kink in his neck,
He had a contusion, beside, on his thigh;
And the ballad-man talk'd of a bruise on his eye,
Just adding, "how much he was vext at the heart
That no one regarded the song-singing art:
Yet the town was in love with his music (he said)
But never consider'd he liv'd by the trade;
That affronts and neglect were forever his lot,
And the lovers of music respected him—not;
He had sung for the nymphs, and had sung for the swains,
But they were unwilling to purchase his strains,
When he put up his ballads and call'd for his pay,
The shepherds slunk off, and the nymphs ran away."

So, we said what we could to encourage poor Bob,
And pitied his fortune,—to live by the mob:
Advis'd him to cobble, cut throats, or dig ditches
If he wish'd to advance to perferment and riches;
That the time had arriv'd, when a sycophant race
Of poets are only promoted to place—
He should scorn them alike, if attach'd to a crown,
Singing lies to a court, or disguis'd in the gown;
That a poet of genius (all history shews)
Ne'er wanted a puppy, to bark at his muse:
And, though their productions were never once read,
Yet Bavius and Mevius must also be fed.
Then the skipper came in, with a terrible noise,
Exclaiming, "The wherry is ready, my boys:
The sails are unfurl'd, and the clock has struck eight;
Away to the wharf, for no longer I wait!"
Now all were embark'd, and the boat under sail,
With a dark cloudy sky and a stiff blowing gale:
In plying to windward we delug'd our decks—
O'Bluster discours'd of disasters and wrecks—
Snip offer'd the skipper five dollars, and more,
And a pair of new trowsers, to run us on shore;
"And, if I was there (said the faint-hearted swain)
No money should tempt me to travel again!
I had rather, by far, I had broken both legs,
Been rotting in prison, or pelted with eggs!
Now comrades and captains, I bid you good night,
And you, Mr. Slender, our journey will write;
A journey like this will attention attract,
Related in metre, and known to be fact."—
Snipinda was sorry she ever left home—
Ezekiel confess'd it was madness to roam;—
Toupee was alarm'd at the break of the seas,
And you, Robert Slender, were not at your ease;
Yet couldn't help laughing at captain O'Keef,
Who shunn'd little Cynthia, and cast up his beef:
"And, Bruin (she said) I am sick at my heart,
Come hither, I pray you—and see me depart:
What wretches e'er travell'd so rugged a route;
Alas! I am sorry that e'er we set out!"
And Sam, while he own'd what a thief he had been,
O'Bluster made love to a bottle of gin—
Bob's ballads and poems lay scatter'd and torn
Himself in the dumps and his visage forlorn;—
Snip lay with his head by the side of a pot,
In doubt if his soul was departing or not,
Complaining, and spewing, and cursing his luck—
Then look'd at Snipinda—and call'd her his duck.
At last to relieve us, when thought of the least,
The wind came about to the south of southeast,
The barque that was buried in billows before
Now flew like a gull by the Long-Island shore,
And gaining the port where we wish'd to arrive,
Was safe in the bason—precisely at five.

[360] First published in pamphlet form by Bailey, April, 1787, under the title, "A Journey from Philadelphia to New-York by way of Burlington and South-Amboy. By Robert Slender, Stocking Weaver." The advertisement in the Freeman's Journal of April 25 declares that "Some truth in the occasion and a good deal of fancy in the colouring mark the character of the above performance. The style is smooth and easy and the pleasurable air that is diffused over the whole piece will certainly render the whole poem acceptable to such as choose to read it." The poem was republished in the editions of 1788 and 1795, the text of the latter of which I have used. It was again republished in a twenty-four page pamphlet by Thomas Neversink, Philadelphia, Dec. 20, 1809, under the title "A Laughable Poem; or Robert Slender's Journey from Philadelphia to New York." The earlier versions, of which the 1788 text was a reprint, had the poem divided into four cantos. In the 1795 edition the subdivision into sections was made. Freneau thoroughly revised the poem for the 1795 edition, making very many changes, all for the better. He cut out nearly all of the indelicate allusions and expressions of the earlier edition, including the coarse but highly picturesque dialogue between the skipper and the captain, and it has seemed best to me not to resurrect them. The 1809 edition was reprinted with little change from the 1795 version.

[361] The 1788 version here adds this couplet:

"The Babes in the wood was his favourite song,
Or Barbara Allan, or Johnny Armstrong."

THE HERMIT OF SABA[362]

Hermit, First Mariner, Second Mariner, Third Mariner

Scene, The Island of Saba[A]

[A] One of the windward Islands in the W. Indies. It is small, and appears like an immense cone, or sugar loaf, rising out of the surrounding ocean.—The inhabitants are of Dutch origin, and are equally strangers to the luxury and tyranny of the Sugar Islands.—Lat. 17° 30´ N. Lon. 63° 12´ W.—Freneau's note.

Hermit

Though many years on these tall cliffs residing
I recollect not such a dreadful quarrel
Between the seas and water-vexing tempests
As now torments my ears, and pains my eyes—
Clouds, low suspended, seem to embrace the foam
Of yonder angry ocean—bursting thunders,
With their pale sheets of lightning, are as busy
As though they meant to cleave this mass of nature,
Proving at once the world's mortality—
But am I safe on this sea-girded island,
Or can these shores, thus beaten, bear the shock
Of such a bold assault—?
When universal ruin shall approach,
Will the grand scene be more astonishing
When thou, sky-pointing Saba,
Shalt tremble on thy base most fearfully!—
Night comes!—I'll to my cavern in the mountain,
Far from the torrent's roar and bursting billow;
That cavern, where I oft have found repose
Since on this barren isle, a shipwrecked stranger,
I made my sole escape—Ha! what are these!
A barque half buried in the spouting surge
Comes rushing towards the isle, impelled by winds
That scorn all motives of compassion.
Hark! now she strikes the iron pointed reef
Foundering; the horrid surge that breaks upon her
Has sealed their doom, and hope itself forsakes them
Man is too weak to combat with the power
Of these mad elements, that conquer all,
Ending the day light of our misery!—
Yes, yes—I'll to my haunt, for scenes like these
Pain the shocked soul and damp all resolution;—
Or, shall I to the shore, while day remains,
And search among the shell-incrusted coral,
Lest if by some great chance or miracle
Some wretch survives upon the ragged rocks,
Who knowing not of human kind residing
On this sequestered, unfrequented isle,
Tired in contending with the angry billows
And beaten by the surge the whole night through
For want of such relief, may die ere morning—
Perdition! three I see upon the rocks
Clinging, to keep off death, while the rude billow
Swells o'er their heads, insultingly victorious:
Now from the reef upborne I see them struggle,
Heaven grant, successfully!—they labour on,
Now headlong to the shore, now back they go
Despairing to the main!—now, now they land
Safe in that calm recess, a narrow bay
To them the heaven from impending ruin—
So what are you?—

First Mariner

If thou art an inhabitant of the isle,
Lend your kind aid to three half perished wretches
Of threescore souls, the only three remaining—
And if thou knowest of any sheltered spot
Where from these horrid blasts and water spouts
We may retire to pass the long dull night:
Or if thou knowest of any standing pool
Or running stream, or earth-supported spring,
O tell us! and, as nothing more remains,
Our gratitude must be thy sole reward.

Hermit

Among the hills, on their declivities
Full many a sylvan haunt I have espied
Ere now, in wandering when the heaven was bright;
But springs or running streams abound not here
The skies alone supply the hollowed rock
From whence I drain my annual full supply:
Yet to my cavern you shall all resort
To taste a hermit's hospitality—
If you have strength, ascend this winding path
And amongst these rugged rocks, still following me,
We soon shall reach a safe retreat, removed
Alike from noisy seas, and mountain torrents.

Second Mariner

Lo! here the tall palmettoe, and the cedar,
The lime tree, and sweet scented shrubs abundant
With mingling branches, form a blest abode;
Here, bleating lambs crowd to the evening fold
And goats and kids, that wander o'er the hills,
Vext by the storm, herd to the social hermit;
In neighbouring groves the juicy lemon swells,
The golden orange charms the admiring eye,
And the rich cocoa yields her milky stream.

Hermit

Here, strangers, here repose your wearied limbs
While some dead boughs I bring from yonder thicket,
To wake the friendly blaze.—To drain the dams
Of these impatient kids, be next my care:
The cocoa's milky flesh, dried pulse and roots
Shall be your fare to night; and when to-morrow
Dispells the gloom, and this tornado ceases,
We'll search along the shores, and find where lie
The bodies of your dear and lost companions,
That so we may commit them to the dust,
And thus obliterate from our remembrance
The horrid havock that this storm occasioned.

Third Mariner

O good old man, how do I honour thee!
My future days, my services are your's;
For you, will I be earlier than the sun
To bring you sticks to light the morning fire;
For you, will I attempt these dangerous cliffs
And climb on high to pluck the blushing plum;
For you will I from yonder rocky height
Drain chrystal waters, to delight your taste:
But now be kind; I wish to hear you tell
What chance or fortune brought you to these shores:
Whether alone on these rough craggs you dwell
Where wandering mist is gathered into showers,
Or whether town or village decks the plain;
Or is there sheltered port, where swelling sails
Lodge lofty ships, from hurricanes secure,
Fenced in by reefs, or locked by neighbouring hills.

Hermit

No town or village owns this scanty soil,
Nor round its coast one safe recess is seen,
Where lofty ship, or barque of meaner freight
Might rest secure, untroubled by the winds,
Which still pursue the restless surge that pours,
And spits its venom, on these ragged shores;
Nor in these woody wilds, till you were wrecked,
Except myself, did Christian man reside,
Wandering from Europe to these Indian isles
So late discovered on the world's green end.—
All lies as Nature formed it, rough throughout,
And chance has planted here this garden wild,
For such as I, who wandering from the world;
Cities, and men, and civilized domains,
The farther distant, find the bliss more pure.

Third Mariner

In such a sad retreat, and all alone!—
To hold no converse but with senseless trees,
To have no friendship but with wandering goats,
And worthless reptiles that infest the ground—
Can man be happy in so dull a scene?

Hermit

To the steep summit of this slighted isle
I often climb at early dawn of day,
And o'er the vast expanse I throw my view,
Not idly thence the busy scene surveying—
Vast fleets I sometimes see, each kept at bay,
Or joining both in angry conversation,
Their object avarice half, and half ambition—
What is it all to me? what are they seeking
That can give more than a sufficiency?—
That object I have here which they pursue,
Grasping it, miser-like, in my embraces—
The stream distilling from the shaded cliff,
And fruits mature from trees by Nature planted,
And contemplation, heaven-born contemplation!
These are my riches! I am wealthier far
Than Spain's proud fleets, that load the groaning ocean—
Wait you in yonder cave—I will return—
My herd of goats is wandering in the wild,
And I must house them, ere the close of day.         (Exit)

First Mariner

Who can this hermit be—what doth he here?
In such a dismal cell who would inhabit
Thus lonely, who has crowds and cities seen—
Is he some savage offspring of the isle,
The mountain goat his food, his god the sun;
Some wretch produced from mingled heat and moisture.
Full brother to the hungry pelican;
His friend, some monster of the adjacent wood;
His wife, some sorceress, red haired hag from hell;
His children, serpents, scorpions, centipedes—

Third Mariner

It was but now, (he spoke before he thought) he told me,
That he is richer than the fleets of Spain
That burden the wide bosom of the ocean;
And then he seemed so pleased and satisfied,
Boasting himself the happiest of mankind.

Second Mariner

Where should this wealth be hid—his cave shows none:
A prayer book and a cross, a string of beads,
A bed of moss, a cap, an earthen jug,
And some few goat skins, furnish out his cave:
But still this humble guise of poverty
Vast sums of splendid riches may conceal:
The flooring of his den is a loose sand—
Searching a fathom deep may shew strange things,
While we, so long pursuing, hit on fortune.—
Perhaps this hermit is some bloody pirate,
Who having plundered friends and foes, alike,
Has brought his booty here, to bury it.

First Mariner

Lo! there he comes, driving his goats before him:
He means to fence them from the tempest's rage
Under the shelter of those tufted cedars:
It does, indeed, appear most possible,
That in this cavern rests his plundered wealth:
When sleep has locked his senses in repose
We'll seize him on his couch, and binding him,
Cast him from yonder jutting promontory
That hangs a hundred fathoms o'er the deep—
Thus, shall his fate prevent discovery.

Second Mariner

Your project pleases me—it is most wrong
That such a savage should enjoy such hoards
Of useful wealth, he has not heart to use:—
He builds no ships, employs no mariners;
But, like a miser, hides the ill-gotten store,
And had he died before we wandered hither
His gold had perished, and none been the wiser.

Third Mariner

While you observe his motions, fellow sufferers,
Of twisted bark I'll make a sett of thongs
Wherewith to bind him at the midnight hour,
Lest waking, he should struggle to be free
And slip our hands before we gain the summit
From whence we mean to plunge his tawny carcase:—
There, there he comes—"Now, hermit, now befriend us,
"For cruel, merciless hunger gnaws our vitals,
"And every mischief that can man dishearten
"Is ripe to drive us into desperation!"

Hermit

Have patience, till from yonder arched grotto
I bring my bowls of milk, and seasoned roots,
And fruits I plucked before the day was high:
Now, friends, enjoy my hospitality:
All's at your service, wretched shipwrecked men;
And when you've satisfied the rage of hunger
Repose on these soft skins; your sea-beat limbs
Demand the aid of kind refreshing sleep:
I'll to my evening prayers, as I am wont,
And early dreams;—for travelling o'er the hills,
And pelted by the storm the whole day past,
My knees grow feeble, and I wish for rest.         (Exit)

Second Mariner

Yes, yes—first pray, and then repose in peace,
Hermit of Saba, ne'er to wake again!
Or should you wake, it must be in convulsions,
Tossed from the peak of yonder precipice,
Transfixt on pointed rocks, most bloodily.

Third Mariner

Now, now's the time: he sleeps: I hear him snore—
This hidden gold has so possessed my brain,
That I, at all events, must handle it:
Yet should the hermit 'wake while thus engaged,
Sad mischief might ensue: his nervous arm
(More than a match for our exhausted vigour)
Might exercise most horrible revenge!
Long practising among these rugged mountains,
Pursuing goats, bounding from rock to rock,
And cleaving trees to feed his evening fire,
His nerves and blood are all activity:
And then he is of so robust a fabrick
That we should be mere children in his hands,
Whirling us from the precipice at pleasure,
(Thus turning on ourselves our own designs)
Or catching up some fragment of a rock
Grind into atoms our pale, quivering limbs;
Taking full vengeance on ingratitude.

First Mariner

Fast bound in chains of sleep, I first assail him;
This knotty club shall give the unerring blow;
You follow on, and boldly second me!
Thus—comrades—thus!—that stroke has crushed his brain!
He groans! he dies?—now bear him to the summit
Of yon' tall cliff, and having thence dislodged him,
Uninterrupted we shall dig his riches,
Heirs to the wealth and plenty of his cave.

Second Mariner (conscience struck)

'Tis done, 'tis done—the hermit is no more:—
Say nothing of this deed, ye hills, ye trees,
But let eternal silence brood upon it.
O, base, base, base!!—why was I made a man,
And not some prowling monster of the forest,
The worst vile work of Nature's journeymen!
Ye lunar shadows! no resemblance yield
From craggy pointed rock, or leafy bush,
That may remind me of this murdered hermit.

Third Mariner

Deep have I fathomed in his cave, but find
No glimpse of gold—we surely did mistake him:
His treasures were not of that glittering kind;
Dryed fruits, and one good book; his goats, his kids,
These were, indeed, his riches—
Now, hermit, now I feel remorse within me:
While here we stay thy shadow will torment us,
From every haunted rock, or bush, projecting;
And when from hence we go, that too shall follow,
Crying—Perdition on these fiends from Europe,
Whose bloody malice, or whose thirst for gold,
Fresh from the slaughter-house of innocence
Unpeoples isles, and lays the world in ruin!

[362] This poem was doubtless a product of Freneau's earlier Muse, as were also the poems "The Indian Burying Ground," "The Indian Student," "The Man of Ninety," and "Alcina's Enchanted Island" which follow. They were, however, first printed in the edition of 1788 and there is no other hint as to their date. I have followed in all cases except the last the 1809 text.

THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND[363]

In spite of all the learned have said,
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands—
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.[A]

[A] "The North American Indians bury their dead in a sitting posture; decorating the corpse with wampum, the images of birds, quadrupeds, &c: And (if that of a warrior) with bows, arrows, tomhawks, and other military weapons."—Freneau's note.

His imaged birds, and painted bowl,
And venison, for a journey dressed,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit—
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far-projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires)
The children of the forest played!

There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews;
In habit for the chase arrayed,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade![364]

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And Reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.

[363] In the 1788 edition this has the title "Lines Occasioned by a Visit to an old Indian Burying Ground."

[364] Campbell borrowed this line for his poem "O'Connor's Child." Stanza IV of the poem begins as follows:

"Bright as the bow that spans the storm
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
A son of light—a lovely form
He comes and makes her glad;
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassel'd horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!"

THE INDIAN STUDENT

Or, Force of Nature[365]

From Susquehanna's farthest springs
Where savage tribes pursue their game,
(His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
A shepherd of the forest came.

Not long before, a wandering priest
Expressed his wish, with visage sad—
"Ah, why (he cried) in Satan's waste,
"Ah, why detain so fine a lad?

"In white-man's land there stands a town
"Where learning may be purchased low—
"Exchange his blanket for a gown,
"And let the lad to college go."—

From long debate the council rose,
And viewing Shalum's tricks with joy
To Cambridge Hall,[A] o'er wastes of snows,
They sent the copper-coloured boy.

[A] Harvard College, at Cambridge in Massachusetts.—Freneau's note, edition 1788.

One generous chief a bow supplied,
This gave a shaft, and that a skin;
The feathers, in vermillion dyed,
Himself did from a turkey win:

Thus dressed so gay, he took his way
O'er barren hills, alone, alone!
His guide a star, he wandered far,
His pillow every night a stone.

At last he came, with foot so lame,
Where learned men talk heathen Greek,
And Hebrew lore is gabbled o'er,
To please the Muses,—twice a week.

Awhile he writ, awhile he read,
Awhile he conned their grammar rules—
(An Indian savage so well bred
Great credit promised to the schools.)

Some thought he would in law excel,
Some said in physic he would shine;
And one that knew him, passing well,
Beheld, in him, a sound Divine.

But those of more discerning eye
Even then could other prospects show,
And saw him lay his Virgil by
To wander with his dearer bow.

The tedious hours of study spent,
The heavy-moulded lecture done,
He to the woods a hunting went,
Through lonely wastes he walked, he run.

No mystic wonders fired his mind;
He sought to gain no learned degree,
But only sense enough to find
The squirrel in the hollow tree.

The shady bank, the purling stream,
The woody wild his heart possessed,
The dewy lawn, his morning dream
In fancy's gayest colours dressed.

"And why (he cried) did I forsake
"My native wood for gloomy walls;
"The silver stream, the limpid lake
"For musty books and college halls.

"A little could my wants supply—
"Can wealth and honour give me more;
"Or, will the sylvan god deny
"The humble treat he gave before?

"Let seraphs gain the bright abode,
"And heaven's sublimest mansions see—
"I only bow to Nature's God—
"The land of shades will do for me.

"These dreadful secrets of the sky
"Alarm my soul with chilling fear—
"Do planets in their orbits fly,
"And is the earth, indeed, a sphere?

"Let planets still their course pursue,
"And comets to the centre run—
"In Him my faithful friend I view,
"The image of my God—the Sun.

"Where Nature's ancient forests grow,
"And mingled laurel never fades,
"My heart is fixed;—and I must go
"To die among my native shades."

He spoke, and to the western springs,
(His gown discharged, his money spent,
His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
The shepherd of the forest went.[366]

[365] The 1788 version bore under the title the motto:

"Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes;
Flumina amem, sylvasque inglorius."
Virg. Georg. II. V. 483.

[366] The 1788 version has this additional stanza:

"Returning to this rural reign
The Indians welcom'd him with joy;
The council took him home again,
And bless'd the copper-colour'd boy."

THE MAN OF NINETY

"To yonder boughs that spread so wide,
Beneath whose shade soft waters glide,
Once more I take the well known way;
With feeble step and tottering knee
I sigh to reach my white-oak tree,
Where rosy health was wont to play.

If to the shades, consuming slow,
The shadow of myself, I go,
When I am gone, wilt thou remain!—
From dust you rose, and grew like me;
I man became, and you a tree,
Both natives of one grassy plain.

How much alike; yet not the same!—
You could no kind protector claim;
Alone you stood, to chance resigned:
When winter came, with blustering sky,
You feared its blasts—and so did I,
And for warm suns in secret pined.

When vernal suns began to glow
You felt returning vigour flow;
Which once a year new leaves supplied;
Like you, fine days I wished to see,
And May was a sweet month to me,
But when November came—I sighed!

If through your bark some ruffian arm
A mark impressed, you took the alarm,
And tears awhile I saw descend;
Till Nature's kind maternal aid
A plaister on your bruises laid,
And bade your trickling sorrows end.

Like you, I feared the lightning's stroke,
Whose flame dissolves the strength of oak,
And ends at once this mortal dream;—
You saw, with grief, the soil decay
That from your roots was torn away;
You sighed—and cursed the stream.

With borrowed earth, and busy spade,
Around your roots new life I laid,
While joy revived in every vein;
(The care of man shall life impart)—
Though Nature owns the aid of art,
No art, immortal, makes their reign.

How much alike our fortune—say—
Yet, why must I so soon decay
When thou hast scarcely reached thy prime—
Erect and tall, you joyous stand;
The staff of age has found my hand,
That guides me to the grave of time.

Could I, fair tree, like you, resign,
And banish all those fears of mine,
Grey hairs would be no cause of grief;
Your blossoms die, but you remain,
Your fruit lies scattered o'er the plain—
Learn wisdom from the falling leaf.

As you survive, by heaven's decree,
Let withered flowers be thrown on me
Sad compensation for my doom,
While winter greens and withering pines
And cedars dark, and barren vines,
Point out the lonely tomb.

The enlivening sun, that burns so bright,
Ne'er had a noon without a night,
So Life and Death agree;
The joys of man by years are broke"—
'Twas thus the man of ninety spoke,
Then rose, and left his tree.

ALCINA'S ENCHANTED ISLAND[367]

In These fair fields unfading flowers abound,
Here purple roses cloathe the enchanted ground;
Here, to the sun expand the lillies pale
Fann'd by the sweet breath of the western gale:

Here, fearless hares through dark recesses stray,
And troops of leverets take the woodland way,
Here stately stags, with branching horns, appear,
And rove unsought for, unassail'd by fear:

Unknown the snare, the huntsman's fatal dart
That wings the death of torture to the heart,
In social bands they trace their sylvan reign,
Chew the rich cud, or graze along the plain.

In these gay shades the nimble deer delight,
While herds of goats ascend the rocky height,
Browse on the shrubs that shade the vale below,
And crop the plants, that there profusely grow.

[367] Published in the 1788 edition under the title "Ariosto's Description of the Gardens in Alcina's Inchanted Island. From the Italian." Text from the edition of 1795.

HORACE, LIB. I. ODE 15[368]

Nereus prophesies the destruction of Troy[369]

As 'cross the deep to Priam's shore
The Trojan prince bright Helen bore,
Old Nereus hushed each noisy breeze
And calmed the tumults of the seas.

Then, musing on the traitor's doom,
Thus he foretold the woes to come;
"Ah why remove, mistaken swain,
"The prize that Greece shall seize[370] again!

"With omens sad, you sail along;
"And Europe shall resent the wrong,
"Conspire to seize your bride away,
"And Priam's town in ashes lay.

"Alas! what toils and deaths combined!
"What hosts of men and horses joined!—
"Bold Pallas now prepares her shield,
"And arms her chariot for the field.

"Can you with heavenly forms engage,
"A goddess kindling into rage;
"Who ne'er have dared a mortal foe
"And wars, alone, of Venus, know.

"In vain you dress your flowing hair,
"And songs, to aid the harp, prepare;
"The harp, that sung to female ears,
"Shall fail when Mars and Greece appears.

"In vain will you bewail your bride,
"And meanly in her chamber hide,
"In hopes to shun, when lingering there,
"The massy dart, and Cretan spear.

"In vain will you, with quickening pace,
"Avoid fierce Ajax in the chace;
"For late those locks, that please the eye,
"In dust and death must scattered lie.

"Do you not see Ulysses, too,
"The sage that brings your nation low:
"And Nestor from the land of Pyle—
"Chiefs skilled in arms and martial toil.

"Dost thou not see bold Teucer here,
"And him—no tardy chariotteer;
"Who both pursue with eager force,
"And both controul the thundering horse.

"Thou, to thy grief, shalt Merion know,
"And Tydeus' son shall prove thy foe,
"Who wastes your realms with sword and fire;
"Tydides, greater than his sire.

"Like timorous deer, prepared to fly
"When hungry wolves are passing by,
"No more the herbs their steps detain,
"They quit their pastures, and the plain:

"So you from his triumphant arms
"Will fly, with all your female charms;
"Can deeds, like these, your valour prove,
"Was this your promise to your love?

"Achilles' wrath shall but delay
"Your ruin to a later day—
"The Trojan matrons then may mourn,
"And Troy by Grecian vengeance burn."

[368] First found in the 1788 edition; text from the 1809 edition.

[369] The 1788 edition had the following line after the title: "Pastor quum traheret per freta navibus, etc."

[370] "Fetch."—Ed. 1788.

A SUBSCRIPTION PRAYER[371]

For defraying the burial expences of an Old Soldier

Ah! Give him a tomb, for a tomb is his due,
A shilling, great man, is a trifle to You:
If you give him a tomb, that his name may survive,
May Fortune attend you, and help you to thrive:
May you always have something to praise and approve,
And the pleasure to dream of the girl that you love.

Prepar'd for the worst, but enjoying the best,
With a girl and a bottle he feather'd his nest:
Half sick of the world, in the wane of his life,
To hasten his exit, he took him a wife,
But, finding his fair one a damnable elf,
He grounded his arms—and took leave of himself.

[371] Entitled in 1788, "Patrick Mulhoni. A Subscription Prayer. Date obolum Belisario." Text from the 1795 edition.

EPISTLE TO THE PATRIOTIC FARMER[372]

Thus, while new laws the stubborn States reclaim,
And most for pensions, some for honours aim,
You, who first aimed a shaft at George's crown,
And marked the way to conquest and renown,
While from the vain, the lofty, and the proud,
Retiring to your groves, you shun the crowd,—
Can toils, like yours, in cold oblivion end,
Columbia's patriot, and her earliest friend?
Blest, doubly blest, from public scenes retired,
Where public welfare all your bosom fired;
Your life's best days in studious labours past
Your deeds of virtue make your bliss at last;
When all things fail, the soul must rest on these!—
May heaven restore you to your favourite trees,
And calm content, best lot to man assigned,
Be heaven's reward to your exalted mind.
When her base projects you beheld, with pain,
And early doomed an end to Britain's reign.
When rising nobly in a generous cause
(Sworn foe to tyrants and imported laws)
Thou Dickinson! the patriot and the sage,
How much we owed to your convincing page:[A]
That page—the check of tyrants and of knaves,
Gave birth to heroes who had else been slaves,
Who, taught by you, denied a monarch's sway;
And if they brought him low—you planned the way.
Though in this glare of pomp you take no part
Still must your conduct warm each generous heart:
What, though you shun the patriot vain and loud,
While hosts neglect, that once to merit bowed,
Shun those gay scenes, were recent laurels grow,
The mad Procession, and the painted show;
In days to come, when pomp and pride resign,
Who would not change his proudest wreathes for thine,
In fame's fair fields such well-earned honours share,
And Dickinson confess unrivalled there!       [1788]

[A] The Farmer's Letters, and others of his truly valuable writings.—Freneau's note.

[372] John Dickinson (1732-1808), a lawyer in Philadelphia, and a member of the Colonial Congress of 1765 and of the Continental Congress of 1774, first came into wide prominence in 1767 through the publication of his series of papers entitled "Letters from a Pennsylvania Farmer to the Inhabitants of the British Colonies." From this time until his death he was a vigorous and voluminous publicist. His influence upon his times was very great. The text of the poem is from the 1809 edition.

PALEMON TO LAVINIA[373]

[Written 1788]

"Torn from your arms by rude relentless hands,
No tears recall our lost Alcander home,
Who, far removed by fierce piratic bands,
Finds in a foreign soil[A] an early tomb:

[A] Algiers, the piratical city on the coast of Barbary.—Freneau's note.

Well may you grieve!—his race so early done,
No years he reached, to urge some task sublime;—
No conquests made, no brilliant action won,
No verse to bear him through the gulph of time.

Amidst these shades and heart depressing glooms,
What comfort shall we give—what can we say;
In her distress shall we discourse on tombs,
Or tell Lavinia, 'tis a cloudy day?

The pensive priest accosts her with a sigh:
With movement slow, in sable robes he came—
But why so sad, philosopher, ah, why,
Since from the tomb alone all bliss we claim?

By pining care and wakeful sorrow worn,
While silent griefs her downcast heart engage,
She saw me go, and saw me thrice return
To pen my musings on some vacant page.

To learning's store, to Galen's science bred,
I saw Orestes rove through all the plain:
His pensive step no friendly genius led
To find one plant that might relieve your pain!

Say, do I wake?—or are your woes a dream!
Depart, dread vision!—waft me far away:
Seek me no more by this sky painted stream
That glides, unconscious, to the Indian bay.

Alcander!—ah!—what tears for thee must flow—
What doom awaits the wretch that tortured thee!
May never flower in his cursed garden blow,
May never fruit enrich his hated tree:

May that fine spark, which Nature lent to man,
Reason, be thou extinguished in his brain;
Sudden his doom, contracted be his span,
Ne'er to exist, or spring from dust again.

May no kind genius save his step from harms:
Where'er he sails, may tempests rend the sea;
May never maiden yield to him her charms,
Nor prattling infant hang upon his knee!

Retire, retire, forget the inhuman shore:
Dark is the sun, when woes like these dismay;
Resign your groves, and view with joy no more
The fragrant orange, and the floweret gay."

[373] First published in the 1795 edition. Text from the edition of 1809.

A NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS[374]

Though past events are hourly read,
The various labours of the dead,
In vain their story we recall,
The rise of empires, or the fall;
Our modern men, a busy crew,
Must, in their turn, have something new.
By moralists we have been told
That "Time himself in time grows old;
"The seasons change, the moons decay,
"The sun shines weaker every day,
"Justice is from the world withdrawn,
"Virtue and friendship almost gone,
"Religion fails (the clergy shew)
"And man, alas, must vanish too."
Let others such opinions hold,
(Since grumbling has been always old;)
All Nature must decay, 'tis true,
But Nature shall her face renew,
Her travels in a circle make,
Freeze but to thaw, sleep but to wake.
Die but to live, and live to die,
In summer smile, in autumn sigh,
Resume the garb that once she wore,
Repeat the words she said before,
Bow down with age, or, fresh and gay,
Change, only to prevent decay.
As up and down, with weary feet,
I travel each fatiguing street,
Meeting the frowns of party men,
Foes to the freedom of the pen,
And to your doors our sheets convey—
I sometimes think I hear you say,
"Ah, were it not for what he brings,
(This messenger of many things)
We should be in a sorry plight;
The wars of Europe out of sight,
No paragraphs of home affairs
To tell us how the fabric wears
Which Freedom built on Virtue's plan,
And Virtue only can maintain."
But something further you pretend,—
From want of money, heaven defend!
Leave that to those who sleep in sheds,
Or on the pavement make their beds,
Who clean the streets, or carry news,
Repair old coats, or cobble shoes—
Of every ill with which we're curs'd
This want of money is the worst:
This was the curse that fell on Cain,
The vengeance for a brother slain:
For this he quit his native sod,
Retreated to the land of Nod,
And, in the torture of despair,
Turn'd poet, pimp, or newsman there—
Divines have labour'd in the dark
To find the meaning of his mark:
How many idle things they wrote—
'Twas nothing but a ragged coat.
Should money, now, be scarce with you,
With me, alas, 'tis nothing new!
We news-men always are in need,
(So Beer and Bacchus have decreed)
And still your bounty shall implore
Till—printing presses are no more!—
Did we not conjure up our strain
The year might come and go again,
Seasons advance, and moons decay,
And life itself make haste away,
And news-men only vex their brains
To have their labour for their pains—
Such usage I may find, 'tis true,
But then it would be—something new!

[374] I have not been able to find the paper which first used these New Year's verses. The 1788 edition gave them the title "New Year's Verses for 1788. [Supposed to be written by the Printer's lad, who supplies the customers with his weekly paper.]" Text from the edition of 1795.

ON THE PROSPECT OF A REVOLUTION IN FRANCE[375]

"Now, at the feast they plan the fall of Troy;
"The stern debate Atrides hears with joy".
—Hom. Odys.

Borne on the wings of time another year
Sprung from the past, begins its proud career:
From that bright spark which first illumed these lands,
See Europe kindling, as the blaze expands,
Each gloomy tyrant, sworn to chain the mind,
Presumes no more to trample on mankind:
Even potent Louis trembles on his throne,
The generous prince who made our cause his own,
More equal rights his injured subjects claim,
No more a country's strength—that country's shame;
Fame starts astonished at such prizes won,
And rashness wonders how the work was done.
Flushed with new life, and brightening at the view,
Genius, triumphant, moulds the world anew;
To these far climes in swift succession moves
Each art that Reason owns and sense approves.
What though his age is bounded to a span
Time sheds a conscious dignity on man,
Some happier breath his rising passion swells,
Some kinder genius his bold arm impels,
Dull superstition from the world retires,
Disheartened zealots haste to quench their fires;
One equal rule o'er twelve[A] vast States extends,
Europe and Asia join to be our friends,
Our active flag in every clime displayed
Counts stars on colours that shall never fade;
A far famed chief o'er this vast whole presides
Whose motto Honor is—whom Virtue guides
His walks forsaken in Virginia's groves
Applauding thousands bow where'er He moves,
Who laid the basis of this Empire sure
Where public faith should public peace secure.
Still may she rise, exalted in her aims,
And boast to every age her patriot names,
To distant climes extend her gentle sway,
While choice—not force—bids every heart obey:
Ne'er may she fail when Liberty implores,
Nor want true valour to defend her shores,
'Till Europe, humbled, greets our western wave,
And owns an equal—whom she wished a slave.

[A] At this time, Rhode-Island was not a member of the general Confederation of the American States. [1788]—Freneau's note.

[375] This appeared first in the Daily Advertiser of New York, March 7, 1790. It is the first of Freneau's series of poems on the French Revolution and its message. Text from the edition of 1809.

TO A DOG[376]

Occasioned by putting him on shore at the Island of Sapola, for theft

Since Nature taught you, Tray, to be a thief,
What blame have you, for working at your trade?
What if you stole a handsome round of beef;
Theft, in your code of laws, no crime was made.

The ten commandments you had never read,
Nor did it ever enter in your head:
But art and Nature, careful to conceal,
Disclos'd not even the Eighth—Thou shalt not steal.

Then to the green wood, caitiff, haste away:
There take your chance to live—for Truth must say,
We have no right, for theft, to hang up Tray.

[376] First published in the National Gazette, Nov. 3, 1791. Sapola Island is one of the sea-islands of McIntosh County, Georgia, forty-two miles southwest of Savannah. The somewhat unusual proceeding of putting a worthless dog on shore, instead of the more common expedient of killing him at once, is only another evidence of the poet's kindly heart. Text from the edition of 1809.

TO LYDIA[377]

"Tu procul a patria, ah dura! inculta deserta,
Me sine, sola videbis——
Virg. Eclog.

Thus, safe arrived, she greets the strand,
And leaves her pilot for the land;
But Lydia, why to deserts roam,
And thus forsake your floating home!

To what fond care shall I resign
The bosom, that must ne'er be mine:
With lips, that glow beyond all art,
Oh! how shall I consent to part!—

Long may you live, secure from woes,
Late dying, meet a calm repose,
And flowers, that in profusion grow,
Bloom round your steps, where'er you go.

On you all eyes delight to gaze,
All tongues are lavish in your praise;
With you no beauty can compare,
Nor Georgia boast one flower so fair.

Could I, fair girl, transmit this page,
A present, to some future age,
You should through every poem shine,
You, be adored in every line:

From Jersey coasts too loth to sail,
Sighing, she left her native vale;
Borne on a stream that met the main,
Homeward she looked, and looked again.

The gales that blew from off the land
Most wantonly her bosom fanned,
And, while around that heaven they strove,
Each whispering zephyr owned his love.

As o'er the seas, with you I strayed,
The hostile winds our course delayed,
But, proud to waft a charge so fair,
To me were kind—and held you there.

I could not grieve, when you complained
That adverse gales our barque detained
Where foaming seas to mountains grow,
From gulphs of death, concealed below.

When travelling o'er that lonely wave
To me your feverish hand you gave,
And sighing, bade me tell you, true,
What lands again would rise to view!

When night came on, with blustering gale,
You feared the tempest would prevail,
And anxious asked, if I was sure
That on those depths we sailed secure?

Delighted with a face so fair,
I half forgot my weight of care,
The dangerous shoal, that seaward runs,
Encircled moons, and shrouded suns.

With timorous heart and tearful eyes,
You saw the deep Atlantic rise,
Saw wintry clouds their storms prepare,
And wept, to find no safety there.

Throughout the long December's night,
(While still your lamp was burning bright)
To dawn of day from evening's close
My pensive girl found no repose.

Then now, at length arrived from sea,
Consent, fair nymph, to stay with me—
The barque—still faithful to her freight,
Shall still on your direction wait.

Such charms as your's all hearts engage!
Sweet subject of my glowing page,
Consent, before my Argo roves
To sun-burnt isles and savage groves.

When sultry suns around us glare,
Your poet, still, with fondest care,
To cast a shade, some folds will spread
Of his coarse topsails o'er your head.

When round the barque the billowy wave
And howling winds, tempestuous, rave,
By caution ruled, the helm shall guide
Safely, that Argo o'er the tide.

Whene'er some female fears prevail,
At your request we'll reef the sail,
Disarm the gales that rudely blow,
And bring the loftiest canvas low.

When rising to harass the main
Old Boreas drives his blustering train,
Still shall they see, as they pursue,
Each tender care employed for you.

To all your questions—every sigh!
I still will make a kind reply;
Give all you ask, each whim allow,
And change my style to thee and thou.

If verse can life to beauty give,
For ages I can make you live;
Beyond the stars, triumphant, rise,
While Cynthia's tomb neglected lies:

Upon that face of mortal clay
I will such lively colours lay,
That years to come shall join to seek
All beauty from your modest cheek.

Then, Lydia, why our bark forsake;
The road to western deserts take?
That lip—on which hung half my bliss,
Some savage, now, will bend to kiss;

Some rustic soon, with fierce attack,
May force his arms about that neck;
And you, perhaps, will weeping come
To seek—in vain—your floating home!

[377] There is a discrepancy in the dates given to this poem. It was published in the Freeman's Journal, Sept. 3, 1788, with the preliminary remarks: "The following copy of verses came accidentally into my hands. I am told that it was written by Capt. Freneau and addressed to a young Quaker lady who went passenger in his vessel to Georgia to reside in the western parts of that State. From the New York Daily Advertiser." It was reprinted in the 1795 edition, and in the edition of 1809, where it has the note: "Miss Lydia Morris, a young quaker lady, on her landing from the sloop Industry, at Savannah, in Georgia, December 30th, 1806." I have followed the 1809 text.

TO CYNTHIA[378]

Through Jersey[379] groves, a wandering stream
That still its wonted music keeps,
Inspires no more my evening dream,
Where Cynthia, in retirement, sleeps.

Sweet murmuring stream! how blest art thou
To kiss the bank where she resides,
Where Nature decks the beechen bough
That trembles o'er your shallow tides.

The cypress-tree on Hermit's height,
Where Love his soft addresses paid
By Luna's pale reflected light—
No longer charms me to its shade!

To me, alas! so far removed,
What raptures, once, that scenery gave,
Ere wandering yet from all I loved,
I sought a deeper, drearier wave.

Your absent charms my thoughts employ:
I sigh to think how sweet you sung,
And half adore the painted toy
That near my careless heart you hung.

Now, fettered fast in icy fields,
In vain we loose the sleeping sail;
The frozen wave no longer yields,
And useless blows the favouring gale.

Yet, still in hopes of vernal showers,
And breezes, moist with morning dew,
I pass the lingering, lazy hours,
Reflecting on the spring—and you.

[378] This poem appeared in the Freeman's Journal, Jan. 29, 1789, under the title: "Stanzas written at Baltimore in Maryland, Jan. 1789, by Capt. P. Freneau." It was republished in the Daily Advertiser, Jan. 5, 1790, under the title "To Harriot." It was used in the editions of 1795 and 1809. The text follows the latter edition.

[379] "Monmouth's."—Ed. 1789. "Morven's vale."—Ed. 1790.

AMANDA'S COMPLAINT[380]

"In shades we live, in shades we die,
Cool zephyrs breathe for our repose;
In shallow streams we love to play,
But, cruel you, that praise deny
Which you might give, and nothing lose,
And then pursue your destined way.

Ungrateful man! when anchoring here,
On shore you came to beg relief;
I shewed you where the fig trees grow,
And wandering with you, free from fear,
To hear the story of your grief
I pointed where the cisterns are,
And would have shewn, if streams did flow!

The Men that spurned your ragged crew,
So long exposed to Neptune's rage—
I told them what your sufferings were:
Told them that landsmen never knew
The trade that hastens frozen age,
The life that brings the brow of care.

A lamb, the loveliest of the flock,
To your disheartened crew I gave,
Life to sustain on yonder deep—
Sighing, I cast one sorrowing look
When on the margin of the main
You slew the loveliest of my sheep.

Along your native northern shores,
From cape to cape, where'er you stray,
Of all the nymphs that catch the eye,
They scarce can be excelled by our's—
Not in more fragrant shades they play;—
The summer suns come not so nigh.

Confess your fault, mistaken swain,
And own, at least, our equal charms—
Have you no flowers of ruddy hue,
That please your fancy on the plain?—
Would you not guard those flowers from harm,
If Nature's self each picture drew!

Vain are your sighs—in vain your tears,
Your barque must still at anchor lay,
And you remain a slave to care;
A thousand doubts, a thousand fears,
'Till what you said, you shall unsay,
Bermudian damsels are not fair!

[380] First published in the New York Daily Advertiser, Sept. 7, 1790, under the title, "Written at Cape Hatteras," and dated June, 1789. The last line of this version reads, "Hatteras maidens are not fair." It was republished in the National Gazette, March 19, 1792, under the title "Tormentina's Complaint," and dated "Castle Island, Bermuda, Jan. 20, 1789." In the 1809 edition, the text of which I have followed, it was grouped with the Amanda poems.

HATTERAS[381]

In fathoms five the anchor gone;
While here we furl the sail,
No longer vainly labouring on
Against the western gale:
While here thy bare and barren cliffs,
O Hatteras, I survey,
And shallow grounds and broken reefs—
What shall console my stay!

The dangerous shoal, that breaks the wave
In columns to the sky;
The tempests black, that hourly rave,
Portend all danger nigh:
Sad are my dreams on ocean's verge!
The Atlantic round me flows,
Upon whose ancient angry surge
No traveller finds repose!

The Pilot comes!—from yonder sands
He shoves his barque, so frail,
And hurrying on, with busy hands,
Employs both oar and sail.
Beneath this rude unsettled sky
Condemn'd to pass his years,
No other shores delight his eye,
No foe alarms his fears.

In depths of woods his hut he builds,
Devoted to repose,
And, blooming, in the barren wilds
His little garden grows:
His wedded nymph, of sallow hue,
No mingled colours grace—
For her he toils—to her is true,
The captive of her face.

Kind Nature here, to make him blest,
No quiet harbour plann'd;
And poverty—his constant guest,
Restrains the pirate band:
His hopes are all in yonder flock,
Or some few hives of bees,
Except, when bound for Ocracock,[A]
Some gliding barque he sees:

[A] All vessels from the northward that pass within Hatteras Shoals, bound for Newbern and other places on Palmico Sound, commonly in favourable weather take a Hatteras pilot to conduct them over the dangerous bar of Ocracock, eleven leagues north southwest of the cape.—Freneau's note.

His Catharine then he quits with grief,
And spreads his tottering sails,
While, waving high her handkerchief,
Her commodore she hails:
She grieves, and fears to see no more
The sail that now forsakes,
From Hatteras' sands to banks of Core
Such tedious journies takes!

Fond nymph! your sighs are heav'd in vain;
Restrain those idle fears:
Can you—that should relieve his pain—
Thus kill him with your tears!
Can absence, thus, beget regard,
Or does it only seem?
He comes to meet a wandering bard
That steers for Ashley's stream.

Though disappointed in his views,
Not joyless will we part;
Nor shall the god of mirth refuse
The Balsam of the Heart:
No niggard key shall lock up Joy—
I'll give him half my store
Will he but half his skill employ
To guard us from your shore.

Should eastern gales once more awake,
No safety will be here:—
Alack! I see the billows break,
Wild tempests hovering near:
Before the bellowing seas begin
Their conflict with the land,
Go, pilot, go—your Catharine join,
That waits on yonder sand.

[381] Text from the edition of 1795. The poem seems to have appeared first in the Freeman's Journal of Dec. 9, 1789, with the title "The Pilot of Hatteras, by Capt. Philip Freneau." Affixed was the note: "This celebrated genius, the Peter Pindar of America, is now a master of a packet which runs between New York, Philadelphia, and Charleston. His tuneful numbers during the war did much to soften the disagreeable sensations which a state of warfare so generally occasions." The poem was reprinted in the National Gazette of Jan. 16, 1792, with the note, "Written off the Cape, July, 1789, on a voyage to South Carolina, being delayed sixteen days with strong gales ahead." The poem was omitted from the edition of 1809.

ST. CATHARINE'S[A][382]

[A] An island on the sea-coast of Georgia.—Freneau's note.

He that would wish to rove a while
In forests green and gay,
From Charleston bar to Catharine's isle
Might sigh to find the way!
What scenes on every side appear,
What pleasure strikes the mind,
From Folly's train, thus wandering far,
To leave the world behind.

The music of these savage groves
In simple accents swells,
And freely here, their sylvan loves
The feather'd nation tells;
The panting deer through mingled shades
Of oaks forever green
The vegetable world invades,
That skirts the watery scene.

Thou sailor, now exploring far
The broad Atlantic wave,
Crowd all your canvas, gallant tar,
Since Neptune never gave
On barren seas so fine a view
As here allures the eye,
Gay, verdant scenes that Nature drew
In colours from the sky.

Ye western winds! awhile delay
To swell the expecting sail—
Who would not here, a hermit, stay
In yonder fragrant vale,
Could he engage what few can find,
That coy, unwilling guest
(All avarice banish'd from the mind)
Contentment, in the breast!

[382] Text from the edition of 1795. The poem seems to have appeared first in the National Gazette of Feb. 16, 1792, under the title, "Lines written at St. Catharine's Island on the coast of Georgia, November, 1789." The poem is not found in the 1809 edition.

TO MR. CHURCHMAN[383]

On the rejection of his Petition to the Congress of the United States, to enable him to make a voyage to Baffin's Bay, to ascertain the truth of his Variation Chart

Churchman! methinks your scheme is rather wild
Of travelling to the pole
Where icy billows roll,
And pork and pease
Are said to freeze
Even at the instant they are boil'd.

Rejected, now, your humble, ardent prayer
For cash, to speed your way
To Baffin's frozen bay,
'Tis your own fault if you repine!
You should have mention'd some rich golden mine—
Not Variation Charts, that claim no care.

Avarice, alone, would sooner bid you go
Than all the inducements Art can shew:
The men, whom you petition for some dollars,
Tho' willing to be thought prodigious scholars,
Yet care as much for variation charts
As king of spades, and knave of hearts.

Churchman! 'tis best to quit this vain pursuit
This Variation is a common thing!
Rather attach yourself to Cæsar's wing—
You'll find it better—better, sir, by half,
To sooth Pomposo's ear—or make him laugh:
So shall you, mounted in a coach and six,
Ride envoy to the country of the Creeks—
So shall you visit Europe's gaudy courts,
And see the polish'd world, at public charge;
Return—and spend your life in sports,
Be air'd in coach, and sail'd in barge:—
Pursue this track, thou man of curious soul,
Nor, like a whale, go puffing to the pole.

[383] This poem is found only in the 1795 edition. The Journal of the House of Representatives, 1st Congress, 1st Session, April 20, 1789, notes the investigations of John Churchman in regard to the magnetic needle and the determination of longitude by his method and grants to Churchman the right of exclusive use of his invention. Unfavorable report on his petition for aid to enable him to make a voyage to Baffin's Bay to pursue his investigations of the causes of the variation of the magnetic needle.

THE PROCESSION TO SYLVANIA[384]

In Life's dull round, how often folks are cross'd,
Their projects spoil'd, their sayings misapplied;
Some friends in woods and some in oceans lost,
Some doom'd to walk on foot, while others ride.

But, now, let preachers moralize in verse,
While I to yonder caravan attend
That all prepar'd, like some slow moving herse
Begins its journey to an Indian land;

Bound for Sylvania!—sad, disheartening town,
When thou art nam'd how many a nymph will sigh,
Sigh, lest her sweet-heart should return a clown
With grizly homespun coat, long beard, and pumpkin pye.

This caravan with wondrous geer is stow'd,
All sorts of moveables—straw beds, and cradles,
Old records, salted fish, make up their load,
With kegs of brandy, frying pans, and ladles.

A pensive Printer in a one-horse chair
(Dragg'd slowly on by sullen sleepy steed,
With some ill-fated squires) brings up the rear,
Contriving future news for folks to read.

To guard the whole, a trusty knight appears,
With chosen men, to keep the wolves at bay:
They march—and lo! Belinda all in tears
That bears must hug instead of ladies gay.

[384] Published in the Daily Advertiser, Dec. 30, 1789, with this introduction: "The seat of government in South Carolina is removed by act of Assembly from Charleston to Columbia, a dismal place in the centre of that state consisting of only four houses. This removal is by many in Carolina considered as premature and amongst other animadversions has occasioned the two following poetic pieces which from several circumstances we conclude to have been written by Mr. Freneau." The title of the poem was originally "The Procession to Columbia." It was published only in the 1795 edition.

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS[385]

From his obscure abode,
On many a tiresome road
The pilgrim, musing, took his way:
Through dark and dismal groves
Where the sad turtle loves
To pass the night, and kill the day.

In an obscure retreat,
I saw the pilgrim greet,
A barren soil and dreary town;—
Thy streets be-gloomed with trees
With pain the traveller sees,
Sylvania, barren of renown.—

What can console him there?—
Not even a house of prayer
With glittering spire is seen to rise—
No nymphs in gaudy trim
Will there be seen by him;—
No music, sermons, balls, or pigeon pies.

Dull, melancholy streams,
Dutch politics and schemes,
Owls screeching in the empty street—
Wolves howling at the doors—
Bears breaking into stores;
These make the picture of the town—complete.

[385] In the Daily Advertiser of Dec. 30, 1789, this bore the title, "A View of Columbia," and the opening line was "From Charleston's gay abode." In the 1795 edition the title was changed to "Lysander's Retreat." Text from the edition of 1809.

SANGRADO'S EXPEDITION TO SYLVANIA[386]

Tir'd of his journey o'er a sandy waste,
Sangrado to Sylvania[387] came at last:
A bear-skin coat was round his carcase roll'd,
Shivering with northern winds,[388] that blew so cold:
Dark was the night—much for his shins he fear'd,
For not one lamp in all the town appear'd,
Twelve was the hour—the citizens, in bed,
Slept sound—of bears and wolves no more in dread;

No city-guards, no watchmen hove in sight,
No chyming bell sung out the time of night;
But foggy blasts their wintry music blew
Through shabby trees that round the court-house[389] grew;
At length, alighting at one scurvy dome,
He knock'd—and hop'd the people were at home.—

Ho!—(cry'd the man within) ho! who are you?—
What! heigh!—from Cambria?[390]—have you nothing new?—

Sangrado

Nothing at all—the times are shameful bad;
Money at ten per cent—hard to be had:
With apples and potatoes, our dear cousins
The northern men, are pouring in by dozens:
The French, 'tis said, will soon discharge their king—
This, friend, is all I know—and all I bring—

Citizen

What! not some oysters, gather'd near the coast,
Such as in days of old we lov'd to roast?

Sangrado

No, not an oyster—faith, you're in a dream,
To think I'd load my little nag with them:
We both are weary; let me in, I pray,
Even though you turn us out at break of day.

Citizen

'Tis midnight now—return from whence you come—
High time all honest people were at home.

Sangrado

Brother, me thinks my toes are somewhat cold—
Unbar your door—if one may be so bold:
Wet to the skin, and travelling all the day,
I want some rest—open the door, I say!

Citizen

Open the door, forsooth! the man is mad:
Lodging is not so easy to be had;
It is an article we do not trade in,
Nor shall my bed by all the world be laid in.
Our very hay-loft is as full as can be—
Push off, my friend, and try your luck at Granby.

[386] Published in the Daily Advertiser, Feb. 5, 1790, under the title "A Columbian Dialogue from the Charleston Gazette, supposed to have been written by Capt. Freneau." Text from the 1795 edition.

[387] "Columbia."—Ed. 1790.

[388] "Shivering with Hobaw winds."—Ib.

[389] "The State house."—Ib.

[390] "Charleston."—Ib.

THE DISTREST THEATRE[A][391]

[A] Harmony Hall, at Charleston, now demolished.—Freneau's note.

Health to the Muse!—and fill the glass,
Heaven grant her soon some better place,
Than earthen floor and fabric mean,
Where disappointment shades the scene:

There as I came, by rumour led,
I sighed and almost wished her dead;
Her visage stained with many a tear,
No Hallam and no Henry here!

But what could all their art attain?—
When pointed laws the stage restrain
The prudent Muse obedience pays
To sleepy squires, that damn all plays.

Like thieves they hang beyond the town,
They shove her off—to please the gown;—
Though Rome and Athens owned it true,
The stage might mend our morals too.

See, Mopsus all the evening sits
O'er bottled beer, that drowns his wits;
Were Plays allowed, he might at least
Blush—and no longer act the beast.

See, Marcia, now from guardian free,
Retailing scandal with her tea;—
Might she not come, nor danger fear
From Hamlet's sigh, or Juliet's tear.

The world but acts the player's part[B]—
(So says the motto of their art)—
That world in vice great lengths is gone
That fears to see its picture drawn.

[B] Totus Mundus agit Histrionem.—Freneau's note.

Mere vulgar actors cannot please;
The streets supply enough of these;
And what can wit or beauty gain
When sleepy dullness joins their train?

A State betrays a homely taste,
By which the stage is thus disgraced,
Where, drest in all the flowers of speech,
Dame virtue might her precepts teach.

Let but a dancing bear arrive,
A pig, that counts you four, or five—
And Cato, with his moral strain
May strive to mend the world in vain.

[391] Published in the National Gazette, Nov. 21, 1791, with the following explanation: "The amusements of the Theatre were some time since prohibited within the limits of the City of Charleston by an act of the Legislature of the State of South Carolina. In obedience to this act all subsequent dramatic exhibitions were removed to an obscure building in the City of liberties called Harmony Hall. The following stanzas owe their origin to the above edict." Text from the 1809 edition.

TO MEMMIUS[392]

Whoe'er at Court would hope to cut a dash,
He must go loaded with some useful trash,
Something, sage Dullness, to prolong your reign;
All fancy—stuff—all ornament is vain!
Happy the man who plans, by force of steam
To drive his boat twelve knots against the stream;
Still happier he, who, born to build a bridge,
Schemes mighty matters on some river's edge:—
Such to the world the noblest light impart,
The first in genius, and the first in art!
Hence, then, ye bards, from our wise court refrain;
Wiseacres have forestall'd the present reign:
"No empty scribblings we endure at court"
(Cries Publius, poring o'er a dull Report;)
"Nothing but useful projects we require,
(Cries a new-fangled, self-important 'squire)
"Even Churchman, with his chart, will just but do,
"Who to the pole will now all art pursue:
"For foreign courts have fail'd our men of song,
"And trust me, bards, the Muses went along;
"Since that bright morn they stept on board their brig,
"No Muses here—no Muses are with pig;
"Nor 'till their barque shall heave in sight, once more,
"Shall one true Muse grow pregnant on this shore!"
Now, had not wayward Fortune fix'd me fast,
Firm to a point, that never shall be pass'd;
Did I the smiles of Fortune still pursue,
And, Memmius, wish to rise in fame, like you,
Were this my scheme, I'd quit at once the sail,
And haste to court with compasses and scale,
Quit all the hopes the finer arts bestow,
The flowers of fancy, and—no fruits that grow;
Indulge that powerful something in the scull
That makes us wealthy while it keeps us dull,
To the best place ensures a certain claim,
The road to fortune, and the road to fame.

[392] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition. The reference to steamboats alludes to Fitch, who at that time was experimenting with steam navigation. In 1790 he completed his fourth boat, which during the summer made regular trips from Philadelphia to Burlington, at the rate of eight miles per hour.

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