human
Can you write me a poem about new york?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about new york:
  investigation of every other source of possible information.
The period during which Freneau resided at Princeton was a most
--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."
"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."
"Father Bombo's | Pilgrimage to Mecca in Arabia. | Vol. II. |
tedious Journey, | Till he once more returned safe to his native
Land, as related | by his own mouth. | Written By B. H. and
Mutato nomine
Fabula de te narratur--_Hor._
Change but the name
The story's told of you.
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.
Madison on account of ill health did not appear.
"If I am not wrongly informed by my memory, I have not seen you
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
"I have printed a poem in New York called the American Village,
are--A Poem to the Nymph I never saw--The miserable Life of a
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,
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.'
friendship, and the few persons I converse with and yet fewer,
whose conversation I delight in, make me regret the Loss of it. I
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
"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
truly humble Serv't and friend
The scene of Freneau's new labors was the famous old school near
Princess Anne, Md., which in 1779 was incorporated as Washington
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?
Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouthed train
Assisted by no poets of the plain.
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.
charmingly describes the spot.
always off shore. About two miles to the eastward of this town,
along the seashore, is the estate of Capt. Hanson, into which the
though all the rest of the shore is sharp craggy rocks. My
agreeable residence at this place for above two years, off and on
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
On April 1, 1778, Freneau sailed from Santa Cruz for the Bermuda
"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
"Friday morning, May 26. The air very smoky and the wind somewhat
About three o'clock in the afternoon we discovered three sail
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
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;
hindering it from becalming her as it did us) and began to bring
Captain Laboyteaut in the right thigh, which it smashed to atoms,
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
possession of the vessel."
countenances made it a pretty just representation of the infernal
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.'
possible moment, but on Thursday, June 1st, at the Commissioner's
"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
astern of us. We were then suffered to continue upon deck, if we
moment; one they tied by his neck-stock to the quarter rails, and
get it up or down. One, Murphy, possessed himself of Gauzoo's
schooner, though the people on board attempted to keep them off
with handspikes. The wind blowing fresh at south and the flood of
sentries got possession of the vessel again, which they had no
difficulty in doing, as there was no resistance made, they posted
hour without intermission. By the mercy of God they touched but
"The flag came alongside and cleared the hospital ship. But the
miseries we endured in getting to Elizabeth Town were many. Those
took possession of the hold. No prisoner was allowed to go to the
sleep out all night, which was uncommonly cold for the season.
came to discharge us.
"I was afflicted with such pains in my joints, I could scarcely
over the ferry and walked on as far as Molly Budleigh's, where I
stayed all night. Next morning, having breakfasted on some bread
gone through Mount Pleasant."
"SIR:--I take this opportunity to inform you that instead of
arriving, as I fondly promised myself, at the fragrant groves and
feelings to my stomach than the juice of the orange or more
nourishing milk of the cocoa."
despotic restraint in every one of the ancient nations of the
restraints which the jealous arm of despotism hath imposed on the
"That freemen may be made acquainted with the real state of their
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
From this time until June, 1784, Freneau resided principally in
"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 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
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."
"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.'"
"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."
Freneau remained in Jamaica until September 24, when he left for
"For freight to any part of this State or Georgia; for charter in
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."
Bailey wrote for the edition the following introduction:
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
more readily gives them to the world in their present form,
Freneau." The book was to be published as soon as five hundred
"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."
"To Mr. PHILIP FRENEAU, on his Volume of excellent POEMS,
Printed by Mr. BAILEY.
"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!
"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.
"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."
celebrated perpendicular Orrery.
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
acceptable with his volume of poems published last year. Some few
"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
every article upon deck, on the Wednesday afternoon following, in
family in New-Jersey, were both washed overboard and drowned,
notwithstanding every effort to save them. All my people besides,
upward of four feet of water was in the hold, fortunately our
bucket was saved, and with this we went to baling, which alone
"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
ready to sink with her heavy cargo of iron, besides other weighty
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
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,
month. It is possible, however, that I may be ordered to sell the
Your's &c.                      PHILIP FRENEAU."
"SIR: Amongst a number of my good natured acquaintance, who have
lately sympathized with me, on account of what they term my
When an old woman talks of witches, ghosts, or blue devils, we
another unfortunate, for the sake of two or three successive
disasters, which no prudence or foresight could have avoided, the
"Can you be serious, then in advising me to quit all future
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
several gentlemen, for reasons best known to themselves, and
perhaps not over willing to risque the uncertainties of the world
nevertheless, really capable of an European, nay of an India
misfortune to command._
"To be serious: misfortune ought to be only the topic of such men
things. Some writer says, it is but another name for carelessness
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
encountering the rubs and disasters of life, and I am entirely of
"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
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
Your's, &c.,                        P. FRENEAU."
"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."
"_Married_, on the fifteenth of April, at Middletown Point, East
New Jersey, Capt. Philip Freneau to Miss Eleanor Forman, daughter
During the next year and more Freneau, as editor of the _Daily
"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
"I remember, it was about the last fortnight that we served
together in Congress, in 1791, I one day called you aside, and
have turned against you, his terrible battery of the slanders and
"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
moderate knowledge of the French. Should anything better turn up
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,
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
"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
set up here, but failed."
It is a testimonial to the energy and the ability of Freneau that
"I am sincerely sorry that Freneau has declined coming here. Tho'
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
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."
"Some business detains me here a day or two longer from returning
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
fifty dollars a year, to commence from the time he shall take the
"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."
"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."
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
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
"The conduct of the Federal Executive of this country toward the
Republic of France, so far as it may appear inimical, has given
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."
contemporary enemies, and in later years quoted by Buckingham and
"The Editor of the _National Gazette_ receives a salary from
insinuations, to disturb the public peace?
This was the beginning of a series of anonymous attacks in the
"Personally appeared before me, Matthew Clarkson, Mayor of the
that officer, but that the Editor has consulted his own judgment
"Sworn the 6th August, 1772, before
which he could be appointed. I answered there were but four
clerkships, all of which I found full, and continued without any
translating clerk, did not choose to remove with us. His office
then became vacant. I was again applied to there for Freneau, and
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
could be obtained from any other public source. This I had
ineffectually attempted through the press of Mr. Fenno, while in
found their way too slowly into Mr. Fenno's papers. Mr. Bache
but in this too we failed. Freneau, as translating clerk, and the
wish how his press should be conducted, what sort of intelligence
presence of Heaven that I never did by myself, or any other, or
indirectly, say a syllable, nor attempt any kind of influence. I
about the time that the writings of Publicola, and the discourses
against the aristocratical and monarchial principles these papers
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
some before it appeared, and as I have with pleasure done for the
sufficiently in readiness for the duties of the office. As to the
ever will. If virtuous, it need not fear the fair operation of
attack and defence. Nature has given to man no other means of
"He [the President] adverted to a piece in Freneau's paper of
appointment of translating clerk to my office. But I will not do
President, not sensible of the designs of the party, has not with
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."
Washington even brought the affair into a meeting of the Cabinet,
them; that he could see in this nothing but an impudent design to
Frenchman had threatened to appeal from Washington to the people,
"With the present number concludes the second volume and second
It is upon this episode that the reputation of Freneau among the
"Freneau, your printer, linguist, &c., is regarded here as a mere
"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
associated with his in the controversy."
"Mr. Madison said: 'Freneau's paper was another cause of soreness
Every effort was made in Fenno's paper, and by those immediately
around him (Washington) to impress on his mind a belief that this
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
paper, which was devoted to monarchy, and had begun to publish
Fenno's paper. I never engaged in the party criminations.'"
"A number of persons in Freehold and other parts of Monmouth
they will if possible transfer their subscription to the
"I delayed acknowledging your favour long ago received, until I
could inform you of the prospects of Mr. Bailey in whose favor it
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
scenes for the shade and tranquility of your present life can
afford. Remember, however, as you have not chosen any longer to
On May the 20th following, Freneau continued the correspondence:
"My respected friend: By some accident your kind letter of April
honest man, which qualifications, I have thought, entitled him to
heartily laughed at, however, a few weeks ago in N. York, by some
that tried men's souls (as Paine says) and I believe never acted
otherwise than became the character in which he acted.--
events to the public through the medium of a newspaper: A variety
departure from that city after completing a two years
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
happiness with the lady whom you have chosen for your Companion
"Never was there a more interesting period than the present, nor
mind, examining into the natural and political rights of nations,
"At this time, when new Republics are forming and new Empires
renew his efforts for contributing, in some small degree, to the
general information of his fellow citizens in the present history
encourage literature, promote the interests, or enlarge the ideas
"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
"I see by this day's paper that my verses on General Washington's
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
The reason for these omissions has been often sought. Prof. C. F.
"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
before it can bring pleasure or profit.... I myself use to have
too great a hankering after those amusing studies. Poetry wit and
discover that they deserve but a moderate portion of a _mortal's_
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."
The first half of Freneau's life, as we have seen, was one of
"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."
"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."
"In number one of the Jersey Chronicle the editor announced his
intention of extending the publication beyond the first year,
having not yet appeared, scarcely to defray the expenses of the
return his sincere thanks to such persons in this and the
originally proposed, thus far enabled him to issue a free,
independent, and republican paper."
A letter written by Freneau from New York, to Madison, dated
interval better than in striking out here with some printer, if
such could be found, already engaged in supporting the good old
publication, and the New York Journal, twice a week; both on a
pretty respectable footing, and noted for a steady attachment 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.
eminence and ability. This I have in some small degree attempted
known upon motives of public as well as private utility.
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."
"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
"The _Time Piece and Literary Companion_ will on all occasions be
candor, decency, and liberality, their object such as to promote
the general good of our great Confederate Commonwealth, or the
circumstances whatever to consider truth, the moral and political
endeavors."
The paper is a tastily arranged and neatly printed sheet, and its
"A number of eccentric writings under the subsequent title and to
languages of this country. They were transmitted to him more than
him in a neighboring State, but discontinued with that paper. If
the contributions of a rude aboriginal of America shall appear to
Europe, particularly a work published by the British African
"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."
"The interesting travels of John Ledyard, with a summary of his
life, are now in the hands of the printer.
lettered. Calculated to contain between 400 and 500 pages. $2 per
The volume, whether from a failure to secure subscribers or other
Having heard that there was a tavern at about the distance of a
lest the dogs should make rather freer with my legs than I could
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
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
standing army, useless embassies, exorbitant salaries, given to
unaccountable--I could then, said I, still talking to myself, see
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
remainder of my adventure to another opportunity."
"Should these letters meet with a favourable reception in their
"Having been here [New York] a day or two and finding the brig
"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
next month for the same purpose for awhile. There are more cares
"I am sorry to have it to say that Freneau, with his wife and two
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
"My dear sir: The death of Col. Bauman of New York has left the
"Sailed from Charleston for Maderia with brig Washington, May 12,
"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
"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
congratulations on your late Election to the Presidency of the
United States, and my hopes that your weight of State Affairs may
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
printed, only; but I have a certainty, from the present popular
prose, but suspect that anything I have written in that way is so
"'Cum tot sustineas et tanta negotia solus
Res Italas armis tuteris, moribus ornes
Legibus emendes, in publica commoda peccem
Si longo sermone mores tua tempora, Caesar--'
"My best wishes, Sir, will ever await you, and in particular that
stormy than that of your predecessor."
judge by having it in their hand, and are less disposed to engage
destruction:
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
Set a going without my knowledge or approbation, last Winter. But
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
single hour.--This is the first Edition that I have in reality
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
"Will you be so good as to read the inclosed Verses? They were
published early in March last in the Trenton True American
On August 7, 1809, Freneau wrote finally to Madison:
"SIR,--The two Volumes of Poems that in April last I engaged to
loss how to have safely transmitted to you at your residence in
Virginia, where I find by the Newspapers, you mean to Continue
direction is not in my power."
"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:
Poems originating from the temporary events of the American war.
These Poems were intended, in part to expose to vice and treason,
"To his Countrymen, the real _Patriotic Americans_, the
_Revolutionary Republicans_, and the rising generation who are
might have been published, so as to include a great number of
and inserted in the body of the work, but not so as to materially
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.
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.
The author made almost no attempt to arrange the material
The text was taken largely from the 1795 version, and a few minor
foot-notes, and in division of the material into books.
The next few years of Freneau's life were spent quietly at Mount
"SIR,--Since my last return from the Canary Islands in 1807 to
Charleston and from thence to New York; with my Brigantine
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
reluctance I consented to gratify his wish, altho' I think after
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
will, and must, it seems. The Work cannot be very tedious, for in
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.
were put into a box well secured, and forwarded according to your
"That Edition was published by _Subscription_ merely for the
alone induced me to pay some attention to that third Edition.
"But, in mentioning these matters I fear I am intruding both on
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
compliments and regards."
On March 3d following, he writes again to Madison:
"SIR,--When I mentioned in my few lines to you, dated from my
think to have had a small box of them at Washington by the middle
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
unnoticed and almost unknown--At my time of life, 63!!! abounding
severity of the cold, which has been unremitting for more than a
month past, and perhaps to some other causes it would not be
"To-morrow morning I embark again for Monmouth, and among other
cares, when I arrive at my magical grove, I shall hasten to exert
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
myself.--Hoping that all health and happiness may attend you, and
"SIR,--Mrs. Anna Smyth, the Lady of Charles Smyth Esquire, a
respectable Citizen of this place, being to set out in a few days
"I have written to Mr. Carey, in Philadelphia, Book-seller there,
Revolutionary Poems, published in Philadelphia in the Summer of
hands.--I will only add, that any attention paid by you to Mrs.
Smyth, I will consider as conferred on myself."
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
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
typographical part as _correctly_ as possible."
"He depicts land battles and naval fights with much animation and
spirits and incited the valor of the British tars, the strains of
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.'"
"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."
"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
though a little inclined to stoop; his countenance wore traces of
grey. He was free of all ambitious displays; his habitual
expression was pensive. His dress might have passed for that of a
types and a printing press, when an incident of moment in the
Revolution occurred, he would retire for composition, or find
heard Jeffrey, the Scotch Reviewer, say of his writings, that the
command a commentator like Gray. On some of the occasions when
heightened by the rich funds of antiquarian lore possessed by the
"It is remarkable how tenaciously Freneau preserved the
patriot Freneau; he always firmly declined the painter's art, and
"Freneau was widely known to a large circle of our most prominent
wanderings, was ever uppermost in his mind and in his affections.
department of state, upon the organization of Congress, with
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
tolerant, frank in expression, and not deficient in geniality. He
anecdotes of the revolutionary crisis, and extensively acquainted
"It were easy to record a long list of eminent citizens who ever
gave him a cordial welcome. He was received with the warmest
bishop. They were allied by classical tastes, a love of natural
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
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
have got lost and mired in a bog where his lifeless corpse was
"He was a man of great reading and extensive acquirements; few
were more thoroughly versed in classical literature, and fewer
parties."
The house which Freneau occupied during his last years is still
The personality of Philip Freneau, if we judge from contemporary
"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
"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."
"The holy man by Bishops holy made."
"Long may Britannia rule our hearts again,
Rule as she ruled in George the Second's reign."
"No pent-up Utica contracts our powers,
But the whole boundless continent is ours."
"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."
fragments which were to strew his earlier volumes. How strong and
"The winds blow high; one other world remains,
Once more without a guide I find the way."
"Now shall the adventurous Muse attempt a theme
More new, more noble, and more flush of fame
Than all that went before."
"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."
"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!
"Beneath my feet substantial darkness lay,
And screams were heard from the distempered ground,"
"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?"
His poems of the war are in themselves a running history of the
"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."
"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
"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."
"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."
"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,"
In his use of his native land and his familiar surroundings as a
"Can we never be thought
To have learning or grace
Unless it be brought
From that damnable place?"
 Ann Maury's _Memoirs of a Huguenot_.
 In the possession of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania.
 Madison Papers, Vol. XIII. p. 9.
 Introduction to the 1846 edition of "Modern Chivalry."
 The _United States Magazine_, February number.
 In the possession of Miss Adele M. Sweeney, Jersey City.
 Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, August 20, 1788.
 Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, July 8, 1789.
 Randall's _Life of Jefferson_, vol. ii, 78.
 Randall's _Life of Thomas Jefferson_, ii, 81.
 Wallace Papers, vol. i. Pa. Hist. Soc.
 Madison Papers, vol. xxi, p. 70.
 In the possession of Adele M. Sweeney.
 In the possession of Mrs. Helen K. Vreeland.
 Madison Papers, xxxiv, p. 77.
 Madison Papers, vol. xxxv, p. 17.
 Morer. Horace, _Epistles_, Lib. ii, lines 1-4.
 Madison Papers, vol. liv, p. 49.
 Madison Papers, vol. liv, p. 49.
 Madison Papers, vol. lv, p. 5.
 Madison Papers, vol. lv, p. 77.
 Contributed to Duyckinck's _Cyclopaedia of American Literature_.
Versified (or rather paraphrased) from the sacred writings.
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,
"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.
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."
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.
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."
 Found only in the 1786, 1795, and 1809 editions of the poet. The
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.--
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,
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.--
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.
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."
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.--
"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!"
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?"
 From the 1809 edition of Freneau's poems. This piece does not
 The epilogue was first added in 1795.
_Debemur morti nos nostraque!_
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.
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,
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,
These ancient turrets to the heavens rais'd;--
But Babel's tower is gone, and these remain!
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.
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.
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.
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
And like the phantom snows of a May morning
Left not a vestige to discover them!
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?
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
O wretch, could not a humbler tomb have done,
Could nothing but a pyramid inter thee!
Perhaps old Jacob's race, when here oppress'd,
Rais'd, in their years of bondage this dread pile.
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
But suffer me to enter, and behold
The interior wonders of this edifice.
'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 Phoebus 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.
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,
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!
(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
perishes in the gulph below.
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.
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
Phoebus, 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!
Ah, faithless Phaon, thus from me to rove,
And bless my rival in a foreign grove!
Could Sicily more charming forests show
Did fairer fruits adorn the bending tree
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!--
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.
 This and the preceding line omitted from the later versions.
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,
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
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,
Caesar, Julius Caesar, there.
Now to Tempe's verdant wood,
Over the mid-ocean flood
Lo! the islands of the sea--
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,
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.
 From the edition of 1786. The later editions omitted all but the
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 Eurydice.
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 Eurydice!
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.
"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 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 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 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,
"And deep they quaff the inspiring bowl
"That kindles gladness in the soul.--
"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.
"But swift as changing goblets pass,
They bless the virtues of the glass."--_Ed. 1786._
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.
unvaried for the later editions.
Columbus was a considerable number of years engaged in soliciting
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;_
note_ (_1786_). _Venient annis secula seris, quibus
oceanus vincula rerum laxet, et ingens pateat tellus,
Typhisque novos detegat orbes; nec sit terris Ultima
"_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._"
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.
 According to the edition of 1786, this poem was "written 1770."
Being part of a Dialogue pronounced on a public occasion.
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
tyranny, and devastation on this side the Atlantic.--The more
comfortable one of Independence, Liberty and Peace.--Conclusion.
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 touched
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,
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,
(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,
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.
But whence arose
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,
When first these various nations, north and south,
Possest these shores, or from what countries came;
Whether they sprang from some primaeval 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 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 few
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 aether scarce our life maintains.
But here philosophers oppose the scheme:
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,
'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 joins
America's north point, the hardy tribes
Came over icy mountains, or on floats,
First reached these coasts, hid from the world beside.--
And yet another argument more strange,
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,
While then perhaps the deep Atlantic roll'd,--
Through the vast chasm, and laved the solid world;
And traces indisputable remain
Of this primaeval land now sunk and lost.--
The islands rising in our eastern main
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;
The other near the southern tropic rears
Its head above the waves--Bermuda's isles,
With fam'd Hibernia, are but broken parts
Of some prodigious waste, which once sustain'd
Nations and tribes, of vanished memory,
Forests and towns, and beasts of every class,
Where navies now explore their briny way.
Your sophistry, Eugenio, makes me smile;
The roving mind of man delights to dwell
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,
(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 much
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.
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,
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.
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,
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.
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,
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,--
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,--
But what a change is here!--what arts arise!
What towns and capitals! how commerce waves
Her gaudy flags, where silence reign'd before!
Speak, learned Eugenio, for I've heard you tell
The dismal story, and the cause that brought
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 soil
That never felt the industrious swain before.
All this long story to rehearse, would tire;
Besides, the sun towards the west retreats,
Nor loftiest verse--not that which sang the fall
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,
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.
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,
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 rest
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,
Or Apalachian mountains?--Yet what streams
Of blood were shed! what Indian hosts were slain,
Before the days of peace were quite restored!
Yes, while they overturn'd the rugged soil
And swept the forests from the shaded plain
'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,
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!--
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!
But why alone commemorate the dead,
And pass those glorious heroes by, who yet
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;
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 star
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,
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.--
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!--
Such is the curse, Acasto, where the soul
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 souls
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:
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 flow
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,
Allured the Olympian gods from chrystal skies,
Envying such lovely scenes to mortal man.
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:
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.
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,
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 life
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.
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.--
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 north
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,
And such the  toils of those whom heaven hath bless'd
With souls enamoured of a country life.
Such are the visions of the rustic reign--
But this alone, the fountain of support,
Would scarce employ the varying mind of man;
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,
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.
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:--
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.--
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,
Or old Olympus, crowned with waving woods,
Or Haemus' 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 divine
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 waves
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,
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!
Without whose aid the noblest genius fails,
And Science irretrievably must die.
But come, Eugenio, since we know the past--
What hinders to pervade with searching eye
The mystic scenes of dark futurity?
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 spread
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 years
And scenes unravel, only known to fate?
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,
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 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 Scipios, Solons, Catos, sages, chiefs
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,
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,
And ruin hovering o'er all monarchy!
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 presume
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.
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,
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,
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 sufficient
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----
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--
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 day
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,
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,
Pain, sickness, poverty, and natural death--
But into every wound that nature gave
They will a dagger plunge, and make them mortal!
Enough, enough!--such dismal scenes you paint,
I almost shudder at the recollection.--
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:--
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.----
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,
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,
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,
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,
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,
(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,
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 have
When ages, yet to come, have run their round,
And future years of bliss alone remain.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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 premoeval 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
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.
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,
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.
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
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.
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 daemons, 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,
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.
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.
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.
All this long story to rehearse would tire;
Besides, the sun toward the west retreats,
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.
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?
And he demands our lay who bravely fell
By Monangahela and the Ohio's stream;
By wiles o'ercome the hapless hero fell,
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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 Cithaeron's brow,
Or old Olympus crown'd with waving woods;
Or Haemus' 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
'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
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, Coelebe 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,
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.
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.
'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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
particularly glanced at.
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!
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!
Pacific Ocean, noted for the natural civilization of
its inhabitants.--_Freneau's note._
 The edition of 1786 has the date 1772 for this poem. Very little
Columbus making Maps[A]
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
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,
"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.
of the Antipodes.--_Freneau's note._
"'Midst yonder hills long time has stay'd
"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."
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--
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!
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._
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?
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
implicit believer and one of the must superstitious
bigots of his age.--_Freneau's note._
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?
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,
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.
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.
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.
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?--
Empty--even to the bottom, royal sir!
We have not coin for bare necessities,
Much less, so pardon me, to spend on madmen.
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]
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!
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,
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."
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!--
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
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!
A Sailor's Hut, near the Shore
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!
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.
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!
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!
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!
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!--
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!--
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!
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.
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.
"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!--     (_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,
"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--
"And never think of Ferdinand again."
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?
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!
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.
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!
_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.
lies about ninety miles S.E. from Providence; is one of
the Bahama cluster, and to the eastward of the Grand
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?
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!--
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,
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.
recovering its ancient name.--_Freneau's note._
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.
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._
Columbus visits the Court at Barcelona
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.
The merit of this gallant deed is mine:
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
Spain, he retired to Vallodolid, a town of Old Castile,
where he died, it is said, more of a broken heart than any
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?
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.
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.
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.
 First published in the edition of 1788, the text of which I have
 The four stanzas beginning "This world on paper idly drawn," are
"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?"
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!_'"
 Pictures II. and III. are omitted from later editions.
 The six lines beginning here are omitted in the later versions.
 This and the two preceding lines omitted in later versions.
 This and preceding line omitted in later versions.
 Two lines added in later editions:
"Small motes I see, from ebbing rivers borne,
And Neptune's waves a greener aspect wear."
 One line added in later versions:
"A Spanish ponyard thro' his entrails driven."
Written soon after an excursion to the village at that place in
August, 1775, under the character of Timothy Taurus, a student in
Timothy Taurus, Astrologer, in love with Tryphena.
Gubbin, a Tavern-keeper.
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,
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:
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 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,
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,
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,
"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!
"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."
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.
century ago.--_Freneau's note._
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._
its unfortunate manufacturing establishments.--_Freneau's
against Sisera. _Ancient History.--Freneau's note._
 Freneau mentions in this poem that it was printed in New York in
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.
_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 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.
From pirates sent out by command of the king
To murder and plunder, but never to swing.
Whom, if heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses.
From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of banditti,
Who plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city,
From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear,
The little fat man with his pretty white hair.
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 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, 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.
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.
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.
 Lord Dunmore was the last Royal Governor of Virginia. In April,
"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._
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
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,
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,
'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, 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;
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
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.
first discoverer.--_Freneau's note._
all British America.--_Freneau's note._
 This was published by Anderson in 1775. In Holt's _New York
Journal_ of July 6, it is advertised as just published. The
_Scene._--Boston, besieged by the Men of Massachusetts
Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart, unwounded, play,
For some must write, while some must speak;
So runs the world away!
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,
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?--
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.
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!
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
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.--
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!
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,
Change earth to steel, the sky to solid brass,
Let hosts combined, from Europe centering here,
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,
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;
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?--
Or shall I to Britannia's shores again,
And big with lies, conceal my thousands slain?--
Yes--to some distant clime my course I steer,
To any country rather than be here,
To worlds where reason scarce exerts her law,
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.
the Thirteen States.--_Freneau's note._
against the Colonial cause.--_Freneau's note._
dictatorial interference.
 This and the following line not in edition of 1775.
 To fight for Britons against Englishmen.--_Ed. 1775._
In such damn'd service to harass my brain.--_Ed. 1786._
 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."
A life like mine is of such mighty worth,
I'll wrong my king if I should sally forth.
 This and the following line is not in edition of 1775.
 Some trophy of my tedious victory.--_Ed. 1775._
 The Lordship of a manor I would scorn.--_Ed. 1775._
 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."
 Let hell-cats darting from some blackguard sphere.--_Ed. 1786._
 It shows they think their freedom lies at stake.--_Ed. 1775._
 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."
 This line, and the nine following, are not found in the edition
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,
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,
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,
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;
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 led
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?
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,
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;
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,
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,
Sent to be shrouded in untimely graves;
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 shore
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;
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 spill
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--
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,
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.
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 drawn
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!
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,
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;
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,
In prayer, besought the skies for elbow room--
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,
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,
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,--
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)
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--
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 army up--
Three thousand to twelve hundred thus to yield,
And twice five hundred stretched upon the field!--
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, to retreat,
The death you escaped my warmest blood congeals,
Heaven grant me, too, so swift a pair of heels--
In Chevy-Chace, as, doubtless, you have read,
Lord Piercy would have sooner died than fled--
Behold the virtues of your house decay--
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:
"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,
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,
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,
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,--
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 still
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--
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,
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,
(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!--
No British soldiers ever fought so brave--
Resolved I led them to the hostile lines,
(From this day famed where'er great Phoebus shines)
Firm at their head I took my dangerous stand,
Marching to death and slaughter, sword in hand,
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,
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.--
Now captains, generals, hear me and attend!
Say, shall we home for other succours send?
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,
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--
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,
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.
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?--
Come, let us plan some project ere we sleep,
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,
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,
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,
Then downward sunk to slumbers dark and deep,--
Each nerve relaxed--and even his guts asleep.
the first.--_Freneau's note._
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
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,
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?
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,
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,
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,
'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,
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 teems
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--
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;
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--
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,
And she be glorious--but ourselves as free!
Introductory reflections. A traveller undertakes a voyage to
Boston: arrives in a river of Massachusetts: has there a sight of
invisible; desires him to visit the town in that state and remark
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
waiting for posts and estates in America, as soon as they shall
Howe's speech concerning that action. Burgoyne's harrangue, with
communicates his intention of purloining cattle from the islands,
the camp. View of the Rifle-men, Virginians, &c. Speech of an
American soldier; his determined resolution, which is that of all
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 aether 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,
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,
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._
"His arm and pen of equal strength we call,
This kills with dullness, just like that with hall."
"(How could the skies refuse the pious man
When half the pray'r was blood! and death! and damn!)"
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.
"Farewell my steeds that stretch across the plain,
More swift than navies bounding o'er the main."
"Since then, this truth is by mankind confess'd,
That ev'ry Lord must yet be Pluto's guest."
"May no gay flowers or vernal blooming tree
Scent thy vile air or shade the face of thee!"
'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.
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,
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 Phoebus 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.
 This expression belongs to Burgoyne rather than Howe. "Burgoyne
 "I believe the fact, stripped of all coloring," Washington wrote
 "In this battle, in which not more than one hour was spent in
 Burgoyne, in one of his letters, declares that "a pound of fresh
 Gage's inertness and procrastination were a constant source of
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.
"Subjected to despotic rule
Once in this dome I went to school,
Where _Pedro Passive_ held his reign,
The tyrant of a small domain."
So long harassed by winds and seas,
'Tis time, at length, to take your ease,
Change ruffian waves for quiet groves
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.
"And seek a bride--for few can find
_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
Rebels you are--the British champion 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.
The hour draws nigh, the glass is almost run,
When truth will shine, and ruffians be undone;
When this base miscreant will forbear to sneer,
And curse his taunts and bitter insults here.
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, 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),
Receive no mercy from the parent [A]foe;
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!
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:
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;
So just, so virtuous is your cause, I say,
Hell must prevail if Britain gains the day.
 The first trace that I can find of this poem is in the Oct. 18,
 "The hopeful general."--_Constitutional Gazette._
indiscriminately into a common gaol appropriated for felons," and
 The _Gazette_ version adds here the lines,
"Nay, with himself, ere freedom sent to quell
Had seen the lowest lurking place of hell."
 "Their past records show."--_Ed, 1786._ "Gage already lets us
"Spoil'd of their shrouds and o'er Canadia's plains
Be hung aloft to terrify in chains."
 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."
Where the pheasant roosts at night,
Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,
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.
 "In groves of half distinguish'd light."--_Ib._
Being the Substance of His Excellency's Last Conference with his
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;
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.
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.
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?
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.
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
Not half!--you are a harmless man, I'm told--
Pray, cut them short--the supper will be cold.
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,
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?
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?
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.
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.
islands, the bells were rung as for victory."
 Alluding to the proclamation of June 12, five days before Bunker
 Washington had written to Gage, remonstrating against the cruel
or, Mariana's Complaint for the  Death of Damon
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.
which expedition he lost his life 
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?
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.
I said, My dear soldier, I beg you would stay;
But he, with his farmers, went strutting away--
With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
And I wept--for I thought he would never return.
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.
Not all the swains the land can shew,
(If Damon is not living now)
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.
Wedlock and death too often prove
Pernicious to the fires of Love:
With equal strength they both combine
Hearts best united 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
Must you live in sorrows drowned
For a lover under ground?
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,
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,
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!
Could you but a moment stray
In the meadows where I play,
You would die to come away.
Come away, and speed your wing--
Here we love, and here we sing!
You will not yet forget your glooms,
The heavy heart, the downcast eye,
The cheek that scarce a smile assumes,
The never-ending sigh!
Had you the secret cause to grieve--
That in this breast doth lie,
Instead of wishing to relieve
You would be just as I.
What secret cause have you to grieve?--
A lover gone astray?--
If one was able to deceive,
Perhaps another may.
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!
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,
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.
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 say?
Would say, while grinning malice sneers,--
She made a conquest by her tears!
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,
No love deceased shall rack my breast--
Come, then, Lucinda, and be blest.
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!
Weep, weep no more, my Jersey lass,
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.
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.
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.
On this dismal, cloudy day,
In these fighting times, I say,
Will you Yea, or will you Nay?
Oh! I will not tell you Nay,
You have such a coaxing way!
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,
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!
 This poem seems first to have appeared in the edition of 1786,
 "And, say what you please, he will never return."--_Ed. 1786._
"With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
And I wept, being sure he would never return."--_Ib._
"Then why should I longer my sorrows adjourn?--
You may call me a fool if he ever return."--_Ib._
 Not in the earliest version.
"Never yet was reason found
So distracted with love's wound
As to be in sorrow drown'd."--_Ib._
 Four lines beginning with this not in original version.
 "Shrouded all with darkness o'er."--_Ib._
"'Come away! and speed thy flight,
All with me is endless light.'"--_Ib._
"Let us, like them, forget our woe,
 "While laughing folly hears."--_Ib._
"If you had once a soldier's guise,
The splendid coat, the sprightly air,
You might seem charming in these eyes,
"His handsome shape, his manly face,
His youthful step in you I trace--
All, all I wish for, but the lace."--_Ib._
 The following eleven lines not in the original version.
 The 1786 version ended as follows:
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.
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:
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 would a pigmy fight?
What could thy slanderous pen with malice arm
To injure him, who never did thee harm?
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! foe to honest fame,
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,
Thus to be gall'd and slander'd by a dunce,
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,
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,
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,
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,
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,
Lest you, devoted to the infernal skies,
Descend, like Lucifer, no more to rise.--
Sick of all feuds, to Reason I appeal
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.
 "Thou bright genius." In each case where Mac Swiggen is used in
supplied in its place.
 Of the ninety-four remaining lines of the poem, fifty were taken
 This line and the one following not in the Clio-Whig satires.
 This line and the one following not in the Clio-Whig satires.
 This line and the seven following not in the Clio-Whig satires.
 This line and the seven following not in the Clio-Whig satires.
 Six lines not in Clio-Whig satires.
 The remainder of the poem not in the Clio-Whig satires.
ADVERTISEMENT--This Poem is founded upon the authority of
Scripture, inasmuch as these sacred books assert, that _the last
certainty of his doom, and represents to him in a pathetic manner
the visionary and fabulous part of the poem disappears. It
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!
Such was the dream the sage Chaldean saw
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?
Let others draw from smiling skies their theme,
And tell of climes that boast unfading light,
I draw a darker scene, replete with gloom,
I sing the horrors of the House of Night.
Stranger, believe the truth experience tells,
Poetic dreams are of a finer cast
Than those which o'er the sober brain diffus'd,
Are but a repetition of some action past.
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.
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.
Sweet vernal May! tho' then thy woods in bloom
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:
Dark was the sky, and not one friendly star
Shone from the zenith or horizon, clear,
Mist sate upon the woods, and darkness rode
In her black chariot, with a wild career.
And from the woods the late resounding note
Issued of the loquacious Whip-poor-will,[A]
Hoarse, howling dogs, and nightly roving wolves
Clamour'd from far off cliffs invisible.
never sings but in the night. Her note resembles the
name given to her by the country people.--_Freneau's
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.
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.
And by that light around the dome appear'd
A mournful garden of autumnal hue,
Its lately pleasing flowers all drooping stood
Amidst high weeds that in rank plenty grew.
The Primrose there, the violet darkly blue,
Daisies and fair Narcissus ceas'd to rise,
Gay spotted pinks their charming bloom withdrew,
And Polyanthus quench'd its thousand dyes.
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,
The cypress, with its melancholy green.
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.
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.
And here and there with laurel shrubs between
A tombstone lay, inscrib'd with strains of woe,
And stanzas sad, throughout the dismal green,
Lamented for the dead that slept below.
Peace to this awful dome!--when strait I heard
The voice of men in a secluded room,
Much did they talk of death, and much of life,
Of coffins, shrouds, and horrors of a tomb.
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 I
To hear the upshot of their conference.
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.
Dull were their feuds, for they went on to talk
Of _Anchylosis_,[B] and the shoulder blade,
Has been discuss'd by Cheselden or Meade:
_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
And often each, to prove his notion true,
Brought proofs from Galen or Hippocrates--
But fancy led me hence--and left them so,
Firm at their points of hardy No and Yes.
Then up three winding stairs my feet were brought
To a high chamber, hung with mourning sad,
The unsnuff'd candles glar'd with visage dim,
'Midst grief, in ecstacy of woe run mad.
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,
I heard a hollow voice of loud lament.
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.
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.
Around his bed, by the dull flambeaux' glare,
I saw pale phantoms--Rage to madness vext,
Wan, wasting grief, and ever musing care,
Distressful pain, and poverty perplext.
Sad was his countenance, if we can call
That countenance, where only bones were seen
And eyes sunk in their sockets, dark and low,
And teeth, that only show'd themselves to grin.
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 groans
Were mixt with words that did his fate deplore.
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.
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;
"Fixt is his doom--the miscreant reigns no more
"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.
"But since, my friend (said he), chance leads you here,
"With me this night upon the sick attend,
"You on this bed of death must watch, and I
"Will not be distant from the fretful fiend.
"Before he made this lofty pile his home,
"In undisturb'd repose I sweetly slept,
"But when he came to this sequester'd dome,
"'Twas then my troubles came, and then I wept:
"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.
"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.
"But let no slumbers on your eye-lids fall,
"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.
"The bleeding Saviour of a world undone
"Bade thy compassion rise toward thy foe;
"Then, stranger, for the sake of Mary's son,
"Thy tears of pity on this wretch bestow.
"'Twas he that stole from my adoring arms
"Aspasia, she the loveliest of her kind,
"Lucretia's virtue, with a Helen's charms,
"Charms of the face, and beauties of the mind.
"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.
"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.
"Sweet as the fragrance of the vernal morn,
"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!
"Such charms shall greet my longing soul no more,
"Her lively eyes are clos'd in endless shade,
"Torpid, she rests on yonder marble floor;
"Approach, and see what havock Death has made.
"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 mine
"May seize thy heart, and make thee wretched too.
"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!"
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.
But now this man of hell toward me turn'd,
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.
He talk'd of tomb-stones and of monuments,
Of Equinoctial climes and India shores,
He talk'd of stars that shed their influence,
Fevers and plagues, and all their noxious stores.
He mention'd, too, the guileful _calenture_,[C]
Tempting the sailor on the deep sea main,
That paints gay groves upon the ocean floor,
Beckoning her victim to the faithless scene.
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._
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,
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.
Then with a hollow voice thus went he on:
"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.
"But hark, my pitying friend!--and, if you can,
"Deceive the grim physician at the door--
"Bring half the mountain springs--ah! hither bring
"The cold rock water from the shady bower.
"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 again
"The cool wave bubbling from the yellow sand.
"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!"
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.
Quoth he, "These pills have long compounded been,
"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."
So down they went.--He rais'd his fainting head
And oft in feeble tone essay'd to talk;
Quoth he, "Since remedies have small avail,
"Assist unhappy Death once more to walk."
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,
Tho' sick, an endless quantity of food.
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.
"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.
"And see, the mizzling, misty midnight reigns,
"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."--
On my prest shoulders leaning, round he went,
And could have made the boldest spectre flee,
I led him up stairs, and I led him down,
But not one moment's rest from pain got he.
Then with his dart, its cusp unpointed now,
Thrice with main strength he smote the trembling floor;
The roof resounded to the fearful blow,
And Cleon started, doom'd to sleep no more.
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.
"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:
"And read, my Cleon, what these sages say,
"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."
But he, unmindful of the vain command,
Reason'd with Death, nor were his reasonings few:
Quoth he--"My Lord, what frenzy moves your brain,
"Pray, what, my Lord, can Sherlock be to you,
"Or all the sage divines that ever wrote,
"Grave Drelincourt, or heaven's unerring page;
"These point their arrows at your hostile breast,
"And raise new pains that time must ne'er assuage.
"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.
"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.
"O miscreant vile, thy age has made thee doat--
"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.
"Seek not for Paradise--'tis not for thee,
"Where high in heaven its sweetest blossoms blow,
"Nor even where, gliding to the Persian main,
"Thy waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow!
"Bloody has been thy reign, O man of hell,
"Who sympathiz'd with no departing groan;
"Cruel wast thou, and hardly dost deserve
"To have _Hic Jacet_ stampt upon thy stone.
"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.
"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:
"In vain with stars he deck'd yon' spangled skies,
"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!
"Even now, to glut thy devilish wrath, I see
"From eastern realms a wasteful army rise:
"Why else those lights that tremble in the north?
"Why else yon' comet blazing through the skies?
"Rejoice, O fiend; Britannia's tyrant sends
"From German plains his myriads to our shore.
"The fierce Hibernian with the Briton join'd--
"Bring them, ye winds!--but waft them back no more.
"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.
"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.
"A gloomy land, with sullen skies is thine,
"Where never rose or amaranthus grow,
"No daffodils, nor comely columbine,
"No hyacinths nor asphodels for you.
"The barren trees that flourish on the shore
"With leaves or fruit were never seen to bend,
"O'er languid waves unblossom'd branches hang,
"And every branch sustains some vagrant fiend.
"And now no more remains, but to prepare
"To take possession of thy punishment;
"That's thy inheritance, that thy domain,
"A land of bitter woe, and loud lament.
"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!"
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:
"Blame not on me the ravage to be made;
"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."
Up rush'd a band, with compasses and scales
To measure his slim carcase, long and lean--
"Be sure," said he, "to frame my coffin strong,
"You, master workman, and your men, I mean:
"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 find
"That mouldering mass of bones, my body, too!
"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."
"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."
To this said Death--"You might have ask'd me, too,
"Base caitiff, who are my executors,
"Where my estate, and who the men that shall
"Partake my substance, and be call'd my heirs.
"Know, then, that hell is my inheritance,
"The devil himself my funeral dues must pay--
"Go--since you must be paid--go, ask of him,
"For he has gold, as fabling poets say."
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 see
"A burying-yard of sinners dead, unblest.
"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.
"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.
"And on that stone engrave this epitaph,
"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.
"_Death in this tomb his weary bones hath laid,_
"_Sick of dominion o'er the human kind--_
"_Behold what devastations he hath made,_
"_Survey the millions by his arm confin'd._
"_Six thousand years has sovereign sway been mine,_
"_None, but myself, can real glory claim;_
"_Great Regent of the world I reign'd alone,_
"_And princes trembled when my mandate came._
"_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._
"_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 Caesars were the same to me!_
"_Traveller, wouldst thou his noblest trophies seek,_
"_Search in no narrow spot obscure for those;_
"_The sea profound, the surface of all land_
"_Is moulded with the myriads of his foes._"
Scarce had he spoke, when on the lofty dome
Rush'd from the clouds a hoarse resounding blast--
Round the four eaves so loud and sad it play'd
As though all musick were to breathe its last.
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,
Its azure blotted, and its stars o'ercast!
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.
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.
No more that elm its noble branches spread,
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.
Yet, mindful of his dread command, I part
Glad from the magic dome--nor found relief;
Damps from the dead hung heavier round my heart,
While sad remembrance rous'd her stores of grief.
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,
And screams were  heard  from  the  distemper'd ground.
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.
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.
An eagle's eye, with keenest glance to see,
And bade those distant sounds distinctly roll,
Which, waking, never had affected me.]
Oft his pale breast with cruel hand he smote,
And tearing from his limbs a winding sheet,
Roar'd to the black skies, while the woods around,
As wicked as himself, his words repeat.
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,
And the sea wrap him in its oozy bed.
"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.
"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."
Dim burnt the lamp, and now the phantom Death
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.
Trembling, across the plain my course I held,
And found the grave-yard, loitering through the gloom,
And, in the midst, a hell-red, wandering light,
Walking in fiery circles round the tomb.
Among the graves a spiry building stood,
Whose tolling bell, resounding through the shade,
Sung doleful ditties to the adjacent wood,
And many a dismal drowsy thing it said.
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:
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.
By laws protected, cruel and prophane,
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.
But heaven look'd on with keen, resentful eye,
And doom'd them to perdition and the grave,
That as they felt not for the wretch distrest,
So heaven no pity on their souls would have.
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,
With pride they were deceiv'd, and so to hell they went.
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,
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.
Each horrid face a grizly mask conceal'd,
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.
Before the hearse Death's chaplain seem'd to go,
Who strove to comfort, what he could, the dead;
Talk'd much of Satan, and the land of woe,
And many a chapter from the scriptures read.
At last he rais'd the swelling anthem high,
In dismal numbers seem'd he to complain;
The captive tribes that by Euphrates wept,
Their song was jovial to his dreary strain.
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.
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.
What is this Death, ye deep read sophists, say?--
Death is no more than one unceasing 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,
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 nurs'd
Takes some new form, to perish in an hour.
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.
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.
 The text is from the edition of 1786, which contains the only
"_Felix qui potiut rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorable Fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari._
"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."
"Tir'd of his long continued victory:
What glory can there be to vanquish those
Who all beneath his stroke are sure to die?"
"Haste, seize the wretch who my request denies.
Tophet receive him to thy lowest pit,
Chain'd midst eternal oaths and blasphemies."
"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."
The poet used the 1786 edition as a sort of quarry for his later
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.
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.
"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.
"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.
"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."
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.
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.
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 Phoebus glow'd his sultry face.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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;
"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?
"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?"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
Here, as of right, the priest prepar'd to rise,
And leave the corpse and gaping crowd below,
Like sultry Phoebus glar'd his flaming eyes,
Less fierce the stars of Greenland evenings glow.
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.
"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."
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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]
Quo non nata jacent._"--Senec. Troas.--_Freneau's note._
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.
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:
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.
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.
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!"
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?
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.
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.
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.
 As far as I can discover, this poem occurs only in the edition
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.
commonly, tho' erroneously included in the cluster of the
Virgin Islands; belonging to the crown of
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,
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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,
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.
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.
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!
Sweet, spungy plumbs on trees wide spreading hang,
Bell-apples here, suspended, shade the ground,
Plump grenadilloes and gueavas grey,
With melons in each plain and lawn abound.
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.
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,
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.
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.
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.
The spicy berry, they gueava call,
Swells in the mountains on a stripling tree;
These some admire, and value more than all,
My humble verse, besides, unfolds to thee.
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.
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.
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.
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,
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,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
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.
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.
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.
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--
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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 Galilean sea.
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.
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.
That plantane grove, where oft I fondly stray'd,
Thy darts, dread Phoebus, in those glooms to shun,
Is now no more a refuge or a shade,
Is now with rocks and deep sands over-run.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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?
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.
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?
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?
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?
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.
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.
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:
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.
Are grown so wedded to this globe below."
The happy flavour'd pine grows crested from the ground."
Supplies the want of snow-white Northern flour;
This grated fine, and steep'd in water fair,
Forsakes each particle of noxious power."
Where wretched he--the Ethiopian swain."
Where cruel slavery never sought to reign,
O quit thee them, my muse, and tell me why."
All nature smiles again serenely gay,
The beauteous groves renew'd--how shall I leave
My green retreat at Butler's verdant bay."
But murder marks the cruel Briton there--
Contented here I rest, in spite of pain,
And quaff the enlivening juice in spite of care."
Yon lagging sail drags slowly o'er the main,
Night and its kindred glooms are nought to me."
The bloody plains and iron glooms above,
Quit thy cold northern star, and here enjoy,
Beneath the smiling skies this land of love."
"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."
_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!
 This poem first appears in the 1795 edition, though the opening
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.
 First published in the _United States Magazine_ for September,
_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,
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,
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.
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;
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 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.
 From the edition of 1809. The poem was written, according to the
"Nor shall these upstarts of their loss complain,
Since all the debt we owe to Britain's throne
 "In this dark day of peril to the cause and to himself (at the
difficulties and buoyant in the darkest moment, that kept our
 "To herd with _North_, or _Bute_, or _Mansfield_ there,"--_Ed.
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!
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.
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!--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.
 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."
 This stanza and the next original in the edition of 1809.
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."
"As Philadelphians we are entitled to some preeminence for our
edition. It was probably written shortly after the launch of the
frigate.
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.
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!
 This poem was first published as a pamphlet in 1781, by Francis
Bailey of Philadelphia, in connection with "The Prison Ship."
 "His ancient honours fled."--_Ed. 1786._ This stanza was omitted
 "And lost what honour won."--_Ed. 1786._ "And lost what courage
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,
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.
 From the 1786 edition. In the 1795 edition the title was changed
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,
Caesaria's hills we saw at last,
And reach'd the land of lovely dames;
My charming Caelia there I found,
'Tis she my warmest friendship claims,
The fairest maid that treads the ground.
 Unique in the October number of the _United States Magazine_,