Part II, and made to refer to the Tories.

[261] "That I acted."--_Ed. 1795._

[262] "Rul'd me."--_Ib._

[263] "My PENSION is lost!"--_Ed. 1795._

[264] See page 120.

[265] See page 190.

[266]

"When all the town knew (and a number confess'd) That papers, like these, were no cause of arrest."--_Ed. 1795._

[267] "My struggles and strife."--_Ib._

[268] "To worry."--_Ib._

[269] In place of these lines, the edition of 1795 has the following:

"Old Argo the ship,--in a peep at her star, I found they were scraping her bottom for TAR."

[270] "A boy with a feather-bed troubled my rest."--_Ed. 1795._

[271] Royal Governor of New York. He arrived in the city March 21, 1780. He was considered harsh and arbitrary by the patriots.

A NEWS-MAN'S ADDRESS[272]

What tempests gloom'd the by-past year-- What dismal prospects then arose! Scarce at your doors I dar'd appear, So many were our griefs and woes: But time at length has chang'd the scene, Our prospects, now, are more serene.

Bad news we brought you every day, Your seamen slain, your ships on shore, The army fretting for their pay-- ('Twas well they had not fretted more!) 'Twas wrong indeed to wear out shoes, To bring you nothing but bad news.

Now let's be joyful for the change-- The folks that guard the English throne Have given us ample room to range, And more, perhaps, than was their own; To western lakes they stretch our bounds, And yield the Indian hunting grounds.

But pray read on another year, Remain the humble newsman's friend; And he'll engage to let you hear What Europe's princes next intend.-- Even now their brains are all at work To rouse the Russian on the Turk.

Well--if they fight, then fight they must, They are a strange contentious breed; One good effect will be, I trust, The more are kill'd, the more you'll read; For past experience clearly shews, That Wrangling is the Life of News.

[272] From the edition of 1795. The poem was first published as a broadside in 1784, with the title, "New-Year Verses, For those who carry the Pennsylvania Gazette To the Customers. January 1, 1784," and was reproduced almost verbatim in the 1786 edition.

NEW YEAR'S VERSES[273]

Addressed to the customers of the _Freeman's Journal_, by the Lad who carries it

January 7, 1784

Blest be the man who early prov'd And first contriv'd to make it clear That Time upon a dial mov'd, And trac'd that circle call'd a year;

Ere he arose, the savage, man, No bounds to years or seasons knew, On Nature's book his reckoning ran, And social festivals were few.

In after days, when folks grew wise New wonderments were daily found, Systems they built on pumpkin pies, And prov'd that every thing went round.

Experience shows they reason'd right, (With laurels we their tombs should crown) For half the world is in such plight That one would swear it upside down.

Now I am one, (and pray attend) Who, marching in a smaller sphere, To set you right, my service lend, By bringing Papers through the year,

Which to your Honours may impart A thousand new invented schemes, The works of wit, and toils of art, News, commerce, politics, and dreams:

Though in a sheet, at random cast, Our motley knowledge we dispose, From such a mass, in ages past, Have less substantial fabrics rose;

The Sybil wise, as Virgil says, Her writings to the leaves consign'd, Which soon were borne a thousand ways, Derang'd and scatter'd by the wind.

Not such neglect in me is seen-- Soon as my leaves have left the press I haste to bring them, neat and clean, At all times in a New Year's dress.

Though winds their ancient spite retain, And strive to tear them from my hold, I bear them safe through wind and rain, Despising heat, despising cold.

While thus employ'd, from week to week, You surely will not think it hard If, with the rest, I come to seek Some humble token of regard.

Nor will you deem my conduct strange If what I long have thought be true-- That life itself is constant change, And death, the want of something new.

[273] Text from the 1786 edition. The poem appears in the 1795 edition under the title "A News-Carrier's Petition."

THE HAPPY PROSPECT[274]

Though clad in winter's gloomy dress all Nature's works appear, Yet other prospects rise to bless the new returning year: The active sail again is seen to greet our western shore, Gay plenty smiles with brow serene, and wars distract no more.

No more the vales, no more the plains an iron harvest yield; Peace guards our doors, impells our swains to till the grateful field: From distant climes, no longer foes (their years of misery past) Nations arrive, to find repose in these domains at last.

And, if a more delightful scene attracts the mortal eye, Where clouds nor darkness intervene, behold, aspiring high, On Freedom's soil those Fabrics plann'd, on virtue's basis laid, That make secure our native land, and prove our toils repaid.

Ambitious aims and pride severe, would you at distance keep, What wanderer would not tarry here, here charm his cares to sleep! O, still may health her balmy wings o'er these fair fields expand, While commerce from all climates brings the products of each land.

Through toiling care and lengthen'd views, that share alike our span, Gay, smiling hope her heaven pursues, the eternal friend of man: The darkness of the days to come she brightens with her ray, And smiles o'er Nature's gaping tomb, when sickening to decay!

[274] This is Freneau's hymn of thanksgiving at the close of the war. Text from the 1795 edition, where, as far as I can discover, it was first published.

THE DYING INDIAN[275]

TOMO-CHEQUI

"On yonder lake I spread the sail no more! Vigour, and youth, and active days are past-- Relentless demons urge me to that shore On whose black forests all the dead are cast:-- Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song, For I must go to shades below, Where all is strange and all is new; Companion to the airy throng!-- What solitary streams, In dull and dreary dreams, All melancholy, must I rove along!

To what strange lands must Chequi take his way! Groves of the dead departed mortals trace: No deer along those gloomy forests stray, No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chace, But all are empty unsubstantial shades, That ramble through those visionary glades; No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend, But sickly orchards there Do fruits as sickly bear, And apples a consumptive visage shew, And withered hangs the hurtle-berry blue.

Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend! Wandering a stranger to the shores below, Where shall I brook or real fountain find? Lazy and sad deluding waters flow-- Such is the picture in my boding mind! Fine tales, indeed, they tell Of shades and purling rills, Where our dead fathers dwell Beyond the western hills, But when did ghost return his state to shew; Or who can promise half the tale is true?

I too must be a fleeting ghost!--no more-- None, none but shadows to those mansions go; I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore, For emptier groves below! Ye charming solitudes, Ye tall ascending woods, Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams, Whose aspect still was sweet, Whether the sun did greet, Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams-- Adieu to all!

To all, that charmed me where I strayed, The winding stream, the dark sequestered shade; Adieu all triumphs here! Adieu the mountain's lofty swell, Adieu, thou little verdant hill, And seas, and stars, and skies--farewell, For some remoter sphere!

Perplexed with doubts, and tortured with despair, Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep? Nature at last these ruins may repair, When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep Some real world once more may be assigned, Some new born mansion for the immortal mind! Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods, To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray, Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods, Beyond the Huron bay! Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low, My trusty bow and arrows by my side, The cheerful bottle and the venison store; For long the journey is that I must go, Without a partner, and without a guide." He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep, Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!

[275] Text from the edition of 1809. First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 17, 1784. It was inserted without change into the edition of 1786, where it bore the title: "The Dying Indian, or Last Words of Shalum. _March, 1784._ Debemur morti nos, nostraque." The two later editions were unchanged save in title.

LINES[276]

Intended for Mr. Peale's Exhibition

May 10, 1784

1

Toward the skies What columns rise In Roman style, profusely great! What lamps ascend, What arches bend, And swell with more than Roman state!

2

High o'er the central arch display'd Old Janus shuts his temple door, And shackles war in darkest shade; Saturnian times in view once more.

3

Pride of the human race, behold In Gallia's king the virtues glow, Whose conduct prov'd, whose goodness told, That kings can feel for human woe. Thrice happy France in Louis blest, Thy genius droops her head no more; In the calm virtues of the mind Equal to him no Titus shin'd-- No Trajan--whom mankind adore.

4

Another scene too soon displays! Griefs have their share, and claim their part, They monuments to ruin raise, And shed keen anguish o'er the heart: Those heroes that in battle fell Demand a sympathetic tear, Who fought, our tyrants to repell-- Memory preserves their laurels here. In vernal skies Thus tempests rise, And clouds obscure the brightest sun-- Few wreathes are gain'd With blood unstain'd, No honours without ruin won.

5

The arms of France three lillies mark-- In honour's dome with these enroll'd The plough, the sheaf, the gliding barque The riches of our State unfold.

6

Ally'd in Heaven, a sun and stars Friendship and peace with France declare-- The branch succeeds the spear of Mars, Commerce repairs the wastes of war: In ties of concord ancient foes engage Proving the day-spring of a brighter age.

7

These States defended by the brave, Their military trophies, see! The virtue that of old did save Shall still maintain them great and free: Arts shall pervade the western wild, And savage hearts become more mild.

8

Of science proud, the source of sway, Lo! emblematic figures shine; The arts their kindred forms display, Manners to soften and refine: A stately tree to heaven its summit sends And cluster'd fruit from thirteen boughs depends.

9

With laurel crown'd A chief renown'd (His country sav'd) his faulchion sheaths; Neglects his spoils For rural toils And crowns his plough with laurel wreaths: While we this Roman chief survey, What apt resemblance strikes the eye! Those features to the soul convey A Washington in fame as high, Whose prudent, persevering mind Patience with manly courage join'd, And when disgrace and death were near, Look'd through the black distressing shade, Struck hostile Britons with unwonted fear And blasted their best hopes, and pride in ruin laid.

10

Victorious virtue! aid me to pursue The tributary verse to triumphs due-- Behold the peasant leave his lowly shed, Where tufted forests round him grow;-- Tho' clouds the dark sky overspread, War's dreadful art his arm essays, He meets the hostile cannon's blaze, And pours redoubled vengeance on the foe.

11

Born to protect and guard our native land, Victorious virtue! still preserve us free; Plenty--gay child of peace, thy horn expand, And, Concord, teach us to agree! May every virtue that adorns the soul Be here advanc'd to heights unknown before; Pacific ages in succession roll, 'Till Nature blots the scene, Chaos resumes her reign And heaven with pleasure views its works no more.

[276] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, May 19, 1784, which the text follows. Practically unchanged for the later editions. The following description of this arch appeared in the _Journal_, May 12th:

"Monday at noon, the sheriff, attended by the proper officers, made proclamation of the Definitive Treaty of Peace concluded between America and Great-Britain. At the same time the state flag was hoisted on Market street wharf, and in the evening the transparent paintings which were designed in celebration of the general peace, and were to have been shewn on the 22d January last, but prevented by an unfortunate accident; being revived by subscription, and executed by the ingenious Mr. Peale, were exhibited, and afforded great satisfaction to many thousands of spectators.

The following is a Description of the Triumphal Arch and its ornaments:

THE Arch is fifty Feet and six Inches wide, and thirty-five Feet and six Inches high, exclusive of the Ballustrade, which is three Feet and nine Inches in height. The Arch is fourteen Feet wide in the clear, and each of the smaller Arches nine feet. The Pillars are of the _Ionic_ Order. The Entablature, all the other Parts, and the Proportions correspond with that Order; and the whole Edifice is finished in the Style of Architecture proper for such a Building, and used by the _Romans_. The Pillars are adorned with spiral Festoons of Flowers in their natural Colours.... [Then follows a half-column description of the various ornaments and devices.]

The whole Building illuminated by about twelve hundred Lamps."

THE HURRICANE[277]

Happy the man who, safe on shore, Now trims, at home, his evening fire; Unmov'd, he hears the tempests roar, That on the tufted groves expire: Alas! on us they doubly fall, Our feeble barque must bear them all.

Now to their haunts the birds retreat, The squirrel seeks his hollow tree, Wolves in their shaded caverns meet, All, all are blest but wretched we-- Foredoomed a stranger to repose, No rest the unsettled ocean knows.

While o'er the dark abyss[A] we roam, Perhaps, with last departing gleam, We saw the sun descend in gloom, No more to see his morning beam; But buried low, by far too deep, On coral beds, unpitied, sleep!

[A] Near the east end of Jamaica, July 30, 1784.--_Freneau's note._

But what a strange, uncoasted strand Is that, where fate permits no day-- No charts have we to mark that land, No compass to direct that way-- What Pilot shall explore that realm, What new Columbus take the helm!

While death and darkness both surround, And tempests rage with lawless power, Of friendship's voice I hear no sound, No comfort in this dreadful hour-- What friendship can in tempests be, What comfort on this raging sea?

The barque, accustomed to obey, No more the trembling pilots guide: Alone she gropes her trackless way, While mountains burst on either side-- Thus, skill and science both must fall; And ruin is the lot of all.

[277] First published in the April 13, 1785, issue of the _Freeman's Journal_, under the title, "Verses, made at Sea, in a Heavy Gale," and reprinted verbatim in the 1786 edition. In the August 20, 1788, issue of the _Journal_ the poem was republished in connection with the following note (in italics): "In that violent hurricane at Jamaica, on the night of the 30th of July, 1784, in which, no more than eight, out of 150 sail of vessels, in the ports of Kingston and Port-Royal, were saved, capt. Freneau was at sea, and arrived at Kingston next morning, a mere wreck. On that occasion, the following beautiful lines, extracted from the first volume of his writings, were penned." Text from the edition of 1809.

TO THE KEEPER OF THE KING'S WATER WORKS[278]

Near Kingston,[279] in the island of Jamaica, on being refused a puncheon of water

Written August, 1784

"_The celestial Deities protect and relieve strangers in every country, as long as those strangers respect and submit to the laws of the country._" --KIEN-LHI, _alias_ JOHN TUCK, _Viceroy of Canton_.

Can he, who o'er two Indies holds the sway, Where'er the ocean flows, whose fleets patrole, Who bids Hibernia's rugged sons obey, And at whose nod (you say) shakes either pole:--

Can he, whose crown a thousand jewels grace Of worth untold--can he, so rich, deny One wretched puncheon from this ample waste, Begg'd by his quondam subject--very dry?

Vast are the springs in yonder cloud-capt hill: Why, then, refuse the abundant flowing wave? Where hogs, and dogs, and keepers drink their fill, May we not something from such plenty crave?

Keeper!--must we with empty cask return! Just view the limpid stream that runs to waste!-- Denied the stream that flows from Nature's urn, By locks and bolts secur'd from rebel taste?

Well!--if we must, inform the royal ear, Poor are some kings that now in Britain live: Tell him, that Nature is no miser here; Tell him--that he withholds--what beggars give.

[278] From the edition of 1809. The poem seems first to have appeared in the _National Gazette_ of January 12, 1792, with the following note: "The following lines were written some years ago (Sept. 1784) on board the brig _Dromilly_, in Kingston harbour, Jamaica; and sent to the keeper of the King's waterworks, near Rock fort; who had refused the writer a puncheon of water from a reservoir that was, by royal order, appropriated to the use of the royal navy." The present text is somewhat varied from that in the edition of 1795.

[279] "Rock-Fort."--_Ed. 1795._

LINES[280]

Written at Port-Royal, in the Island of Jamaica

Here, by the margin of the murmuring main, While her proud remnants I explore in vain, And lonely stray through these dejected lands Fann'd by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands, Where the dull Spaniard once possess'd these shades, And ports defended by his Pallisades[A]-- Tho' lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh, Nor shall the Muse the unenvied gift deny. Of all the towns that grac'd Jamaica's isle This was her glory, and the proudest pile, Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise, And commerce swell'd her glory to the skies: St. Jago, seated on a distant plain, Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main, Unnotic'd streams her Cobra's[B] margin lave Where yond' tall plantains shade her glowing wave, And burning sands or rock surrounded hill Confess its founder's fears--or want of skill. While o'er these wastes with wearied step I go, Past scenes of death return, in all their woe,[281] O'er these sad shores in angry pomp he pass'd, Mov'd in the winds, and rag'd with every blast-- Here,[C] opening gulphs confess'd the almighty hand, Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land, Here, piles on piles an instant tore away, Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay, Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast, Or time to call the sexton, or the priest. Where yond' tall barque, with all her ponderous load, Commits her anchor to its dark abode, Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow To quench the sulphur of the caves below, Here midnight sounds torment the sailor's ear, And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts here,[282] Sad songs of woe prevent the hours of sleep, And Fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep; Dull Superstition hears the ghostly hum, Smit with the terrors of the world to come. What now is left of all thy boasted pride! Lost are thy glories that were spread so wide, A spit of sand is thine, by heaven's decree, And wasting shores that scarce resist the sea: Is this Port-Royal on Jamaica's coast, The Spaniard's envy, and the Briton's boast! A shatter'd roof o'er every hut appears, And mouldering brick-work prompts the traveller's fears; A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see, Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!-- One only inn with tiresome search I found Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round;-- His was the part to wait the impatient call, He was our landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all; His wary eyes on every side were cast, Beheld the present, and revolv'd the past, Now here, now there, in swift succession stole, Glanc'd at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl. No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids[283] Walk on these wastes or wander in these shades; To other shores past times beheld them go, And some are slumbering in the caves below; A negro tribe but ill their place supply, With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;[284] A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town, Where banish'd Tories come to seek renown, Where worn-out slaves their bowls of beer retail, And sun-burnt strumpets watch the approaching sail. Here (scarce escap'd the wild tornado's rage) Why sail'd I here to swell my future page! To these dull scenes with eager haste I came To trace the reliques of their ancient fame, Not worth the search!--what domes are left to fall, Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all-- All shall be lost!--tho' hosts their aid implore, The Twelve Apostles[D] shall protect no more, Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain; No priest shall mutter, and no saint remain, Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade, Where the dark negro his dull music play'd, Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand And points, still grieving, to his native land, Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore, And pants for countries he must see no more-- Where shall I go, what Lethe shall I find To drive these dark ideas from my mind! No buckram heroes can relieve the eye, And George's honours only raise a sigh-- Not even these walls a glad remembrance claim,[285] Where grief still wastes a half deluded dame, Whom to these coasts a British Paris bore, And basely left, lost virtue to deplore.-- In foreign climes detain'd from all she lov'd, By friends neglected, long by fortune prov'd, While sad and solemn pass'd the unwelcome day, What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay! Deceiv'd in all--for meanness could deceive-- Expecting still, and still condemn'd to grieve, She scarcely saw, to different hearts allied, That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride.-- Are griefs like thine to Florio's bosom known? Must these, alas, be ceaseless in your own?-- Life is a dream--its varying shades I see, But this base wanderer hardly dreams of thee. Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain, Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain; Where Nature still the toils of art transcends-- In this dull spot the fine delusion ends, Where burning sands are borne by every blast And these mean fabrics still bewail the past; Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside, And threatening moons advance the imperious tide:-- Ye stormy winds, awhile your wrath suspend, Who leaves the land, a bottle, and a friend, Quits this bright isle for yon' blue seas and sky, Or even Port-Royal quits--without a sigh!

_Sept. 1784._

[A] Pallisades a narrow strip of land about seven miles in length, running nearly from north to south, and forming the harbours of Port Royal and Kingston.--_Freneau's note, 1809 edition._

[B] A small river falling into Kingston Bay, nearly opposite Port Royal--and which has its source in the hills beyond Spanish Town.--_Freneau's note, 1809 edition._

[C] Old Port-Royal contained more than 1500 buildings, and these for the most part large and elegant. This unfortunate town was for a long time reckoned the most considerable mart of trade in the West Indies. It was destroyed on the 17th of June, 1692, by an earthquake which in two minutes sunk the far greater part of the buildings; in which disaster near 3000 people lost their lives.--_Freneau's note._

[D] A Battery so called, on the side of the harbour opposite to Port-Royal.--_Freneau's note._

[280] First published in the 1788 edition, the text of which I have followed. For the 1809 edition Freneau made numerous verbal changes. On an average, he changed a word in every line. No poem of Freneau's shows more clearly his peculiar mania for revision. In the 1795 edition the title is "Port Royal," in the 1809 edition it is "Written at Port Royal, in the Island of Jamaica--September, 1784."

[281] The edition of 1809 adds:

"Here _for their crimes_ (_perhaps_) in ages fled, Some vengeful fiend, familiar with the dead--"

[282] The edition of 1809 adds:

"Of ghosts all restless!--(cease they to complain-- More than a century should relieve their pain--)."

A footnote adds the comment: "A superstition, at present, existing only among the ignorant."

[283] "Handsome _Yankee_ maids."--_Ed. 1809._

[284] The edition of 1809 adds:

"That gloomy race lead up the evening dance, Skip on the sands, or dart the alluring glance: Sincere are they?--no--on your gold they doat-- And in one hour--for that would cut your throat. All is deceit--half hell is in their song And from the silent thought?--_You have done us wrong!_"

[285] This line and the fifteen following omitted from the later editions.

TO SIR TOBY[286]

A Sugar Planter in the interior parts of Jamaica, near the City of San Jago de la Vega, (Spanish Town) 1784

"_The motions of his spirit are black as night, And his affections dark as Erebus._" --SHAKESPEARE.

If there exists a hell--the case is clear-- Sir Toby's slaves enjoy that portion here: Here are no blazing brimstone lakes--'tis true; But kindled Rum too often burns as blue; In which some fiend, whom nature must detest, Steeps Toby's brand, and marks poor Cudjoe's breast.[A] Here whips on whips excite perpetual fears, And mingled howlings vibrate on my ears: Here nature's plagues abound, to fret and teaze, Snakes, scorpions, despots, lizards, centipees-- No art, no care escapes the busy lash; All have their dues--and all are paid in cash-- The eternal driver keeps a steady eye On a black herd, who would his vengeance fly, But chained, imprisoned, on a burning soil, For the mean avarice of a tyrant, toil! The lengthy cart-whip guards this monster's reign-- And cracks, like pistols, from the fields of cane. Ye powers! who formed these wretched tribes, relate, What had they done, to merit such a fate! Why were they brought from Eboe's[B] sultry waste, To see that plenty which they must not taste-- Food, which they cannot buy, and dare not steal; Yams and potatoes--many a scanty meal!-- One, with a gibbet wakes his negro's fears, One to the windmill nails him by the ears; One keeps his slave in darkened dens, unfed, One puts the wretch in pickle ere he's dead: This, from a tree suspends him by the thumbs, That, from his table grudges even the crumbs! O'er yond' rough hills a tribe of females go, Each with her gourd, her infant, and her hoe; Scorched by a sun that has no mercy here, Driven by a devil, whom men call overseer-- In chains, twelve wretches to their labours haste; Twice twelve I saw, with iron collars graced!-- Are such the fruits that spring from vast domains? Is wealth, thus got, Sir Toby, worth your pains!-- Who would your wealth on terms, like these, possess, Where all we see is pregnant with distress-- Angola's natives scourged by ruffian hands, And toil's hard product shipp'd to foreign lands. Talk not of blossoms, and your endless spring; What joy, what smile, can scenes of misery bring?-- Though Nature, here, has every blessing spread, Poor is the labourer--and how meanly fed!-- Here Stygian paintings light and shade renew, Pictures of hell, that Virgil's[C] pencil drew: Here, surly Charons make their annual trip, And ghosts arrive in every Guinea ship, To find what beasts these western isles afford, Plutonian scourges, and despotic lords:-- Here, they, of stuff determined to be free, Must climb the rude cliffs of the Liguanee;[D] Beyond the clouds, in sculking haste repair, And hardly safe from brother traitors there.--[E]

[A] This passage has a reference to the West India custom (sanctioned by law) of branding a newly imported slave on the breast, with a red hot iron, as an evidence of the purchaser's property.--_Freneau's note._

[B] A small negro kingdom near the river Senegal.--_Freneau's note._

[C] See Eneid, Book 6th.--and Fenelon's Telemachus, Book 18.--_Ib._

[D] The mountains northward of Kingston.--_Freneau's note._

[E] Alluding to the _Independent_ negroes in the blue mountains, who for a stipulated reward, deliver up every fugitive that falls into their hands, to the English Government.--_Ib._

[286] Text from the edition of 1809. The poem seems first to have been published in the _National Gazette_ of July 21, 1792, under the title, "The Island Field Hand," with the note: "Written some years ago at a sugar plantation in Jamaica." The present text contains numerous minor variations from the edition of 1795. The four lines beginning "The eternal driver" are original in the 1809 edition.

ELEGY ON MR. ROBERT BELL[287]

The celebrated humourist, and truly philanthropic Book-seller formerly of Philadelphia, written, 1786

By schools untaught, from Nature's source he drew That flow of wit which wits with toil pursue, Above dependence, bent to virtue's side; Beyond the folly of the folio's pride; Born to no power, he took no splendid part, Yet warm for freedom glowed his honest heart Foe to all baseness, not afraid to shame The little tyrant that usurped his claim: Bound to no sect, no systems to defend, He loved his jest, a female, and his friend:-- The tale well told, to each occasion fit, In him was nature--and that nature wit: Alike to pride and wild ambition dumb, He saw no terrors in the world to come. But, slighting sophists and their flimsy aid, To God and Reason left the works they made. In chace of fortune, half his life was whim, Yet fortune saw no sycophant in him; Bold, open, free, the world he called his own, But wished no wealth that cost a wretch a groan-- Too social Bell! in others so refined, One sneaking virtue ne'er possessed your mind-- Had Prudence only held her share of sway, Still had your cup been full, yourself been gay! But while we laughed, and while the glass went round, The lamp was darkened--and no help was found; On distant shores you died, where none shall tell, "Here rest the virtues and the wit of Bell."

[287] First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, February 28, 1787, with the explanation, "Written more than two years ago." The date in the title above, taken from the 1809 edition, is doubtless wrong.

"It is believed that Robert Bell, an Englishman or a Scotchman, who came to Philadelphia about 1772 or 1773, was the first person who kept a circulating library in this city. He had his place of business in Third street below Walnut. He was also one of the first to establish book auctions here, in which effort he met very serious opposition from the booksellers. He published several works prior to the Revolutionary War, but during that struggle he seems to have left the city. He died in Richmond, Va., Sept. 26, 1784."--_Watson's Annals._

He published Freneau's _American Independence_ in Philadelphia in 1778.

ON THE FIRST AMERICAN SHIP[288]

_Empress of China_, Capt. Greene

That explored the rout to China, and the East-Indies, after the Revolution, 1784

With clearance from Bellona won She spreads her wings to meet the Sun, Those golden regions to explore Where George forbade to sail before.

Thus, grown to strength, the bird of Jove, Impatient, quits his native grove, With eyes of fire, and lightning's force Through the blue aether holds his course.

No foreign tars are here allowed To mingle with her chosen crowd, Who, when returned, might, boasting, say They shewed our native oak the way.

To that old track no more confined, By Britain's jealous court assigned, She round the Stormy Cape[A] shall sail, And, eastward, catch the odorous gale.

[A] _Cabo Tormentosa_ (The Cape of Storms) so called by _Vasco da Gama_, and by the earliest Portuguese adventurers to India--now called the cape of Good Hope.--_Freneau's note._

To countries placed in burning climes And islands of remotest times She now her eager course explores, And soon shall greet Chinesian shores.

From thence their fragrant teas to bring Without the leave of Britain's king; And Porcelain ware, enchased in gold, The product of that finer mould.

Thus commerce to our world conveys All that the varying taste can please; For us, the Indian looms are free, And Java strips her spicy tree.

Great pile proceed!--and o'er the brine May every prosperous gale be thine, 'Till freighted deep with Asia's stores, You reach again your native shores.

[288] Text from the edition of 1809.

THE NEWSMONGER[289]

A Character

An insect lives among mankind For what wise ends by fate designed 'Tis hard, 'tis very hard, to find.

In pain for all, but thanked by few Not twice a year he gets his due-- Yet, patiently he struggles through.

Beneath some garret roof restrained To one dull place forever chained His word is, "little money gained."

The flowers that deck the summer field, The bloom of spring, too long concealed, To him no hour of pleasure yield.

His life is everlasting whim; The seasons change--but scarce for him-- On sheets of news his eyes grow dim.

He life maintains on self-esteem, He plans, contrives, and lives by--scheme-- And blots good paper--many a ream.

Distrest for those he never saw-- Of kings and nobles not in awe, He scorns their mandates, and their law.

Relief he finds for others' woes-- The wants of all the world he knows-- His boots are only out at toes.

Now, Europe's feuds distract his brains: Now, Asia's news his head contains-- But still his labour for his pains.

The river Scheldt he opens wide, And Joseph's ships in triumph ride,-- The Dutchmen are not on his side.

On great affairs condemned to fret,-- The interest on our foreign debt, He hopes good Louis may forget.

He fears the banks will hurt our trade; And fall they must--without his aid-- Meanwhile his taylor goes unpaid.

Our western posts, which Britons keep In spite of treaties, break his sleep-- He plans their capture--at one sweep.

He grumbles at the price of flour, And mourns and mutters, many an hour, That congress have so little power,

Although he has no ships to lose, The Algerines he loves to abuse-- And hopes to hear--some bloody news.

The French (he thinks) will soon prepare To undertake some grand affair-- So 'tis but war "we need not care."

Where Mississippi laves the plain He hopes the bold Kentucky swain, Will seize the forts, and plague Old Spain:

Such morning whims, such evening dreams! Through wakeful nights he plans odd schemes, To dispossess her of those streams.

He prophesies, the time must come When few will drink West India rum-- Our spirits will be proof at home.

The Tories on New Scotland's coast, He thinks may of full bellies boast In half a century--at most.

Then shakes his head, and shifts the scene-- Talks much about the "Empress Queen"-- And wonders what the Austrians mean?

He raves, and scolds and seems afraid The States will break by China trade, "Since specie for their tea is paid."

Then tells, that, "just about next June, Lunardi in his new balloon Will make a journey--to the moon."

Thus, all the business of mankind, And all the follies we might find Are huddled in his shattered mind.

'Till taught to think of new affairs, At last, with death, he walks down stairs, And leaves--the wide world to his heirs.

[289] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, February 21, 1787. In the 1809 edition, which the text follows, 1784 is given as the date of composition.

SKETCHES OF AMERICAN HISTORY[290]

This American world, all our histories say, Secluded from Europe, long centuries lay, And peopled by beings whom white-men detest, The sons of the Tartars, that came from the west.

These Indians, 'tis certain, were here long before ye all, And dwelt in their wigwams from time immemorial; In a mere state of nature, untutored, untaught, They did as they pleased, and they spoke as they thought--

No priests they had then for the cure of their souls, No lawyers, recorders, or keepers of rolls; No learned physicians vile nostrums concealed-- Their druggist was Nature--her shop was the field.

In the midst of their forests how happy and blest, In the skin of a bear or buffalo drest! No care to perplex, and no luxury seen But the feast, and the song, and the dance on the green.

Some bowed to the moon, and some worshipped the sun, And the king and the captain were centered in one; In a cabin they met, in their councils of state, Where age and experience alone might debate.

With quibbles they never essayed to beguile, And Nature had taught them the orator's style; No pomp they affected, not quaintly refined The nervous idea that glanced on the mind.

When hunting or battle invited to arms, The women they left to take care of their farms-- The toils of the summer did winter repay, While snug in their cabins they snored it away.

If death came among them his dues to demand, They still had some prospects of comfort at hand-- The dead man they sent to the regions of bliss, With his bottle and dog, and his fair maids to kiss.

* * * * *

Thus happy they dwelt in a rural domain, Uninstructed in commerce, unpractised in gain, 'Till, taught by the loadstone to traverse the seas, Columbus came over, that bold Genoese.

From records authentic, the date we can shew, One thousand four hundred and ninety and two Years, borne by the seasons, had vanished away, Since the babe in the manger at Bethlehem lay.

What an aera was this, above all that had passed, To yield such a treasure, discovered at last-- A new world, in value exceeding the old, Such mountains of silver, such torrents of gold!

Yet the schemes of Columbus, however well planned Were scarcely sufficient to find the main land; On the islands alone with the natives he spoke, Except when he entered the great Oronoque:

In this he resembled old Moses, the Jew, Who, roving about with his wrong-headed crew, When at length the reward was no longer denied, From the top of Mount Pisgah he saw it, and died.

These islands and worlds in the watery expanse, Like most mighty things, were the offspring of chance, Since steering for Asia, Columbus they say, Was astonished to find such a world in his way!

No wonder, indeed, he was smit with surprize-- This empire of Nature was new to their eyes-- Cut short in their course by so splendid a scene, Such a region of wonders intruding between!

Yet great as he was, and deserving no doubt, We have only to thank him for finding the rout; These climes to the northward, more stormy and cold, Were reserved for the efforts of Cabot the bold.

* * * * *

Where the sun in December appears to decline Far off to the southward, and south of the line, A merchant[A] of Florence, more fortunate still, Explored a new track, and discovered Brazil:

[A] Americus Vespucius.--_Freneau's note._

Good Fortune, Vespucius, pronounced thee her own, Or else to mankind thou hadst scarcely been known-- By giving thy name, thou art ever renowned-- Thy name to a world that another had found!

Columbia, the name was, that merit decreed, But Fortune and Merit have never agreed-- Yet the poets, alone, with commendable care Are vainly attempting the wrong to repair.

The bounds I prescribe to my verse are too narrow To tell of the conquests of Francis Pizarro; And Cortez 'tis needless to bring into view, One Mexico conquered, the other Peru.

Montezuma with credit in verse might be read, But Dryden has told you the monarch[B] is dead! And the woes of his subjects--what torments they bore, Las Casas, good bishop, has mentioned before:

[B] Indian Emperor, a tragedy.--_Freneau's note._

Let others be fond of their stanzas of grief-- I hate to descant on the fall of the leaf-- Two scenes are so gloomy, I view them with pain, The annals of death, and the triumphs of Spain.

Poor Atahualpa we cannot forget-- He gave them his utmost--yet died in their debt, His wealth was a crime that they could not forgive, And when they possessed it, forbade him to live.

Foredoomed to misfortunes (that come not alone) He was the twelfth Inca that sat on the throne, Who fleecing his brother[C] of half his domains, At the palace of Cusco confined him in chains.

[C] Huascar, who was legal heir to the throne.--_Ib._

* * * * *

But what am I talking--or where do I roam? 'Tis time that our story was brought nearer home-- From Florida's cape did Cabot explore To the fast frozen region of cold Labradore.

In the year fourteen hundred and ninety and eight He came, as the annals of England relate, But finding no gold in the lengthy domain, And coasting the country, he left it again.

Next Davis--then Hudson adventured, they say, One found out a streight, and the other a bay, Whose desolate region, or turbulent wave One present bestowed him--and that was a grave.

* * * * *

In the reign of a virgin (as authors discover) Drake, Hawkins, and Raleigh in squadrons came over While Barlow and Grenville succeeded to these, Who all brought their colonies over the seas.

These, left in a wilderness teeming with woes, The natives, suspicious, concluded them foes, And murdered them all without notice or warning, Ralph Lane, with his vagabonds, scarcely returning.

In the reign of king James (and the first of the name,) George Summers, with Hacluit, to Chesapeake came, Where far in the forests, not doomed to renown, On the river Powhatan[D] they built the first town.[E]

[D] James River, Virginia.--_Freneau's note._

[E] James Town.--_Ib._

Twelve years after this, some scores of dissenters To the northernmost district came seeking adventures; Outdone by the bishops, those great faggot fighters; They left them to rule with their cassocks and mitres.

Thus banished forever, and leaving the sod, The first land they saw was the pitch of Cape Cod, Where famished with hunger and quaking with cold They planned their New-Plymouth--so called from the old.

They were, without doubt, a delightful collection;-- Some came to be rid of a Stuart's direction, Some sailed with a view to dominion and riches, Some to pray without book, and a few to hang witches.

Some, came on the Indians to shed a new light, Convinced long before that their own must be right, And that all who had died in the centuries past On the devil's lee shore were eternally cast.

These exiles were formed in a whimsical mould, And were awed by their priests, like the Hebrews of old; Disclaimed all pretences to jesting and laughter, And sighed their lives through, to be happy hereafter.

On a crown immaterial their hearts were intent, They looked towards Zion, wherever they went, Did all things in hopes of a future reward, And worried mankind--for the sake of the Lord.

With rigour excessive they strengthened their reign, Their laws were conceived in the ill-natured strain, With mystical meanings the saint was perplext, And the flesh and the devil were slain by a text.

The body was scourged, for the good of the soul, All folly discouraged by peevish controul, A knot on the head was the sign of no grace, And the Pope and his comrade were pictured in lace.

A stove in their churches, or pews lined with green, Were horrid to think of, much more to be seen, Their bodies were warmed with the linings of love, And the fire was sufficient that flashed from above.

'Twas a crime to assert that the moon was opaque, To say the earth moved, was to merit the stake; And he that could tell an eclipse was to be, In the college of Satan had took his degree.

On Sundays their faces were dark as a cloud-- The road to the meeting was only allowed, And those they caught rambling, on business or pleasure, Were sent to the stocks, to repent at their leisure.

This day was the mournfullest day in the week-- Except on religion, none ventured to speak-- This day was the day to examine their lives, To clear off old scores, and to preach to their wives.

Their houses were forts, that seemed proof against light; Their parlours, all day, were the blackness of night: And, as if at their thresholds a cannon did roar, The animals hardly dared open their door 'Till the sun disappeared--then, like a mole's snout In the dusk of the evening, their noses popped out.

In the school of oppression though woefully taught, 'Twas only to be the oppressors they sought; All, all but themselves were be-deviled and blind, And their narrow-souled creed was to serve all mankind.

This beautiful system of nature below They neither considered, nor wanted to know, And called it a dog-house wherein they were pent, Unworthy themselves, and their mighty descent.

They never perceived that in Nature's wide plan There must be that whimsical creature called Man, Far short of the rank he affects to attain, Yet a link in its place, in creation's vast chain.

* * * * *

Whatever is foreign to us and our kind Can never be lasting, though seemingly joined-- The hive swarmed at length, and a tribe that was teazed Set out for Rhode-Island to think as they pleased.

Some hundreds to Britain ran murmuring home-- While others went off in the forests to roam, When they found they had missed what they looked for at first, The downfall of sin, and the reign of the just.

Hence, dry controversial reflections were thrown, And the old dons were vexed in the way they had shown; So those that are held in the work-house all night Throw dirt the next day at the doors, out of spite.

Ah pity the wretches that lived in those days, (Ye modern admirers of novels and plays) When nothing was suffered but musty, dull rules, And nonsense from Mather and stuff from the schools!

No story, like Rachel's, could tempt them to sigh, Susanna and Judith employed the bright eye-- No fine spun adventures tormented the breast, Like our modern Clarissa, Tom Jones, and the rest.

Those tyrants had chosen the books for your shelves, (And, trust me, no other than writ by themselves, For always by this may a bigot be known, He speaks well of nothing but what is his own.)

From indwelling evil these souls to release, The Quakers arrived with their kingdom of peace-- But some were transported and some bore the lash, And four they hanged fairly, for preaching up trash.

The lands of New-England (of which we now treat) Were famous, ere that, for producing of wheat; But the soil (or tradition says strangely amiss) Has been pestered with pumpkins from that day to this.

* * * * *

Thus, feuds and vexations distracted their reign, (And perhaps a few vestiges still may remain) But time has presented an offspring as bold, Less free to believe, and more wise than the old.

Their phantoms, their wizzards, their witches are fled, Matthew Paris's[F] story with horror is read-- His daughters, and all the enchantments they bore-- And the demon, that pinched them, is heard of no more.

[F] See Neale's History of New England.--_Freneau's note._

Their taste for the fine arts is strangely increased, And Latin's no longer a mark of the beast: Mathematics, at present, a farmer may know, Without being hanged for connections below.

Proud, rough, Independent, undaunted and free, And patient of hardships, their task is the sea, Their country too barren their wish to attain, They make up the loss by exploring the main.

Wherever bright Phoebus awakens the gales I see the bold Yankees expanding their sails, Throughout the wide ocean pursuing their schemes, And chacing the whales on its uttermost streams.

No climate, for them, is too cold or too warm, They reef the broad canvass, and fight with the storm; In war with the foremost their standards display, Or glut the loud cannon with death, for the fray.

No valour in fable their valour exceeds, Their spirits are fitted for desperate deeds; No rivals have they in our annals of fame, Or if they are rivalled, 'tis York has the claim.

Inspired at the sound, while the name she repeats, Bold Fancy conveys me to Hudson's retreats-- Ah, sweet recollection of juvenile dreams In the groves, and the forests that skirted his streams!

How often, with rapture, those streams were surveyed, When, sick of the city, I flew to the shade-- How often the bard, and the peasant shall mourn Ere those groves shall revive, or those shades shall return!

Not a hill, but some fortress disfigures it round! And ramparts are raised where the cottage was found! The plains and the vallies with ruin are spread, With graves in abundance, and bones of the dead.

The first that attempted to enter the streight (In anno one thousand six hundred and eight) Was Hudson (the same that we mentioned before, Who was lost in the gulph that he went to explore.)

For a sum that they paid him (we know not how much) This captain transferred all his right to the Dutch; For the time has been here, (to the world be it known,) When all a man sailed by, or saw, was his own.

The Dutch on their purchase sat quietly down, And fixed on an island to lay out a town; They modelled their streets from the horns of a ram, And the name that best pleased them was, New Amsterdam.

They purchased large tracts from the Indians for beads, And sadly tormented some runaway Swedes, Who (none knows for what) from their country had flown, To live here in peace, undisturbed and alone.

New Belgia, the Dutch called their province, be sure, But names never yet made possession secure, For Charley (the second that honoured the name) Sent over a squadron, asserting his claim:

(Had his sword and his title been equally slender, In vain had they summoned Mynheer to surrender) The soil they demanded, or threatened their worst, Insisting that Cabot had looked at it first.

The want of a squadron to fall on their rear Made the argument perfectly plain to Mynheer-- Force ended the contest--the right was a sham, And the Dutch were sent packing to hot Surinam.

'Twas hard to be thus of their labours deprived, But the age of Republics had not yet arrived-- Fate saw--though no wizzard could tell them as much-- That the crown, in due time, was to fare like the Dutch.

[290] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, December 15, 1784, under the pseudonym "K." Republished in the editions of 1795 and 1809. Text from the latter edition.

THE PROGRESS OF BALLOONS[291]

"_Perdomita tellus, tumida cesserunt freta,_ "_Inferna nostros regna sensere impetus;_ "_Immune coelum est, degnus Alcidae labor,_ "_In alta mundi spatia sublimes feremur._" --_Senec. Herc. Furens._

Assist me, ye muses, (whose harps are in tune) To tell of the flight of the gallant balloon! As high as my subject permit me to soar To heights unattempted, unthought of before, Ye grave learned Doctors, whose trade is to sigh, Who labour to chalk out a road to the sky, Improve on your plans--or I'll venture to say, A chymist, of Paris, will show us the way. The earth on its surface has all been survey'd, The sea has been travell'd--and deep in the shade The kingdom of Pluto has heard us at work, When we dig for his metals wherever they lurk. But who would have thought that invention could rise To find out a method to soar to the skies, And pierce the bright regions, which ages assign'd To spirits unbodied, and flights of the mind. Let the gods of Olympus their revels prepare-- By the aid of some pounds of inflammable air We'll visit them soon--and forsake this dull ball With coat, shoes and stockings, fat carcase and all! How France is distinguish'd in Louis's reign! What cannot her genius and courage attain? Thro'out the wide world have her arms found the way, And art to the stars is extending her sway. At sea let the British their neighbours defy-- The French shall have frigates to traverse the sky, In this navigation more fortunate prove, And cruise at their ease in the climates above. If the English should venture to sea with their fleet, A host of balloons in a trice they shall meet. The French from the zenith their wings shall display, And souse on these sea-dogs and bear them away. Ye sages, who travel on mighty designs, To measure meridians and parallel lines-- The task being tedious--take heed, if you please-- Construct a balloon--and you'll do it with ease. And ye who the heav'n's broad concave survey, And, aided by glasses, its secrets betray, Who gaze, the night through, at the wonderful scene, Yet still are complaining of vapours between, Ah, seize the conveyance and fearlesly rise To peep at the lanthorns that light up the skies, And floating above, on our ocean of air, Inform us, by letter, what people are there. In Saturn, advise us if snow ever melts, And what are the uses of Jupiter's belts; (Mars being willing) pray send us word, greeting, If his people are fonder of fighting than eating. That Venus has horns we've no reason to doubt, (I forget what they call him who first found it out) And you'll find, I'm afraid, if you venture too near, That the spirits of cuckolds inhabit her sphere. Our folks of good morals it wofully grieves, That Mercury's people are villains and thieves, You'll see how it is--but I'll venture to shew For a dozen among them, twelve dozens below. From long observation one proof may be had That the men in the moon are incurably mad; However, compare us, and if they exceed They must be surprizingly crazy indeed. But now, to have done with our planets and moons-- Come, grant me a patent for making balloons-- For I find that the time is approaching--the day When horses shall fail, and the horsemen decay. Post riders, at present (call'd Centaurs of old) Who brave all the seasons, hot weather and cold, In future shall leave their dull poneys behind And travel, like ghosts, on the wings of the wind. The stagemen, whose gallopers scarce have the power Through the dirt to convey you ten miles in an hour, When advanc'd to balloons shall so furiously drive You'll hardly know whether you're dead or alive. The man who at Boston sets out with the sun, If the wind should be fair, may be with us at one, At Gunpowder Ferry drink whiskey at three And at six be at Edentown, ready for tea. (The machine shall be order'd, we hardly need say, To travel in darkness as well as by day) At Charleston by ten he for sleep shall prepare, And by twelve the next day be the devil knows where[292]. When the ladies grow sick of the city in June, What a jaunt they shall have in the flying balloon! Whole mornings shall see them at toilets preparing, And forty miles high be their afternoon's airing. Yet more with its fitness for commerce I'm struck; What loads of tobacco shall fly from Kentuck, What packs of best beaver--bar-iron and pig, What budgets of leather from Conocoheague! If Britain should ever disturb us again, (As they threaten to do in the next George's reign) No doubt they will play us a set of new tunes, And pepper us well from their fighting balloons. To market the farmers shall shortly repair With their hogs and potatoes, wholesale, thro' the air, Skim over the water as light as a feather, Themselves and their turkies conversing together. Such wonders as these from balloons shall arise-- And the giants of old, that assaulted the skies With their Ossa on Pelion, shall freely confess That all they attempted was nothing to this.

[291] _Freeman's Journal_, December 22, 1784. The year 1782, in which Cavallo made his memorable experiments, may be taken as the initial date in the history of aerial navigation. In October, 1753, Rozier ventured upon the first balloon ascension, though he ventured only fifty feet from the ground. On November 21st of the same year, with the Marquis d'Arlandes, he made the first aerial expedition, ascending from the castle la Muette in the presence of a vast multitude and remaining in the air twenty-five minutes. Text follows the edition of 1786 which bears the date "1785."

[292] Freneau's wild dream has been realized, but not in the way which he indicated.

ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA[293]

And Peopling the Western Country

To western woods, and lonely plains, Palemon from the crowd departs, Where Nature's wildest genius reigns, To tame the soil, and plant the arts-- What wonders there shall freedom show, What mighty states successive grow!

From Europe's proud, despotic shores Hither the stranger takes his way, And in our new found world explores A happier soil, a milder sway, Where no proud despot holds him down, No slaves insult him with a crown.

What charming scenes attract the eye, On wild Ohio's savage stream! There Nature reigns, whose works outvie The boldest pattern art can frame; There ages past have rolled away, And forests bloomed but to decay.

From these fair plains, these rural seats, So long concealed, so lately known, The unsocial Indian far retreats, To make some other clime his own, When other streams, less pleasing, flow, And darker forests round him grow.

Great Sire[A] of floods! whose varied wave Through climes and countries takes its way, To whom creating Nature gave Ten thousand streams to swell thy sway! No longer shall they useless prove, Nor idly through the forests rove;

[A] Mississippi.--_Freneau's note._

Nor longer shall your princely flood From distant lakes be swelled in vain, Nor longer through a darksome wood Advance, unnoticed, to the main, Far other ends, the heavens decree-- And commerce plans new freights for thee.

While virtue warms the generous breast, There heaven-born freedom shall reside, Nor shall the voice of war molest, Nor Europe's all-aspiring pride-- There Reason shall new laws devise, And order from confusion rise.

Forsaking kings and regal state, With all their pomp and fancied bliss,[294] The traveller owns, convinced though late, No realm so free, so blest as this-- The east is half to slaves consigned, Where kings and priests enchain the mind.[295]

O come the time, and haste the day, When man shall man no longer crush, When Reason shall enforce her sway, Nor these fair regions raise our blush, Where still the African complains, And mourns his yet unbroken chains.

Far brighter scenes a future age, The muse predicts, these States will hail, Whose genius may the world engage, Whose deeds may over death prevail, And happier systems bring to view, Than all the eastern sages knew. [1784.]

[293] First published in Bailey's _Pocket Almanac_ for 1785, and reprinted almost without change in the later editions of Freneau. Text from the edition of 1809.

[294] (A debt that reason deems amiss).--_Ed. 1786._

[295] And half to slavery more refin'd.--_Ib._

THE SEASONS MORALIZED[296]

They who to warmer regions run, May bless the favour of the sun, But seek in vain what charms us here, Life's picture, varying with the year.

Spring, and her wanton train advance Like Youth to lead the festive dance, All, all her scenes are mirth and play, And blushing blossoms own her sway.

The Summer next (those blossoms blown) Brings on the fruits that spring had sown, Thus men advance, impelled by time, And Nature triumphs in her prime.

Then Autumn crowns the beauteous year, The groves a sicklier aspect wear; And mournful she (the lot of all) Matures her fruits, to make them fall.

Clad in the vestments of a tomb, Old age is only Winter's gloom-- Winter, alas! shall spring restore, But youth returns to man no more.

[296] First published in Bailey's _Pocket Almanac_ for 1785. The edition of 1809 is used.

ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL LAURENS[297]

Since on her plains this generous chief expired, Whom sages honoured, and whom France admired;[298] Does Fame no statues to his memory raise, Nor swells one column to record his praise Where her palmetto shades the adjacent deeps, Affection sighs, and Carolina weeps! Thou, who shalt stray where death this chief confines, Revere the patriot, subject of these lines: Not from the dust the muse transcribes his name, And more than marble shall declare his fame Where scenes more glorious his great soul engage, Confest thrice worthy in that closing page When conquering Time to dark oblivion calls, The marble totters, and the column falls. LAURENS! thy tomb while kindred hands adorn, Let northern muses, too, inscribe your urn.-- Of all, whose names on death's black list appear, No chief, that perished, claimed more grief sincere, Not one, Columbia, that thy bosom bore, More tears commanded, or deserved them more! Grief at his tomb shall heave the unwearied sigh, And honour lift the mantle to her eye: Fame through the world his patriot name shall spread, By heroes envied and by monarchs read: Just, generous, brave--to each true heart allied: The Briton's terror, and his country's pride; For him the tears of war-worn soldiers ran, The friend of freedom, and the friend of man. Then what is death, compared with such a tomb, Where honour fades not, and fair virtues bloom; When silent grief on every face appears, The tender tribute of a nation's tears; Ah! what is death, when deeds like his, thus claim The brave man's homage, and immortal fame!

[297] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, October 17, 1787, introduced as follows:

"Mr. BAILEY,

The subsequent lines were written two or three years after the event that occasioned them, but have never been printed. If you think them in any degree worthy of the memory of the patriotic young officer they attempt to celebrate (and whose death has been so deeply regretted throughout America) I must request you to insert them in your Journal. A. B."

The 1788 edition prints the poem with this title: "To the Memory of the brave, accomplished and patriotic Col. JOHN LAURENS, Who in the 27th year of his age, was killed in an engagement with a detachment of the British from Charleston, near the river Cambahee, in South Carolina, _August 1782_." The text follows the edition of 1809.

[298] In 1780 Laurens was sent by Congress on a mission to France for a loan and supplies, in which he was successful.

ON THE VICISSITUDES OF THINGS[299]

"The constant lapse of rolling years Awakes our hopes, provokes our fears Of something yet unknown; We saw the last year pass away, But who, that lives can safely say, The next shall be his own?"

So hundreds talk--and thousands more Descant their moral doctrines o'er; And when the preaching's done, Each goes his various, wonted way, To labour some, and some to play-- So goes the folly on.

How swift the vagrant seasons fly; They're hardly born before they die, Yet in their wild career, Like atoms round the rapid wheel, We seem the same, though changing still, Mere reptiles of a year.

Some haste to seek a wealthy bride, Some, rhymes to make on one that died; And millions curse the day, When first in Hymen's silken bands The parson joined mistaken hands, And bade the bride obey.

While sad Amelia vents her sighs, In epitaphs and elegies, For her departed dear, Who would suppose the muffled bell, And mourning gowns, were meant to tell, Her grief will last--a year?

In folly's path how many meet-- What hosts will live to lie and cheat-- How many empty pates May, in this wise, eventful year, In native dignity appear To manage Rising States!

How vain to sigh!--the wheel must on And straws are to the whirlpool drawn, With ships of gallant mien-- What has been once, may time restore; What now exists, has been before-- Years only change the scene.

In endless circles all things move; Below, about, far off, above, This motion all attain-- If Folly's self should flit away, She would return some New year's day, With millions in her train.

Sun, moon, and stars, are each a sphere, The earth the same, (or very near), Sir Isaac has defined-- In circles each coin is cast, And hence our cash departs so fast, Cash--that no charm can bind.

From you to us--from us it rolls To comfort other cloudy souls:-- If again we make it square,[A] Perhaps the uneasy guest will stay To cheer us in some wintry day, And smooth the brow of care.

[A] The old Continental.--_Freneau's note._

[299] This appeared first as the regular New Year's sheet of the _Freeman's Journal_, January 1, 1785. Its original title was, "New Year's Verses, addressed to the Customers of the Freeman's Journal by the Lad who carries it." Text from the edition of 1809.

PEWTER-PLATTER ALLEY[300]

In Philadelphia

(As it appeared in January, 1784)

From Christ-Church graves, across the way, A dismal, horrid place is found, Where rushing winds exert their sway, And Greenland winter chills the ground: No blossoms there are seen to bloom, No sun pervades the dreary gloom!

The people of that gloomy place In penance for some ancient crime Are held in a too narrow space, Like those beyond the bounds of time, Who darkened still, perceive no day, While seasons waste, and moons decay.

Cold as the shade that wraps them round, This icy region prompts our fear; And he who treads this frozen ground Shall curse the chance that brought him here-- The slippery mass predicts his fate, A broken arm, a wounded pate.

When August sheds his sultry beam, May Celia never find this place, Nor see, upon the clouded stream, The fading summer in her face; And may she ne'er discover there The grey that mingles with her hair.

The watchman sad, whose drowsy call Proclaims the hour forever fled, Avoids this path to Pluto's hall; For who would wish to wake the dead!-- Still let them sleep--it is no crime-- They pay no tax to know the time.

No coaches here, in glittering pride, Convey their freight to take the air, No gods nor heroes here reside, Nor powdered beau, nor lady fair-- All, all to warmer regions flee, And leave the glooms to Towne[A] and me.

[A] BENJAMIN TOWNE, then Printer of the EVENING POST.--_Freneau's note._

[300] _Freeman's Journal_, February 23, 1795.

ON THE DEATH OF THE REPUBLICAN PATRIOT AND STATESMAN, GENERAL JOSEPH REED[A]

[A] First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 9, 1785, with the following introduction:

"On Saturday morning last [March 5] departed this life in the forty-third year of his age, GENERAL JOSEPH REED, Esq., formerly President of this State; and on Sunday his remains were interred in the Presbyterian burying ground in Arch Street. His funeral was attended by his excellency the President and the Superior Executive Council, the Honourable the Speaker and the General Assembly, the Militia Officers and a greater number of citizens than we've ever seen here on any similar occasion." Text follows the edition of 1809.

Reed was one of the leading figures of the Revolutionary era. As delegate to the Continental Congress, aide and secretary to Washington, Adjutant General, volunteer soldier, and Governor of Pennsylvania, he was an active and able man, and his early death was much regretted.

Soon to the grave[301] descends each honoured name That raised their country to this blaze[302] of fame: Sages, that planned, and chiefs that led the way To Freedom's temple, all too soon decay, Alike submit to one impartial[303] doom, Their glories closing in perpetual gloom, Like the pale[304] splendours of the evening, fade, While night advances, to complete the shade. REED, 'tis for thee we shed the unpurchased tear, Bend o'er thy tomb, and plant our laurels there: Your acts, your life,[305] the noblest pile transcend, And Virtue, patriot Virtue, mourns her friend, Gone to those realms, where worth may claim regard, And gone where virtue meets her best reward. No single art engaged his vigorous[306] mind, In every scene his active genius shined: Nature in him, in honour to our age, At once composed the soldier and the sage-- Firm to his purpose, vigilant, and bold, Detesting traitors, and despising gold, He scorned all bribes from Britain's hostile throne For all his country's wrongs he held[307] his own. REED, rest in peace: for time's impartial page Shall raise the blush on[308] this ungrateful age: Long in these climes thy name shall flourish fair, The statesman's pattern, and the poet's care; Long in these climes[309] thy memory shall remain, And still new tributes from new ages gain, Fair to the eye that injured honour rise-- Nor traitors triumph while the patriot dies.

The following are the variations in the 1786 edition:

[301] Swift to the dust.

[302] These heights.

[303] Unalter'd.

[304] Dim.

[305] Thy own brave deeds.

[306] Manly.

[307] Were _thrice_.

[308] Blast the wrongs of.

[309] On these plains.

A RENEGADO EPISTLE[310]

To the Independent Americans

We Tories, who lately were frightened away, When you marched into York all in battle array, Dear Whigs, in our exile have somewhat to say.

From the clime of New Scotland we wish you to know We still are in being--mere spectres of woe, Our dignity high, but our spirits are low.

Great people we are, and are called the king's friends; But on friendships like these what advantage attends? We may stay and be starved[311] when we've answered his ends!

The Indians themselves, whom no treaties can bind, We have reason to think are perversely inclined-- And where we have friends is not easy to find.

From the day we arrived on this desolate shore We still have been wishing to see you once more, And your freedom enjoy, now the danger is o'er.

Although we be-rebelled you up hill and down, It was all for your good--and to honour a crown Whose splendours have spoiled better eyes than our own.

That traitors we were, is no more than our due, And so may remain for a century through, Unless we return, and be tutored by you.

Although with the dregs of the world we are classed, We hope your resentment will soften at last, Now your toils are repaid, and our triumphs are past.

When a matter is done, 'tis a folly to fret-- But your market-day mornings we cannot forget, With your coaches to lend, and your horses to let.

Your dinners of beef, and your breakfasts of toast! But we have no longer such blessings to boast, No cattle to steal, and no turkies to roast.

Such enjoyments as these, we must tell you with pain, 'Tis odds we shall only be wishing in vain Unless we return, and be brothers again.

We burnt up your mills and your meetings, 'tis true, And many bold fellows we crippled and slew-- (Aye! we were the boys that had something to do!)

Old Huddy[312] we hung on the Neversink shore-- But, Sirs, had we hung up a thousand men more, They had all been avenged in the torments we bore,

When Asgill to Jersey you foolishly fetched, And each of us feared that his neck would be stretched, When you were be-rebelled, and we were be-wretched.

In the book of destruction it seems to be written The Tories must still be dependent on Britain-- The worst of dependence that ever was hit on.

Now their work is concluded--that pitiful jobb-- They send over convicts to strengthen our mob-- And so we do nothing but snivel and sob.

The worst of all countries has fallen to our share, Where winter and famine provoke our despair, And fogs are for ever obscuring the air.

Although there be nothing but sea dogs to feed on, Our friend Jemmy Rivington made it an Eden-- But, alas! he had nothing but lies to proceed on.

Deceived we were all by his damnable schemes-- When he coloured it over with gardens and streams, And grottoes and groves, and the rest of his dreams.

Our heads were so turned by that conjuror's spell, We swallowed the lies he was ordered to tell-- But his "happy retreats" were the visions of hell.

We feel so enraged we could rip up his weazon, When we think of the soil he described with its trees on, And the plenty that reigned, and the charms of each season.

Like a parson that tells of the joys of the blest To a man to be hanged--he himself thought it best To remain where he was, in his haven of rest.

Since he helped us away by the means of his types, His precepts should only have lighted our pipes, His example was rather to honour your stripes.

Now, if we return, as we're bone of your bone, We'll renounce all allegiance to George and his throne And be the best subjects that ever were known.

In a ship, you have seen (where the duty is hard) The cook and the scullion may claim some regard, Though it takes a good fellow to brace the main yard.

Howe'er you despise us, because you are free, The world's at a loss for such people as we, Who can pillage on land, and can plunder at sea.

So long for our rations they keep us in waiting-- The Lords and the Commons, perhaps, are debating If Tories can live without drinking or eating.

So we think it is better to see you, by far-- And have hinted our meaning to governor Parr[A]-- The worst that can happen is--feathers and tar.

[A] Then Governor of Nova-Scotia.--_Freneau's note._

_Nova-Scotia, Feb. 1784._

[310] Text from the edition of 1809. First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 30, 1785, under the title, "A New York Tory's Epistle."

[311] "We may starve and be damn'd."--_Ed. 1786._

[312] See note to poem "On Gen. Robertson's Proclamation," Vol. II, p. 162.

THE AMERICAN SIBERIA[313]

When Jove from darkness smote the sun, And Nature earth from chaos won, One part she left a barren waste By stormy seas and fogs embraced.

Jove saw her vile neglect, and cried, "What madness did your fancy guide-- Why have you left so large a space With winter brooding o'er its face?

No trees of stately growth ascend, Eternal fogs their wings expand-- My favorite--man--I placed not there, But spirits of a darker sphere.

If Nature's self neglects her trade What strange confusion will be made: Such climes as these I doomed to fall On Saturn's cold unsocial ball:

But such a blemish, here, to see-- How can it else but anger me? Where chilling winds forever freeze, What fool will fix on lands like these?"

Nature, abashed, thus made reply: "When earth I formed, I don't deny, Some parts I portioned out for pain, Hard storms, dull skies, and--little gain.

Mankind are formed with different souls: Some will be suited near the poles, Some pleased beneath the scorching line, And some, New Scotland, will be thine.

Yet, in due time, my plastic hand Shall mould it o'er, if you command; By you I act--if you stand still The world comes tumbling down the hill!"

Untouched--(said Jove)--remain the place! In days to come I'll form a race, Born to betray their country's cause, And aid an alien monarch's laws.

When traitors to their country die, To lands, like this, their phantoms fly; But when the brave by death decay The mind explores a different way.

Then, Nature, hold your aiding hand-- Let fogs and tempests chill the land; While this degenerate work of thine To knaves and knapsacks I resign.

[313] Text follows the edition of 1809.

EPISTLE TO SYLVIUS[314]

On the Folly of Writing Poetry

Of all the fools that haunt our coast The scribbling tribe I pity most: Their's is a standing scene of woes, And their's no prospect of repose.

Then, Sylvius, why this eager claim To light your torch at Clio's flame? To few she shews sincere regard, And none, from her, should hope reward.

A garret high, dark dismal room, Is still the pensive poet's doom: Hopes raised to heaven must be their lot, Yet bear the curse, to be forgot.

Hourly they deal with Grecian Jove, And draw their bills on banks above: Yet stand abashed, with all their fire, When brought to face some country 'squire.

To mend the world, is still their aim: The world, alas! remains the same, And so must stand to every age, Proof to the morals of the page!

The knave that keeps a tippling inn, The red-nosed boy that deals out gin, If aided by some paltry skill May both be statesmen when they will.

The man that mends a beggar's shoes, The quack that heals your negro's bruise, The wretch that turns a cutler's stone, Have wages they can call their own:

The head, that plods in trade's domains, Gets something to reward its pains; But Wit--that does the world beguile, Takes for its pay--an empty smile!

Yet each presumes his works will rise, And gain a name that never dies; From earth, and cold oblivion freed, Immortal, in the poets' creed!

Can Reason in that bosom reign Which fondly feeds a hope so vain, When every age that passes by Beholds a crowd of poets die!

Poor Sappho's fate shall Milton know-- His scenes of grief and tales of woe No honours, that all Europe gave, No merit--shall from ruin save.

To all that write and all that read Fate shall, with hasty step, succeed! Even Shakespeare's page, his mirth, his tears May sink beneath this weight of years.

Old Spenser's doom shall, Pope, be thine The music of each moving line Scarce bribes an age or two to stay, Admire your strain--then flit away.

The people of old Chaucer's times Were once in raptures with his rhymes, But Time--that over verse prevails, To other ears tells other tales.

Why then so sad, dear rhyming friends-- One common fate on both attends, The bards that sooth the statesman's ear, And him--who finds no audience there.

Mere structures formed of common earth, Not they from heaven derive their birth, Or why through life, like vagrants, pass To mingle with the mouldering mass?--

Of all the souls, from Jove that came To animate this mortal frame, Of all the myriads, on the wing, How few can taste the Muse's spring!

Sejanus, of mercantile skill, Without whose aid the world stands still, And by whose wonder-working play The sun goes round--(his flatterers say)

Sejanus has in house declared "These States, as yet, can boast no bard, And all the sing-song of our clime Is merely nonsense, fringed with rhyme."

With such a bold, conceited air When such assume the critic's chair, Low in the dust is genius laid, The muses with the man in trade.

Then, Sylvius, come--let you and I On Neptune's aid, once more rely: Perhaps the muse may still impart Her balm to ease the aching heart.

Though cold might chill and storms dismay, Yet Zoilus will be far away: With us at least, depart and share No garret--but resentment there.

[314] On Nov. 24, 1785, Freneau sailed from Middletown Point as Master of the sloop _Monmouth_ bound for southern ports. This lyric, first published in the edition of 1788, seems to have been his valedictory to the muse for a season. His conflict with Oswald and other critics had much embittered him. The text is from the edition of 1809.

THE DEPARTURE[315]

1785

From Hudson's cold, congealing streams As winter comes, I take my way Where other suns prompt other dreams, And shades, less willing to decay, Beget new raptures in the heart, Bid spleen's dejective crew depart, And wake the sprightly lay.

Good-natur'd Neptune, now so mild, Like rage asleep, or madness chain'd, By dreams amus'd or love beguil'd, Sleep on 'till we our port have gain'd. The gentle breeze that curls the deep, Shall paint a finer dream on sleep!-- Ye nymphs, that haunt his grottoes low, Where sea green trees on coral grow, No tumults make Lest he should wake, And thus the passing shade betray The sails that o'er his waters stray.

Sunk is the sun from yonder hill, The noisy day is past; The breeze decays, and all is still, As all shall be at last; The murmuring on the distant shore, The dying wave is all I hear, The yellow fields now disappear, No painted butterflies are near, And laughing folly plagues no more.

The woods that deck yon' fading waste, That every wanton gale embrac'd, Ere summer yet made haste to fly; How smit with frost the pride of June! How lost to me! how very soon The fairy prospects die! Condemn'd to bend to winter's stroke, Low in the dust the embowering oak Has bid the fading leaf descend, Their short liv'd verdure at an end; How desolate the forests seem, Beneath whose shade The enamour'd maid Was once so fond to dream.

What now is left of all that won The eye of mirth while summer stay'd-- The birds that sported in the sun, The sport is past, the song is done; And nature's naked forms declare, The rifled groves, the vallies bare, Persuasively, tho' silent, tell, That at the best they were but drest Sad mourners for the funeral bell!

Now while I spread the venturous sail To catch the breeze from yonder hill, Say, what does all this folly mean? Why grieve to pass the wat'ry scene? Is fortitude to heaven confin'd?-- No--planted also in the mind, She smooths the ocean when she will.

But life is pain--what ills must try, What malice dark and calumny, Indifference, with her careless eye, And slander, with her tale begun; Bold ignorance, with forward air, And cowardice, that has no share In honours gain'd, or trophies won.

To these succeed, (and these are few Of nature's dark, unseemly crew) Unsocial pride, and cold disgust, Servility, that licks the dust; Those harpies that disgrace the mind; Unknown to haunt the human breast When pleasure her first garden dress'd-- But vanish'd is the shade so gay, And lost in gloom the summer day That charm'd the soul to rest.

What season shall restore that scene When all was calm and all serene, And happiness no empty sound, The golden age, that pleas'd so well?-- The Mind that made it shall not tell To those on life's uncertain road; Where lost in folly's idle round, And seeking what shall ne'er be found We press to one abode.

[315] This poem was first published in the _Freeman's Journal_, April 18, 1787, with a note "Written at leaving Sandy Hook on a voyage to the West Indies." It is dated Nov. 26, 1785; it was, therefore, written at sea. It was published in the 1788 edition, which the text follows, and omitted from the 1809 edition.

A NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS[316]

Old Eighty-Five discharg'd and gone, Another year comes hastening on To quit us in its turn: With outspread wings and running glass Thus Time's deluding seasons pass, And leave mankind to mourn.

But strains like this add grief to grief;-- We are the lads that give relief With sprightly wit and merry lay: Our various page to all imparts Amusement fit for social hearts, And drives the monster, spleen, away.

Abroad our leaves of knowledge fly, And twice a week they live and die; Short seasons of repose! Fair to your view our toils display The monarch's aim, what patriots say, Or sons of art disclose:

Whate'er the barque of commerce brings From sister States, or foreign kings, No atom we conceal: All Europe's prints we hourly drain, All Asia's news our leaves contain, And round our world we deal.

If falsehoods sometimes prompt your fears, And horrid news from proud Algiers, That gives our tars such pain; Remember all must have their share, And all the world was made for care, The monarch and the swain.

If British isles (that once were free, In Indian seas, to you and me) All entrance still restrain, Why let them starve with all their host When British pride gives up the ghost, And courts our aid in vain.

We fondly hope some future year Will all our clouded prospects clear, And commerce stretch her wings; New tracks of trade new wealth disclose, While round the globe our standard goes In spite of growling kings.

Materials thus together drawn To tell you how the world goes on May surely claim regard; One simple word we mean to say, This is our jovial New Year's day, And now, our toils reward.

[316] Freneau arrived in Charleston Dec. 8, and remained there until Jan. 23, when he cleared for Sunbury. On Jan. 1st, he wrote the above verses for the carriers of the Charleston _Columbian Herald_. They were republished in the editions of 1788 and 1795, which later edition the text follows.

LITERARY IMPORTATION[317]

However we wrangled with Britain awhile We think of her now in a different stile, And many fine things we receive from her isle; Among all the rest, Some demon possessed Our dealers in knowledge and sellers of sense To have a good bishop imported from thence.

The words of Sam Chandler[A] were thought to be vain, When he argued so often and proved it so plain "That Satan must flourish till bishops should reign:" Though he went to the wall With his project and all, Another bold Sammy[B], in bishop's array, Has got something more than his pains for his pay.

[A] "Who laboured for the establishment of an American Episcopacy, previously to the revolutionary war."--_Freneau's note._

[B] Bishop Samuel Seabury, of Connecticut.--_Ib._

It seems we had spirit to humble a throne, Have genius for science inferior to none, But hardly encourage a plant of our own: If a college be planned, 'Tis all at a stand 'Till to Europe we send at a shameful expense, To send us a book-worm to teach us some sense.

Can we never be thought to have learning or grace Unless it be brought from that horrible[318] place Where tyranny reigns with her impudent face; And popes and pretenders, And sly faith-defenders Have ever been hostile to reason and wit, Enslaving a world that shall conquer them yet.

'Tis a folly to fret at the picture I draw: And I say what was said by a Doctor Magraw;[C] "If they give us their Bishops, they'll give us their law." How that will agree With such people as we, Let us leave to the learned to reflect on awhile, And say what they think in a handsomer stile.

[C] A noted practitioner in physic, formerly of N. York.--_Freneau's note, Ed. 1788._

[317] First published, as far as can be learned, in the 1788 edition, and dated Charleston, S. C., 1786. The text is taken from the edition of 1809.

[318] "Damnable."--_Ed. 1788._

THE ENGLISHMAN'S COMPLAINT[319]

In Carolina

Arriving from Britain with cargo so nice Once more have I touched at these regions of rice! Dear Ashley, with pleasure thy stream I review: But how changed are these plains that we wished to subdue.

If through the wild woods he extended his reign, And death and the hangman were both in his train, Cornwallis no longer disturbs your repose, His lordship is dead or at least in a doze.

By Sullivan's island how quiet we pass; Fort Johnson no longer salutes us, alas!-- The season has been you did nothing but mourn, But now you will laugh at a Briton's return!

Instead of gay soldiers that walked the parade, Here is nothing but draymen and people in trade; Instead of our navy that thundered around, Here is nothing but ships without guns to be found.

Instead of Lord Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour, Whose names and whose notions you cannot endure, But whom in their glory you could not forget When puffed by the froth of the Royal Gazette:

Instead of those tyrants, who homewards have flown, This country is ruled by a race of its own, Whom once we could laugh at--but now we must say Seem rising to be in a handsomer way.

To us and our island eternally foes, How tedious you are in forgetting your woes, Your plundered plantations you still will remember, Although we have left you--three years last December!

[319] This first appeared in the 1788 edition. The date of composition is indicated by the last line. The British evacuated the city in 1782. The edition of 1809 has been followed.

THE WILD HONEY SUCKLE[320]

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet: No roving foot shall crush thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; Thus quietly thy summer goes, Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died--nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom; Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews At first thy little being came: If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same; The space between, is but an hour, The frail duration of a flower.

[320] Freneau doubtless wrote this poem in Charleston, S. C., in July, 1786. It appeared first in the _Freeman's Journal_, August 2, 1786, and was republished in the edition of 1788, and in the later editions, almost without change. The poet probably refers to the _Rhododendron Viscosum_, or as some call it the _Asalia viscosun_ since it is the only flower popularly known as the wild honeysuckle that is both white and fragrant. According to Chapman's _Southern Flora_, it flowers in the latitude of Charleston in July and August. The text is from the edition of 1809.

ON A BOOK CALLED UNITARIAN THEOLOGY[321]

In this choice work, with wisdom penned, we find The noblest system to reform mankind, Bold truths confirmed, that bigots have denied, By most perverted, and which some deride. Here, truths divine in easy language flow, Truths long concealed, that now all climes shall know Here, like the blaze of our material sun, Enlightened Reason proves, that God is One-- As that, concentered in itself, a sphere, Illumes all Nature with its radiance here, Bids towards itself all trees and plants aspire, Awakes the winds, impels the seeds of fire, And still subservient to the Almighty plan, Warms into life the changeful race of man; So--like that sun--in heaven's bright realms we trace One Power of Love, that fills unbounded space, Existing always by no borrowed aid, Before all worlds--eternal, and not made-- To That indebted, stars and comets burn, Owe their swift movements, and to That return! Prime source of wisdom, all-contriving mind, First spring of Reason, that this globe designed; Parent of order, whose unwearied hand Upholds the fabric that his wisdom planned, And, its due course assigned to every sphere, Revolves the seasons, and sustains the year!-- Pure light of Truth! where'er thy splendours shine, Thou art the image of the power divine; Nought else, in life, that full resemblance bears, No sun, that lights us through our circling years, No stars, that through yon' charming azure stray, No moon, that glads us with her evening ray, No seas, that o'er their gloomy caverns flow, No forms beyond us, and no shapes below! Then slight--ah slight not, this instructive page, For the mean follies of a dreaming age: Here to the truth, by Reason's aid aspire, Nor some dull preacher of romance admire; See One, Sole God, in these convincing lines, Beneath whose view perpetual day-light shines; At whose command all worlds their circuits run, And night, retiring, dies before the sun! Here, Man no more disgraced by Time appears, Lost in dull slumbers through ten thousand years; Plunged in that gulph, whose dark unfathomed wave Men of all ages to perdition gave; An empty dream, or still more empty shade, The substance vanished, and the form decayed:-- Here Reason proves, that when this life decays, Instant, new life in the warm bosom plays, As that expiring, still its course repairs Through endless ages, and unceasing years. Where parted souls with kindred spirits meet, Wrapt to the bloom of beauty all complete; In that celestial, vast, unclouded sphere, Nought there exists but has its image here! All there is Mind!--That Intellectual Flame, From whose vast stores all human genius came, In which all Nature forms on Reason's plan-- Flows to this abject world, and beams on Man!

[321] This was published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Oct 4, 1786, under the title "On the Honourable Emanuel Swedenborg's Universal Theology." A column advertisement of the book appeared in the _Journal_ Oct. 25. The poem was reprinted in the 1788 collection and in the later edition of 1809, which the text follows.

TO ZOILUS[322]

[A Severe Critic]

Six sheets compos'd, struck off, and dry The work may please the world (thought I)-- If some impell'd by spleen or spite, Refuse to read, then let them write: I too, with them, shall have my turn, And give advice--to tear or burn.

Now from the binder's, hurried home, In neat array my leaves are come: Alas, alas! is this my all? The volume is so light and small, That, aim to save it as I can, 'Twill fly before Myrtilla's fan.

Why did I no precautions use? To curb these frolics of the Muse? Ah! why did I invoke the nine To aid these humble toils of mine-- That now forebode through every page The witling's sneer, the critic's rage.

Did I, for this, so often rise Before the sun illum'd the skies, And near my Hudson's mountain stream Invoke the Muses' morning dream, And scorn the winds that blew so cool! I did--and I was more the fool.

Yet slender tho' the book, and small, And harmless, take it all in all, I see a monstrous wight appear, A quill suspended from his ear; Its fate depends on his decree, And what he says must sacred be!

A brute of such terrific mien At wild Sanduski ne'er was seen, And in the dark Kentuckey groves No beast, like this, for plunder roves, Nor dwells in Britain's lowering clime A reptile, so severe on rhyme.

The monster comes, severe and slow, His eyes with arrowy lightnings glow, Takes up the book, surveys it o'er, Exclaims, "damn'd stuff!"--but says no more: The book is damn'd by his decree, And what he says must gospel be!

But was there nothing to his taste?-- Was all my work a barren waste-- Was not one bright idea sown, And not one image of my own?-- Its doom was just, if this be true: But Zoilus shall be sweated too.

Give me a cane of mighty length, A staff proportion'd to my strength, Like that, by whose destructive aid The man of Gath his conquests made; Like that, which once on Etna's shore The shepherd of the mountain bore:

For wit traduc'd at such a rate To other worlds I'll send him, straight, Where all the past shall nothing seem, Or just be imag'd, like a dream; Where new vexations are design'd, No dull quietus for the mind!

Arm'd with a staff of such a size Who would not smite this man of lies: Here, scribbler, help me! seize that pen With which he blasts all rhyming men: His goose-quill must not with him go To persecute the bards below.--

How vast a change an hour may bring! How abject lies this snarling thing! No longer wit to him shall bow, To him the world is nothing now; And all he writ, and all he read Is, with himself, in silence laid!

Dead tho' he be--(not sent to rest) No keen remorse torments my breast: Yet, something in me seems to tell I might have let him live, as well;-- 'Twas his to snarl, and growl, and grin, And life had, else, a burthen been.

[322] This was first published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Oct 11, 1786, though it undoubtedly was written before the poet left Philadelphia. It was republished in the 1788 edition under the title "The Pamphleteer and the Critic." The text follows the 1795 edition.

ON THE LEGISLATURE OF GREAT-BRITAIN PROHIBITING THE SALE, IN LONDON, OF

Doctor David Ramsay's History of the Revolutionary war in South Carolina[323]

Some bold bully Dawson, expert in abusing, Having passed all his life in the practice of bruising; At last, when he thinks to reform and repent, And wishes his days had been soberly spent, Though a course of contrition in earnest begins, He scarcely can bear to be told of his sins. So the British, worn out with their wars in the west (Where burning and murder their prowess confessed) When, at last, they agreed 'twas in vain to contend (For the days of their thieving were come to an end) They hired some historians to scribble and flatter, And foolishly thought they could hush up the matter. But Ramsay[324] arose, and with Truth on his side, Has told to the world what they laboured to hide; With his pen of dissection, and pointed with steel, If they ne'er before felt he has taught them to feel, Themselves and their projects has truly defined, And dragged them to blush at the bar of mankind. As the author, his friends, and the world might expect, They find that the work has a damning effect-- In reply to his Facts they abuse him and rail, And prompted by malice, prohibit the sale. But, we trust, their chastisement is only begun; Thirteen are the States--and he writes but of one; Ere the twelve that are silent their story have told, The king will run mad, and the book will be sold.

[323] _Freeman's Journal_, Oct. 11, dated Philadelphia, Oct. 9. The text follows the edition of 1809.

[324] David Ramsay's "History of the Revolution in South Carolina," was published at Trenton, New Jersey, in 1785.

THE DEATH SONG OF A CHEROKEE INDIAN[325]

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, ye tormentors: your threats are in vain For the son of Alknomock can never complain.

Remember the woods, where in ambush he lay, And the scalps which he bore from your nation away! Why do ye delay?--'till I shrink from my pain? Know the son of Alknomock can never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low The flame rises high, you exult in my pain? Know the son of Alknomock will never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone: His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain And thy son, O Alknomock, has scorned to complain.

[325] The first trace I can find of this poem is in the initial number of Matthew Carey's _American Museum_, Jan. 1, 1787, where it is placed among the selected poetry and assigned to P. Freneau. This testimony of Carey's as to its genuineness carries with it considerable weight. Knapp, who in 1829 reviewed the poem as Freneau's, doubtless had before him a copy of the _Museum_. The poem, however, is not included in any of the poet's collections and I can find no earlier newspaper appearance, although my search has not been exhaustive. The authenticity of a poem suspected to be Freneau's may always be gravely doubted if it is not found to be included in his collected works, for he hoarded his poetic product, especially in his earlier period, with miserly care.

The poem appeared in 1806 among the poems of Mrs. John Hunter with the title "The Death Song, written for and adapted to, an original Indian air." Several of Mrs. Hunter's best poems had been long in circulation before she was induced to collect them. In 1822 Maria Edgeworth introduced the poem into her book "Rosamond," ascribing it to her. She added the following note: "The idea of this ballad was suggested several years ago by hearing a gentleman who resided many years among the tribe called the Cherokees, sing a wild air, which he assured me was customary for these people to chant with a barbarous jargon implying contempt for their enemies in the moments of torture and death. I have endeavored to give something of the characteristic spirit and sentiment of those brave savages."

STANZAS

Written at the foot of Monte Souffriere, near the Town of Basseterre, Guadaloupe[326]

These Indian isles, so green and gay In summer seas by nature placed-- Art hardly told us where they lay, 'Till tyranny their charms defaced: Ambition here her efforts made, And avarice rifled every shade.

Their genius wept, his sons to see By foreign arms untimely fall, And some to distant climates flee, Where later ruin met them all: He saw his sylvan offspring bleed, That envious natures might succeed.

The Chief, who first o'er untried waves To these fair islands found his way, Departing, left a race of slaves, Cortez, your mandate to obey, And these again, if fame says true, To extirpate the vulgar crew.

No more to Indian coasts confined, The Patron, thus, indulged his grief; And to regret his heart resigned, To see some proud European chief, Pursue the harmless Indian race, Torn by his dogs in every chace.[327]

Ah, what a change! the ambient deep No longer hears the lover's sigh; But wretches meet, to wail and weep The loss of their dear liberty: Unfeeling hearts possess these isles, Man frowns--and only nature smiles.

Proud of the vast extended shores The haughty Spaniard calls his own, His selfish heart restrains his stores, To other climes but scarcely known:[328] His Cuba lies a wilderness, Where slavery digs what slaves possess.

Jamaica's sweet, romantic vales In vain with golden harvests teem; Her endless spring, her fragrant gales More than Elysian magic seem:[329] Yet what the soil profusely gave Is there denied the toiling slave.

Fantastic joy and fond belief Through life support the galling chain; Hope's airy prospects banish griefs, And bring his native lands again: His native groves a heaven display, The funeral is the jocund day.

For man oppressed and made so base, In vain from Jove fair virtue fell; Distress be-glooms the toiling race, They have no motive to excel: In death alone their miseries end, The tyrant's dread--is their best friend.

How great their praise let truth declare, Who touched with honour's sacred flame, Bade freedom to some coasts repair To urge the slave's neglected claim; And scorning interest's swinish plan, Gave to mankind the rights of man.

Ascending there, may freedom's sun In all his force serenely clear, A long, unclouded circuit run, Till little tyrants disappear; And a new race, not bought or sold, Rise from the ashes of the old.

[326] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_ of Jan. 31, 1787, with the introduction "The following verses, wrote by Mr. Freneau are subjoined to a short and accurate account of the West Indies in the printer's _Pocket Almanac_ for the present year." The title of the poem suffered many variations in later editions. In the 1788 edition, where it was reprinted from the _Journal_, it was entitled "Stanzas written In a blank leaf of Burke's History of the West India Islands," and it was signed "Pennsylvania, 1786." In the 1795 edition it was entitled "Caribbeana," and in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed, it received the title above given. The poem was carefully revised for the edition of 1795.

[327]

"While he to tears his heart resign'd With pain he saw the falling leaf; 'And thus (he cry'd) our reign must end, We, like the leaves, must now descend.'" _Ed. 1788._

[328]

"No other world may share those stores To other worlds so little known." _Ed. 1788._

[329]

"Did more to me than magic seem." _Ib._

ON THE CREW OF A CERTAIN VESSEL[330]

Several of whom happened to be of similar names to Celebrated Foreign Clergymen

In life's unsettled, odd career What changes every day appear To please or plague the eye: A goodly brotherhood of priests Are here transformed to swearing beasts Who heaven and hell defy.

Here Bonner, bruised with many a knock, Has changed his surplice for a frock; Old Erskine swabs the decks, And Watts, who once such pleasure took In writing Hymns--here, turned a cook, Sinners no longer vex.

Here Burnet, Tillotson, and Blair, With Jemmy Hervey, curse and swear, Here Cudworth mixes grog; Pearson the crew to dinner hails, A graceless Sherlock trims the sails, And Bunyan heaves the log.

[330] The index to the edition of 1795 instead of "vessel" gives "ship of war." The text follows the edition of 1809.

THE BERMUDA ISLANDS[331]

"Bermuda, walled with rocks, who does not know, That happy island, where huge lemons grow," &c. _Waller's Battle of the Summer Islands._

These islands fair with many a grove are crowned, With cedars tall, gay hills, and verdant vales, But dangerous rocks on every side is found, Fatal to him who unsuspecting sails.

The gay Palmetto shades the adjacent wave: Blue, ocean water near the lime-tree breaks!-- I leave the scene!--this stormy quarter leave, And rove awhile by Harrington's sweet lake.

In every vale fair woodland nymphs are seen In bloom of youth, to mourn some absent love, Who, wandering far on Neptune's rude domain, Heaves the fond sigh at every new remove.

From hill to hill I see Amanda stray, Searching, with anxious view, the encircling main, To espy the sail, so long, so far away, Rise from the waves, and bless her sight again.

Now, on some rock, with loose, dishevelled hair, Near dashing waves, the sorrowing beauty stands, Hoping that each approaching barque may bear Homeward the wandering youth from foreign lands.

Oh! may no gales such faithful loves destroy, No hidden rock to Hymen fatal prove: And thou, fond swain, thy nicest art employ Once more on these sweet isles to meet your love.

When verging to the height of thirty-two, And east or west you guide the dashy prow; Then fear by night the dangers of this shore, Nature's wild garden, placed in sixty-four.[A] Here many a merchant his lost freight bemoans, And many a gallant ship has laid her bones.

[A] Lat. 32 deg. 20 min. N.--Long. 63.40 W.--and about 780 miles East of the coast of South Carolina.--_Freneau's note._

[331] During several weeks in 1778 Freneau resided in Bermuda. While there he seems to have been greatly impressed by an instance of inconstancy. He has in several prose sketches, notably in "Light Summer Reading," 1788, and in the following series of poems, composed at different times, described the incident. There is a tradition that Freneau spent several weeks in the family of the Governor of Bermuda and that it was the daughter of this official who was the unfortunate Amanda. Some traditions have mentioned Freneau himself as the lover. The text is from the edition of 1809.

FLORIO TO AMANDA[332]

Lamp of the pilot's hope! the wanderer's dream, Far glimmering o'er the wave, we saw thy beam: Forced from your aid by cold December's gale As near your isle we reefed the wearied sail: From bar to bar, from cape to cape I roam, From you still absent, still too far from home.-- What shall repay me for these nights of pain, And weeks of absence on this restless main, Where every dream recalls that charming shade, Where once, Amanda, once with you I strayed, And fondly talked, and counted every tree, And minutes, ages, when removed from thee. What sad mistake this wandering fancy drew To quit my natives shores, the woods, and You, When safely anchored on that winding stream, Where you were all my care, and all my theme: There, pensive, loitering, still from day to day, The pilot wondered at such strange delay, Musing, beheld the northern winds prevail, Nor once surmised that Love detained the sail. Blest be the man, who, fear beneath him cast, From his firm decks first reared the tapering mast; And catching life and motion from the breeze, Stretched his broad canvas o'er a waste of seas; And taught some swain, whom absence doomed to mourn His distant fair one--taught a quick return: He, homeward borne by favouring gales, might find Remembrance welcome to his anxious mind, And grateful vows, and generous thanks might pay To Him, who filled the sail, and smoothed the way. To me, indeed! the heavens less favouring prove: Each day, returning, finds a new remove-- Sorrowing, I spread the sail, while slowly creeps The weary vessel o'er a length of deeps; Her northern course no favouring breeze befriends, Hail, storm, and lightning, on her path attends: Here, wintry suns their shrouded light restrain, Stars dimly glow, and boding birds complain; Here, boisterous gales the rapid Gulph controul, Tremendous breakers near our Argo roll; Here cloudy, sullen Hatteras, restless, raves Scorns all repose, and swells his weight of waves: Here, drowned so late, sad cause of many a tear, Amyntor floats upon his watery bier; By bursting seas to horrid distance tossed, Thou, Palinurus, in these depths wert lost, When, torn by waves, and conquered by the blast, Art strove in vain, and ruin seized each mast. Now, while the winds their wonted aid deny, For other ports, from day to day, we try Strive, all we can, to gain the unwilling shore, Dream still of you--the faithful chart explore; See other groves, in happier climates placed Untouched their bloom, and not one flower defaced. Did Nature, there, a heaven of pleasure shew, Could they be welcome, if not shared with you?-- Lost are my toils--my longing hopes are vain: Yet, 'midst these ills, permit me to complain, And half regret, that, finding fortune fail, I left your cottage--to direct the sail: Unmoved, amidst this elemental fray, Let me, once more, the muses' art essay, Once more--amidst these scenes of Nature's strife, Catch at her forms and mould them into life; By Fancy's aid, to unseen coasts repair, And fondly dwell on absent beauty there.

[332] On Jan. 20, 1789, Freneau was at Castle Ireland, Bermuda, where eleven years before he had passed five delightful weeks in the family of the English Governor. The above lines were written on the tempestuous return voyage, doubtless inspired by her who soon afterward became his wife. The text follows the 1809 version.

PHILANDER: OR THE EMIGRANT[333]

While lost so long to his Arcadian shade, Careless of fortune and of fame he stray'd, Philander to a barbarous region came And found a partner in a colder shade, Fair as Amanda; and perhaps might claim With her the impassion'd soul, and friendship's holy flame; For sprightly loves upon her bosom play'd, And youth was in her blush, and every shepherd said She was a modest and accomplish'd dame. What have I done, (the wandering shepherd cry'd) Thus to be banish'd from a face so fair, (For now the frosts had spoil'd the daisies' pride, And he once more for roving did prepare) Ah, what have I to do with swelling seas Who once could pipe upon the hollow reed?-- I take no joy in such rude scenes as these, Nor look with pleasure on the vagrant weed That gulphy streams from rugged caverns bore, Which floats thro' every clime, and never finds a shore! But other fields and other flowers were mine, 'Till wild disorder drove me from the plain. And the black dogs of war were seen to join, Howl o'er the soil, and dispossess the swain: Why must I leave these climes of frost and snow?-- Were it not better in these glooms to stay, And, while on high the autumnal tempests blow, Let others o'er the wild seas take their way, And I with my Livinia's tresses play?-- Ah, no, no, no! the imperious wave demands That I must leave these shores, and lose these lands And southward to the high equator stray: But Fancy now has lost her vernal hue; See Nature in her wintry garb array'd-- And where is that fine dream which once she drew While yet by Cambria's stream she fondly play'd! Lavinia heard his long complaint, and said, Wouldst thou, for me, detain the expecting sail--? Go, wanderer, go--the trees have lost their shade, And my gay flowers are blasted by the gale, And the bright stream is chill'd that wandered thro' the vale: Ah, why, Philander, do you sigh, so sad! Why all this change in such a jovial lad? Smooth seas shall be your guard, and, free from harms, Restore you, safely, to Lavinia's arms! Or should the eastern tempest rend your sail, Trust me, dear shepherd, should the seas prevail, And you be laid in Neptune's cradle low, The winds will bring me back the woeful tale When I must to the long shore weeping go, And while I see the ruffian surge aspire, Some consolation will it be to know No pain or anguish can afflict the head The limbs or stomach, when the heart is dead.

Thus long discoursing, on the bank they stood, The heavy burthen'd barque at anchor lay, While the broad topsails, from the yards unfurl'd, Shook in the wind, and summon'd him away; Brisk blew the gales, and curl'd the yielding flood, Nor had he one excuse to urge his stay-- Be chang'd (he said) ye winds that blow so fair; Why do not tempests harrow up the deep, And all but the moist south in quiet sleep!

To the bleak shore the parting lovers came, And while Philander did his sighs renew, So near the deep they bade their last farewell That the rough surge, to quench the mutual flame Burst in and broke the embrace, and o'er Lavinia flew; While a dark cloud hung lowering o'er the main, From whence the attendants many an omen drew, And said Philander would not come again!

Now to their various heights the sails ascend, And southward from the land their course they bore. Lavinia mourn'd the lover and the friend, And stood awhile upon the sandy shore, 'Till interposing seas the hull conceal'd, And distant sails could only greet her view, Like a faint cloud that brush'd the watery field, And swell'd by whistling winds, impetuous, flew: Then to a neighbouring hill the nymph withdrew, And the dear object from that height survey'd, 'Till all was lost and mingled with the main, And night descended, with her gloomy shade, And kindled in the heavens her starry train.

Safe to the south the ocean-wading keel In one short month its rapid course achiev'd, And the cold star, that marks the Arctic pole, Was in the bosom of the deep receiv'd: And now the weary barque at anchor rode Where Oronoko pours his sultry wave, Moist Surinam, by torrents overflow'd, And Amazonia vends the fainting slave;-- Philander, there, not fated to return, Perceiv'd destruction in his bosom burn, And the warm flood of life too fiercely, glow: The vertic sun a deadly fever gave, And the moist soil bestow'd his bones a grave, Deep in the waste, where oceans overflow, And Oronoko's streams the forests lave.

Oft' to the winding shore Lavinia came Where fond Philander bade his last adieu, (And that steep hill which gave her the last view) Till seven long years had round their orbits ran, Yet no Philander came, or none she knew; Alas (she cry'd) for every nymph but me Each sea-bleach'd sail some welcome wanderer brings, And all but I get tidings of their friends; Sad Mariamne drowns herself in woe If one poor month Amyntor quits her arms, And says, "from Ashley's stream he comes too slow,"-- And bodes the heavy storm, and midnight harms: What would she say, if doom'd to wait, like me, And mourn long years, and no Philander see!

[333] The text follows the edition of 1795.

THE FAIR SOLITARY[334]

No more these groves a glad remembrance claim Where grief consumes a half deluded dame, Whom to these isles a modern Theseus bore, And basely left, frail virtue to deplore;--

In foreign climes detained from all she loved, By friends neglected, long by Fortune proved, While sad and solemn passed the unwelcome day What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay?

Deceived in all; for meanness could deceive, Expecting still, and still condemned to grieve, She scarcely saw--to different hearts allied That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride! Are griefs, like thine, to Florio's bosom known?-- Must these, alas! be ceaseless in your own?

Life is a dream!--its varying shades I see; But this cold wanderer hardly dreams of thee-- The bloom of health, which bade all hearts adore, To your pale cheek what physic shall restore? Vain are those drugs that art and love prepares, No art redeems the waste of sighs and tears!

[334] Published in the 1795 edition under the title "The Mourning Nun." Text from the edition of 1809.

AMANDA IN A CONSUMPTION[335]

Smit by the glance of your bright eyes When I, Amanda, fondly gaze, Strange feelings in my bosom rise And passion all my reason sways: Worlds I would banish from my view, And quit the gods--to talk with you.

The smile that decks your fading cheek, To me a heavy heart declares; When you are silent I would speak But cowardice alarms my fears: All must be sense that you do prize, All that I say--be grave and wise.

When wandering in the evening shade I shared her pain, and calmed her grief, A thousand tender things I said, But all I said gave no relief: When from her hair I dried the dew, She sighed, and said--I am not for you!

When drooping, dull, and almost dead With fevers brought from sultry climes, She would not wrap my fainting head; But recommended me some rhymes On patience and on fortitude, And other things--less understood.

When, aiming to engage her heart With verses from the muses' stock; She sighed, regardless of the art, And counted seconds by the clock; "And thus, (she said) will verse decay, "And thus the muse will pass away!"

When languishing upon her bed In willow shades, remote from towns, We came; and while Priscilla read Of chrystal skies and golden crowns: She bade us at a distance stand, And leaned her head upon her hand.

So, drooping hangs the fading rose, When summer sends the beating shower: So, to the grave Amanda goes, Her whole duration--but an hour! Who shall controul the sad decree, Or what, fair girl, recover thee?

Such virtue in that spirit dwells-- Such fortitude amidst such pain!-- And, now, with pride my bosom swells, To think I have not lived in vain. For, slighting all the sages knew, I learn philosophy from you.

[335] The _Freeman's Journal_ printed this poem on Feb. 7, 1787, with the date of composition Jan. 26, 1787. The lady's name in this original version was Cynthia. The poem was reprinted in the 1788 collection as a part of the story "Light Summer Reading." The half mad poet, who is infatuated with the lovely Marcia, writes the verses and inscribes them "To Marcia." It seems to have been a favorite with the poet. He republished it in the _National Gazette_ in 1792 under the title "Marcella in a Consumption." Text from the edition of 1809.

ELEGIAC LINES[336]

With life enamoured, but in death resigned, To seats congenial flew the unspotted mind: Attending spirits hailed her to that shore Where this world's winter chills the soul no more. Learn hence, to live resigned;--and when you die No fears will seize you, when that hour is nigh.

Transferred to heaven, Amanda has no share In the dull business of this world of care. Her blaze of beauty, even in death admired, A moment kindled, but as soon expired. Sweet as the favourite offspring of the May Serenely mild, not criminally gay:

Adorned with all that nature could impart To please the fancy and to gain the heart; Heaven ne'er above more innocence possessed, Nor earth the form of a diviner guest: A mind all virtue!--flames descended here From some bright seraph of some nobler sphere; Yet, not her virtues, opening into bloom, Nor all her sweetness saved her from the tomb, From prospects darkened, and the purpose crossed, Misfortune's winter,--and a lover lost; Nor such resemblance to the forms above, The heart of goodness, and the soul of love!

Ye thoughtless fair!--her early death bemoan, Sense, virtue, beauty, to oblivion gone.[337]

[336] In the 1788 edition this appeared as two poems. The opening six lines had the title "Epitaph" and the remainder was entitled "Lines on the Death of a Lady." In the 1809 edition, the text of which is followed here, the poem was placed in the group of Amanda poems.

[337] "And while you mourn your fate, think on your own."--_Ed. 1788._

THE INSOLVENT'S RELEASE[338]

(By H. Salem)

Not from those dismal dreary coasts I come Where wizzard Faustus chews his brimstone rolls, Nor have I been to wrangle with the men Of that sad country, where, for want of rum, Dead putrid water from the stagnant fen Is drank, unmingled, by departed souls: Nor from that dog-house do I bring you news, Where Macedonian Philip[A] mends old shoes, But from that dreadful place arrived, Where men in debt at cribbage play, And I most cunningly contrived To fatten on two groats a day-- Full on my back now turned the key, The 'squire himself is not so free.

When to these rugged walls, a fathom thick, I came, directed by the sheriff's stick, Alas, said I, what can they mean to do! I am not conscious of one roguish trick! I am no thief--I took no Christian's life, Nor have I meddled with the parson's wife, (Which would have been a dreadful thing you know) Then, by these gloomy walls, this iron gate Appointed by the wisdom of your state To shut in little rogues, and keep out great; Tell me, ye pretty lads, that deal in law, Ye men of mighty wigs, ye judges, say-- Say! by the jailor's speckled face That never beamed one blush of grace; How long must I In prison lie For just nine guineas--that I cannot pay!

Return, ye happy times, when all were free, No jails on land, no nets at sea; When mountain beasts unfettered ran, And man refused to shut up man, As men of modern days have shut up me!-- This is the dreary dark abode Of poverty and solitude; Such was the gloomy cell where Bunyan lay While his dear pilgrim helped the time away-- Such was the place where Wakefield's vicar drew Grave morals from the imprisoned crew, And found both time to preach and pray. In bed of straw and broken chair What consolation could be found! No gay companions ventured there To push the ruddy liquor round! From jug of stone I drank, alone, A beverage, neither clear nor strong No table laid, No village maid Came there to cheer me with her song; My days were dull, my nights were long! My evening dreams, My morning schemes Were how to break that cruel chain, And, Jenny, be with you again.

[338] The version in the _Freeman's Journal_ is dated Philadelphia, April 10, 1787. The title in the 1788 version is "The Insolvent's Release and Miseries of a Country Jail." The "H. Salem" was first added in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed.

[A] See Lucian's Dialogues; to the following effect:

"Great scholars have in Lucian read, When Philip, king of Greece, was dead His soul and body did divide. And each part took, a different side; One rose a star, the other fell Below--and mended shoes in hell."--_Freneau's note._

MAY TO APRIL[339]

Without your showers, I breed no flowers, Each field a barren waste appears; If you don't weep, my blossoms sleep, They take such pleasures in your tears.

As your decay made room for May, So I must part with all that's mine: My balmy breeze, my blooming trees To torrid suns their sweets resign!

O'er April dead, my shades I spread: To her I owe my dress so gay-- Of daughters three, it falls on me To close our triumphs on one day:

Thus, to repose, all Nature goes; Month after month must find its doom: Time on the wing, May ends the Spring, And Summer dances on her tomb!

[339] First published in the _Freeman's Journal_ where it was signed Philadelphia, April 16, 1787. Text from the edition of 1809.

TO AN AUTHOR[340]

Your leaves bound up compact and fair, In neat array at length prepare, To pass their hour on learning's stage,[341] To meet the surly critic's rage; The statesman's slight, the smatterer's[342] sneer-- Were these, indeed, your only[343] fear, You might be tranquil and resigned: What most should touch your fluttering mind;[344] Is that, few critics[345] will be found To sift[346] your works, and deal the wound.

Thus, when one fleeting year is past On some bye-shelf your book is cast--[347] Another comes, with something new,[348] And drives you fairly out of view: With some to praise, but more to blame, The mind[349] returns to--whence it came; And some alive, who scarce could read[350] Will publish satires on the dead.

Thrice happy Dryden[A], who could meet Some rival bard in every street! When all were bent on writing well It was some credit to excel:--[351]

[A] See Johnson's lives of the English Poets.--_Freneau's note._

Thrice happy Dryden, who could find A Milbourne for his sport designed-- And Pope, who saw the harmless rage Of Dennis bursting o'er his page Might justly spurn the critic's aim, Who only helped to swell his fame.

On these bleak climes by Fortune thrown, Where rigid Reason reigns alone, Where lovely Fancy has no sway, Nor magic forms about us[352] play-- Nor nature takes her summer hue Tell me, what has the muse to do?--

An age employed in edging steel Can no poetic raptures feel; No solitude's attracting power,[353] No leisure of the noon day hour, No shaded stream, no quiet grove Can this fantastic century move;

The muse of love in no request-- Go--try your fortune[354] with the rest, One of the nine you should engage,[355] To meet the follies of the age:--

On one, we fear, your choice must fall-- The least engaging of them all--[356] Her visage stern--an angry style-- A clouded brow--malicious smile-- A mind on murdered victims placed-- She, only she, can please the taste!

[340] First published in the 1788 edition. It doubtless records the poet's mood a year or two after his first book, the 1786 collection, was given to the public. Its original title was "An Author's Soliloquy." In 1795 the title was changed to "An Author on Authorship." Text from the 1809 edition.

[341] "Time's broad stage."--_Ed. 1788._

[342] "Pedants."--_Ib._

[343] The poem in the 1788 version is wholly in the first person.

[344] "What most torments my boding mind."--_Ed. 1788._

[345] "No critic."--_Ib._

[346] "Read."--_Ib._

[347] "With dead men's works my book is class'd."--_Ib._

[348] This line and the following not in the original version.

[349] "Soul."--_Ib._

[350]

"And I must wear the marks of time Who hardly flourish'd in my prime."--_Ed. 1788._

[351] In the 1788 version two lines follow:

"While those condemn'd to stand alone Can only by themselves be known."--_Ib._

[352] "Around her."--_Ib._

[353]

"No fabled Love's enchanting power, Nor tale of Flora's painted bower, Nor woodland haunt, or murmuring grove, Can their prosaic bosoms move."--_Ib._

[354] "I'll try my fortune."--_Ib._

[355]

"Which of the Nine shall I engage To suit the humour of the age."--_Ib._

[356] Followed by:

"So late she does her wreathes prepare I hardly think them worth my care."--_Ib._

TO MISFORTUNE[357]

Dire Goddess of the haggard brow, Misfortune! at that shrine I bow Where forms uncouth pourtray thee still, A leaky ship, a doctor's bill:

A poet damn'd, a beggar's prayer, The critic's growl, the pedant's sneer, The urgent dun, the law severe, A smoky house, rejected love, And friends that all but friendly prove.

Foe to the pride of scheming man Whose frown controuls the wisest plan, To your decree we still submit Our views of gain, our works of wit.

Untaught by you the feeble mind A dull repose, indeed, might find: But life, unvext by such controul, Can breed no vigour in the soul.

The calm that smooths the summer seas May suit the man of sloth and ease: But skies that fret and storms that rave Are the best schools to make us brave.

On Heckla's heights who hopes to see The blooming grove, the orange tree Awhile on hope may fondly lean 'Till sad experience blots the scene.

If Nature acts on Reason's plan, And Reason be the guide of man: Why should he paint fine prospects there, Then sigh, to find them disappear?

For ruin'd states or trade perplext 'Tis almost folly to be vext: The world at last will have its way And we its torrent must obey.

On other shores a happier guest The mind must fix her haven of rest, Where better men and better climes Shall soothe the cares of future times.

[357] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, July 18, 1787; dated "Philadelphia, July 16." Republished in the 1788 and 1795 editions, the latter of which I have followed.

TO CRACOVIUS PUTRIDUS[358]

The Sailor, toss'd on stormy seas, Implores his patron-god for ease When Luna hides her paler blaze, And stars, obscurely, dart their rays:

For ease the Yankee, fierce in war, His stores of vengeance points afar: For ease, the toiling Dutchman sighs, Which gold, nor gems, nor purple buys!

No treasur'd hoards, from India trade, No doctor's, or the lawyer's aid Can ease the tumults of the mind, Or cares to gilded roofs assign'd.

The end of life he, best, completes Whose board is spread with frugal treats, Whose sleep no fears, no thirst of gain, Beneath his homely shed, restrain.

Why, then, with wasting cares engage, Weak reptiles of so frail an age-- Why, thus, to far-off climates run, And lands beneath another sun?

For, though to China's coasts we roam, Ourselves we ne'er can leave at home: Care, swift as deer--as tempests strong, Ascends the prow, and sails along.

The mind that keeps an even state, And all the future leaves to fate, In every ill shall pleasure share, As every pleasure has it's care.

Fate early seal'd Montgomery's doom, In youth brave Laurens found a tomb; While Arnold spends in peace and pride The years, that heaven to them denied.

A host of votes are at your call; A seat, perhaps, in Congress-Hall;[359] And vestments, soak'd in Stygian dye, Where'er you go, alarm the eye:

On me, a poor and small domain, With something of a poet's vein The muse bestow'd--and share of pride To spurn a scoundrel from my side.

[358] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Sept. 5, 1787. In the 1788 edition it was entitled "Horace, Lib. II, Ode 16, Imitated and addressed to Governor Parr. _Otium divos rogat in patenti_, &c." The poem seems to have been occasioned by the return of General Arnold to Nova Scotia from England. Text from the edition of 1795.

[359]

"An hundred _slaves_ before you fall, A coach and six attends your call."--_Ed. 1788._

SLENDER'S JOURNEY[A][360]

_Sit mihi fas audita loqui._--Virg.

[A] Mr. Robert Slender, of Philadelphia (Stocking Weaver). _Freneau's note._

I. PRELIMINARY REFLECTIONS

Tormented with landlords and pester'd with care, This life, I protest, is a tedious affair; And, since I have got a few dollars to spare, I'll e'en take a jaunt, for the sake of fresh air. Since the day I return'd to this king-hating shore Where George and his cronies are masters no more, And others are plac'd at the helm of affairs, Relieving the weight of his majesty's cares; For many long weeks, it has still been my doom To sit like a mopus, confin'd to my loom,[B] Whose damnable clatter so addles my brain, That, say what they will, I am forc'd to complain. Our citizens think, when they sit themselves down In the gardens that grow in the skirts of the town, They think they have got in some rural retreat, Where the nymphs of the groves, and the singing birds meet When only a fence shuts them out from the street; With the smoke of the city be-clouding their eyes They sit in their boxes, and look very wise, Take a sip of bad punch, or a glass of sour wine; Conceiting their pleasures are equal to mine, Who rove where I will, and wherever I roam, In spite of new faces, am always at home. Poor Richard, the reel-man, had nothing to say; He knew very well I would have my own way;-- When I said, "My dear Richard, I'm sick of the town, "And Dutchmen that worry me, upstairs and down, "A book of bad debts, and a score of bad smells, "The yelping of dogs, and the chiming of bells; "I am sick of the house, and the sight of small beer, "And the loom may be going, tho' I am not here; "I therefore shall leave you, and that, to be plain, "'Till I feel in a humour to see you again."-- Poor Richard said nothing to all that I spoke, But kindled his pipe, and redoubled his smoke. Yet it would have been nothing but friendship in him To have said,--"Robert Slender, 'tis only a whim:-- A trip to the Schuylkill, that nothing would cost, Might answer your ends, and no time would be lost; But if you are thinking to make a long stay, Consider, good Robert, what people will say: His rent running on, and his loom standing still-- The man will be ruin'd!--he must, if he will--! If tradesmen will always be flaunting about, They may live to repent it--before the year's out!"

[B] The stocking-loom was invented by a young man who paid his addresses to a handsome stocking-knitter, and being rejected, in revenge contrived this curious machine, which, it is said, consists of no less than six thousand different pieces. _Freneau's note, 1788 edition._

II. _Characters of the_ TRAVELLERS

WILLIAM SNIP, _Merchant Taylor_

As I never could relish to travel alone, I look'd round about, but could hit upon none Whom Satan was tempting to leave their own houses And ramble to York with their daughters and spouses; At last, by repeating my trouble and care, And preaching a month on the sweets of fresh air, And the curse and the plague of remaining in town, Where the heat was sufficient to melt a man down, I got a few friends to consent to the trip; And the first I shall mention was honest Will. Snip, Philadelphia the famous had own'd to his birth, The gravest of towns on the face of the earth; Where saints of all orders their freedom may claim, And poets, and painters, and girls of the game: To him all its streets and its alleys were known, But his travels had never exceeded the town:-- A salesman by trade (and a dabster was he To make a silk knee-band set snug to the knee) With his wife (and he says I may mention her name) Susanna Snipinda--so charming a dame, The sun had with pleasure look'd down on her head, So freckled was she, and her tresses so red. To wait on the will of so handsome a lady A youngster was order'd to hold himself ready, A sly looking lad that was 'prentice to Snip, And long had been learning to cabbage and clip;-- When Snip was in sight, he was mild as a lamb; When absent, old Satan could hardly rule Sam.

III. O'KEEF, _a Swaggering Captain_

The next I describe is bold captain O'Keef, A killer of men, and a lover of beef: With the heroes of old he had put in his claim, And catch'd at their mantles, and rose into fame: To the sound of a fife and the tune of no song With his Andra Ferrara[C] he paddled along: From his manners so rough, and his dealing in ruin, He was known thro' the town by the name of Sir Bruin; He was, among women, a man of great parts, A captain of foot, and a master of arts: He had, a sweet creature put under his care, (Whose style of address was, my dear, and my dear) A Milliner's girl, with a bundle of lace, Whom Cynthia[D] he call'd, for the sake of her face, At a ball or a frolic how glib his tongue ran, He was, I may say, an unparallell'd man, Very apt to harangue on the hosts he has slain Of people--perhaps that may meet him again: Yet so kind to the sex of the feminine make, By his words, he would venture to die for their sake, Whence some have suspected, that some he ador'd Have more than made up for the wastes of his sword.

[C] A large kind of sword, in use among the Italians.--_Freneau's note, 1795 edition._

[D] Cynthia is also a poetical name for the Moon.--_Freneau's note, 1788 edition._

IV. TOUPPEE: _a French Hair Dresser_

The third in succession was Monsieur Touppee, A barber from Paris, of royal degree, (For oft when he takes up his razor, to strap it, He tells his descent from the house of Hugh Capet[E]) Tho' soft in the head, his discourses were long, Now counting his honours, and now his l'argent. This barber, tho' meaning for pleasure to stray, Yet had some pomatum to sell by the way, Perfumes, and fine powders, and essence of myrrh, A bundle of brooms, and a firkin of beer:-- His merits are great (he would have us suppose) For Louis (it seems) he has had by the nose, Has bid him, when drooping, to hold up his chin, And handled a tongs--at the head of the Queen.

[E] A popular French nobleman, who, A. D. 987, usurped the crown of France, and was the first of a new race of monarchs.--_Freneau's note, 1788 edition._

V. BOB: _a Ballad Singer_

A singer of ballads was next in our train, Who long had been dealing in ballads in vain; He sometimes would sing in a musical tone, And sometimes would scribble a song of his own: Yet never was seen with his brethren to mix-- And laugh'd at your poets in coaches and six; Who sing, like the birds, when the weather is fine; Whose verses the ladies pronounce "so divine;" Who ride with Augustus, wherever he goes, And, meeting old Homer, would turn up the nose-- As to those, like himself, that were held to the ground, He knew it was folly to feed them with sound-- He knew it was nonsense to crown them with bays, And was too much their friend to insult them with praise. For a dozen long years he had liv'd by the mob: On the word of a weaver, I pitied poor Bob![361] He had sung for the great and had rhym'd for the small, But scarcely a shilling had got by them all-- So bad was his luck, and so poor was the trade, And the Muses, he thought, were so sneakingly paid, That if times didn't alter, and that very soon, He said and he swore, he must sing his last tune. Some devil had put it, somehow, in his head If he took a short journey his fortune was made: Some devil had told him (but whether in dreams Or waking, I know not) some devil, it seems, Had made him believe that the nymphs and the swains Were fairly at war with their old fashion'd strains, That the tunes which the kirk or the curates had made (And which always had ruin'd the balladman's trade) Were wholly disus'd, and that now was the time For singers of catches and dealers in rhyme To step from their stalls, where they long were disgrac'd, Reform the old music, and fix a new taste.

VI. O'BLUSTER: _a Seaman_

A mate of a schooner, bespatter'd with tar, Who had lately come in from Savanna-la-Mar,[F] For, the sake of an airing had stept from his deck And ventur'd a jaunt, at the risque of his neck, His name and his nation no soul could mistake.-- He was Bryan O'Bluster, and much of a rake; From morning till night he was still on the move, Was always in taverns, or always in love: His life was sustain'd by the virtues of grog, And many long miles he had sail'd by the log.-- Of battles and storms he had known a full share, And his face, it was plain, was the worse for the wear; To see a mean fellow, lord how it would fret him; And he hated a puppy, wherever he met him-- He was ready to bleed for the good of each State, But since they had left the poor seamen to fate; Themselves in the dumps, and their fair ones in tears, And many brave fellows detain'd in Algiers!-- Had spirit sufficient to make themselves free, But not to resent their affronts on the sea! As this was the case--he must bid us good night, And sail with a flag that would do itself right. At cursing and swearing he play'd a good hand, But never was easy a minute on land; If the wind was a-head, or his Kitty untrue, Why, patience was all the relief that he knew:-- In the midst of misfortune he still was serene, And Kitty, he said, was a feeble machine: His heart was too hard for a lady to sigh, Yet I guess'd him a rogue by the leer in his eye: "The world (he would say) is a whimsical dance-- And reason had taught him to leave it to chance. In chace of dame Fortune his prime he had pass'd, And now was beginning to fail very fast, But thought it was folly his heart to perplex, As Fortune was just like the rest of her sex;-- Designing, and fickle, and taken with show, Now fond of a monkey, and now of a beau:-- Yet, still, as the goddess was made up of whim, He meant to pursue 'till she smil'd upon him." And tho' he was always deceiv'd in the chace, He smooth'd up his whiskers, and wore a bold face. On horseback he first had attempted to go, But the horse was no fool, and had give him a throw; He fell in a pond, and with not a dry rag on The horse brought him back to the sign of the waggon, Where three times he call'd for a dram of their best, And three times the virtues of brandy confess'd; Then took some tobacco, and soberly said, "De'il take such a vessel; she's all by the head, Broach'd to on a sudden, and then, d'ye see, Myself and the saddle went over the lee." His head was so full of his ragged command He could scarcely believe he was yet on dry land; He would rise in his sleep; call the watch up at four, Ask the man at the helm how the Eddystone bore; Then, rubbing his eyes, bawl out, "By my soul, "We are bearing right down on the Hatteras shoal; "The devil may trust to such pilots as you: "We are close on the breakers--the breakers--halloo!"

[F] A seaport town in the S. W. quarter of Jamaica.--_Freneau's note, 1788 edition._

VII. EZEKIEL: _a Rhode-Island Lawyer_

The sixth, and the last, that attended our journey, Was a man of the law, a Rhode-Island attorney, As cunning as Satan to argue or plead, To break an entailment, or get himself fee'd They call'd him Ezekiel--I cannot tell what-- Perhaps I forget it--perhaps I do not-- He had once been a parson, and studied at Yale,[G] But took to the law, when his preaching grew stale; In his system of thinking, not well understood, I wander'd about, like a man in a wood; From morning 'till night he was nothing but whim, Not a man in the town held opinions, like him: In regard to the vulgar, he argued that Law Was better than preaching, to keep them in awe: That the dread of a gallows had greater effect, And a post or a pillory claim'd more respect From a knave--and would sooner contribute to mend, Than all the grave precepts that ever were penn'd.

[G] Yale College in New-Haven.--_Freneau's note, 1788 edition._

VIII. _The Chapter of_ DEBATES

Having pitch'd on our party, there rose a dispute On the mode of conveyance--in waggon or boat? For my part, said Snip, I was always afraid Of sailors, and sloops and the shallopman's trade, And the reason thereof I will candidly tell, My grandmother, Mopsy, was drown'd in a well; I therefore intreat you, and fervently pray We may go with the waggons the Burlington way. "Hold, master," the sailor replied in a fret, "The devil's not ready to bait for you yet: Even this way, you know, there is water to pass, And twenty long miles we should sail with an ass;-- But, gentlemen all, will you take my advice? Here's Albertson's[H] sloop; she's so new and so nice, Her bottom so sleek, and her rigging so trim, Not Bailey[H] or Hyde[H] can be mentioned with him; In her cabbin and steerage is plenty of room, And how clever she looks with her flying jib-boom, A topsail aloft, that will stand by the wind, And a yard rigg'd athwart, for a squaresail design'd. "Odds fish! I would sooner some little delay Than go, like a booby, the fresh-water way Where your cream-colour'd captains ne'er swear a bad word, And sail without compass or quadrant on board, Catch catfish and sturgeons, but never a whale, Nor balance a mizen, to fight with the gale: But Albertson goes by the route of Cape May, Salt-water, and sees the bold porpusses play: Where the shore of the coast the proud ocean controuls He travels, nor strikes on the Barnegat shoals." "You tar-smelling monster! (Snipinda rejoin'd) Your jargon has almost distracted my mind. If Snip should be drownded, and lost in the sea, You never once think what a loss it would be! I should then be a widow, dejected and sad And where would I find such another sweet lad! And Doctor Sangrado a letter has wrote, And how, in three weeks he will want a new coat."-- Snip's heart, at her answer, seem'd ready to break: "Snipinda," said he, "I would live for your sake! If I should be drownded, indeed, it is true, It would be a bad journey for Sam and for you!"-- For fear they should hear him, Sam whisper'd, "In troth I would give my new hat that the devil had both." "If Snip should be drown'd," said the valiant O'Keef, "Poor woman! already I guess at her grief-- However, for aught that a stranger can see, There are dozens as brisk at the needle as he, And, tho' it were hard that the sea-fish should tear him, I'm fully convinc'd that his brethren can spare him: "But were I to mention the very best way, And the quickest to boot (for they go in a day) I would sleep over night at the sign of the Queen,[I] (Where the wine is so good, and the beds are so clean) Then starting by day-break, and riding in state, Arriving in Bristol--we breakfast at eight, Then push on our way, with a rapid career, With nothing to hinder, and nothing to fear, Till Trenton, and Princeton, and Brunswick are pass'd, And safe on the Hudson they drop us at last." When the captain had finish'd, the Frenchman arose, And smoothing his whiskers, and squaring his toes, With a bend of his back, and a swing of his head Thus expressing his wish, with a flourish, he said: "Wherever pomatums are most in demand That route has my vote, be it water or land: Wherever I travel, through sun-shine or glooms, May fortune direct me to powders and plumes!-- So, gentlemen, choose, I beseech you, that road Where ladies prefer to be dress'd in the mode." "Hold, varlet, be still"--said the Yankee attorney, "Are you to decide on the route of our journey? These run-about fellows, I cannot but hate 'em, With their rings, and their ruffles, and rolls of pomatum: But, gentlemen, (if I may venture to speak In the stile I was wont when I dabbled in Greek, When I blew on my trumpet, and call'd up my pack, Who thought I was holy because I was black; Or, if you allow me a moral to draw From some words that were frequent with Doctor Magraw);-- "We all have in view to arrive at one town, "Yet each one would find out a way of his own; "What a pity it is that we cannot agree "To march all together to Zion"--said he-- But, since I'm convinc'd that it cannot be so, (For his journey resembles our journey below) Like the sects in religion, I heartily pray That each, as he pleases, may have his own way, Let Snip, and the captain, adventure by land, The sailor by sea--he can reef, steer, and hand; Let the Frenchman set out in a gaudy balloon, (He'll either be there, or be dead, very soon,) For my own part, I'm fond of the Burlington boat, But still, if you're willing, I'll put it to vote: The hint was sufficient--he put it to vote, And fate bade us go with the Burlington boat.

[H] Commanders of Philadelphia and New-York packets.--_Ib._

[I] Indian Queen.--_Freneau's note, 1788 edition._

IX. _The Passage to_ BURLINGTON

The morning was fair, and the wind was at west, The flood coming in, and the ladies were drest; At the sign of the Billet we all were to meet, And Snip was the first that appear'd in the street; He strutted along with a mighty brisk air, While Sam and Snipinda walked slow in the rear. Dress'd, booted, and button'd, and "cutting a shine" The captain came next, with his loaded carbine; Then handed on board the milliner's maid: The barber and ballad-man longer delay'd For one had his ballads to sing and to play, And the other some beards to take off by the way: At last they arriv'd, and the sailor along, (But he was besotted--his dram had been strong--) The lawyer, Ezekiel, was last to appear, With a cane in his hand and a quill at his ear. But, just as we all were prepar'd to embark, The wind came a-head, and the weather look'd dark: So, whilst they were busy in hoisting the sails And trimming close aft' to encounter the gales, Our seaman advis'd them to take in a reef As the vessel was light--but the skipper was deaf: "His boat was his own"--and he knew to a hair The "worth of her freight," and the "sail she could bear." Then a storm coming on, we stow'd away snug, Some link'd with a lady, and some with a jug: Snipinda and Sam were inclining to sleep, And the lawyer harangu'd on the risques of the deep. O'Bluster was busy in looking for squalls, And Cynthia discours'd upon dances and balls, And while the poor ballad-man gave us a song The Frenchman complain'd that his stomach felt wrong. Arriving, at length at the end of this stage, We quitted our cabbin (or rather our cage) To the sign of the Anchor we then were directed, Where captain O'Keef a fine turkey dissected; And Bryan O'Bluster made love to egg-nog, And pester'd the ladies to taste of his grog: Without it (said Bryan) I never can dine, 'Tis better, by far, than your balderdash wine, It braces the nerves and it strengthens the brain, A world--and no grog--is a prison of pain, And Man, the most wretched of all that are found To creep in the dust, or to move on the ground! It is, of all physic, the best I have seen To keep out the cold, and to cut up the spleen-- Here, madam--miss Cynthia--'tis good--you'll confess-- Now taste--and you'll wish you had been in my mess-- With grog I'm as great as a king on his throne; The worst of all countries is--where there is none, New Holland, New Zealand--those islands accurs'd-- Here's health to the man that invented it first.

X. VEXATIONS _and_ DISASTERS

Coop'd up in a waggon, the curtains let down, At three in the morning we drove out of town: A morning more dark I ne'er saw in my life, And the fog you might almost have cut with a knife, It was a fit season for murders and rapes, For drunken adventures and narrow escapes:-- So, with something to think of, but little to say, The driver drove on, looking out for the way, 'Till we came to the brow of a horrible hill, Six miles on our road, when the cattle stood still-- "Are you sure you have took the right road?"--queried Snip; "I am"--said the driver--and crack'd with his whip. Then away ran the horses, but took the wrong road, And away went the waggon, with all its full load; Down, deep in a valley, roll'd over and over, Fell the flying-machine, with its curtains and cover, Where shatter'd and shiver'd--no glimpse yet of day, A mass of destruction, together we lay! Then howlings were heard, that would frighten a stone, And screeching, and screaming, and many a groan, The bruising of heads, and the breaking of shins, Contrition of heart, and confession of sins. First rose from his ruins tall captain O'Keef, And call'd to Ezekiel, and begg'd for his brief:[J] A writ he demanded, as soon as 'twas day, And ask'd his advice, if a suit would not lay? Then felt for his sword, but chanc'd on a cane, And rush'd at the stageman, to cleave him in twain. As fortune would have it, the stageman had fled, And Snip the whole vengeance receiv'd on his head; The staff had been whirl'd with so deadly a sweep Poor Will in a moment was all in a heap: There was room to surmise that his senses were hurt, For, in spite of our bruises, he made us some sport: His head, he conceited, was made of new cheese; And ask'd, if the sexton would give up his fees?-- Then, rolling away on the side of the hill, With his head in a horse-pond, he lay very still: At last he bawl'd out--"I'm sick at my heart! Come hither, companions, and see me depart! Snipinda, Snipinda!--alas, I must leave her-- And all, for the sake of this villainous weaver, Who never would give me a moment of rest 'Till I left my dear shop-board, and thus am distrest! But a time will arrive (if I deem not amiss) When Slender, the weaver, will suffer for this-- May his breeches, be always too big for his wear, Or so narrow and scant as to torture his rear; May his waistcoat be ever too long or too short, And the skirts of his tunic not both of a sort;-- And, when from this sorrowful jaunt you return, Tell Doctor Sangrado 'tis needless to mourn: Ah! tell him I firmly believ'd I was going Where people no longer are wed-ding and wooing, Where white linen stockings will ever be clean, And sky-men are clad in the best of nankeen; Where with old Continental our debts we can pay, And a suit of best broad-cloth will last but a day; Where with pretty brass thimbles the streets are all pav'd, And a remnant--if not a whole piece--shall be sav'd, Where cloth may be cabbag'd--and that without fear-- And journeymen work--thirteen months to the year!" Snipinda was mov'd at so dismal a yell, And groping about to find where he fell, Exclaim'd, "I have got a sad bruise on one hip, But matters, I fear, are much worse with poor Snip." "Yes, yes"--answer'd Snip--"I'm preparing to go-- Be speedy, Snipinda, my pulse is so low!" Then she went where he lay, and took hold of his head, And whisper'd the captain, "how much he has bled!" (For she thought, as he lay with his nose in the puddle, That the water was blood, that had flow'd from his noddle.) "Ah! where is the doctor, to give him a pill; And where is the Lawyer, to write his last-will? Ezekiel! Ezekiel! attend to his words; If I am his widow, I must have my thirds! But can you"--and here she reclin'd on his breast-- "And can you resolve to forsake me distrest, Is it thus you would quit me, my joy and my love, And leave me alone for the shop-boards above: Is it thus you consign me to trouble and woe?-- When you are departed, ah! where shall I go? I shall then be a widow--forsaken and sad-- And where shall I find such another sweet lad? Who then will afford me a mint-water dram, Gallant me to meeting--and who will flog Sam?" By this time the story was currently spread, And most were convinc'd that the taylor was dead,-- "The taylor is dead beyond all relief! The taylor is dead," cry'd captain O'Keef: "To fetch up a fashion, or trump up a whim, Not a knight of the thimble was equal to him!" "The taylor is dead"--(the lawyer exclaim'd) God speed him!--'tis better to die than be maim'd: If life is a race, as the learned pretend, God help him! his racing is soon at an end: His anchor is cast, and his canvas is furl'd; A creature he was, so attach'd to the world, So eager for money--(I say it with grief) He never consider'd the 'fall of the leaf.' He is come (we may say) to the end of his tether Where the maid and her master shall lay down together.-- For the place where he's gone may we also prepare, Where the Mind, when admitted, shall rest from her care, And fiddles--the finest that ever were seen, Shall play, for his comfort, a brisk Bonny Jean. "The taylor is dead" (said the company round) "The taylor is dead"--the dark forests resound.-- "He is dead!"--blubber'd Sam, with a counterfeit sigh-- When the sailor bawl'd out--"By my soul it's a lie! The fellow has only a mind for some fun, His blood is not cold, and his race is not run. His head, it is true, may have had a small shock: I'll bind it--'twill only be strapping a block: Here, hand me a neck-cloth, a napkin, a clout! Now--heave up his noddle, and strap it about! Success to the skull that can bear a good jirk-- They only have damag'd his ginger-bread work." The matters turn'd out as he said and he swore, And the taylor threw open his peepers once more.

[J] A Lawyer's compend, in which he notes down the heads of arguments in Law-suits.--_Freneau's note, 1795 edition._

XI. CONCLUSION _of the Journey_

When the morning appear'd, it is horrid to tell What mischiefs the most of our crew had befel: A bundle lay here, and a budget lay there; The Frenchman was fretting and pulling his hair, The horses were feeding about on the hill, And Snip, with his head on a hassock lay still, The driver beseech'd us the fault to excuse, The night had been dark--and "he lost both his shoes"-- Then he rais'd up his waggon, rejoicing to find That, by leaving the top and the curtains behind, We still might proceed--for the body was sound, And the wheels, upon searching, uninjur'd all 'round. But dull and dishearten'd we travell'd along, Our waggon dismantled, our harness all wrong: The lawyer was vext that we went a snail's pace, And Cynthia was sure she had lost half her lace; While Bryan O'Bluster, who Snip had restor'd, Asserted, that Snip was the Jonas on board, And often declar'd, in his moments of glee, "He would give him a souse, if he had him at sea." At length, we arriv'd, with the marks of our fall, And halted to dine at the town of Road-Hall: Honest David has always a dish of the best, But Snipinda declar'd there was nothing well drest-- "And Snip (she exclaim'd) I would ask him to eat, But I know that he never could relish roast-meat: I think it were better to get him some Tea, He always was fond of slop dinners, like me, But then he could never endure your Bohea-- La! madam, is this the best tea that you keep? By the taste and the smell, you have purchas'd it cheap! No Hyson or Congo to give a sick stranger! Poor man! I've no doubt but his life is in danger!

"No doctor like Neptune for people like him, (Quoth O'Bluster)--his illness is merely a whim: If I had him at sea, with the rest of our crew, He should dance to the tune of a bowl of Burgoo!"

"From all that appears (said captain O'Keef) I judge he might venture to taste the roast beef, Nay--I think I can guess, from the cast of his eye, He longs to have hold of the gooseberry pye!" "Why captain (she cry'd) would you kill the poor sinner? If he cannot have tea, he shall go without dinner!"

At length to the Ferry we safely arrive, Each thanking his genius he still was alive: Poor Cynthia complain'd of abundance of harms, The black on her face and the blue on her arms: Snipinda exclaim'd that she wanted a patch, For Snip, in his ravings, had give her a scratch: The corpse of the captain was merely a wreck, And the sailor complain'd of a kink in his neck, He had a contusion, beside, on his thigh; And the ballad-man talk'd of a bruise on his eye, Just adding, "how much he was vext at the heart That no one regarded the song-singing art: Yet the town was in love with his music (he said) But never consider'd he liv'd by the trade; That affronts and neglect were forever his lot, And the lovers of music respected him--not; He had sung for the nymphs, and had sung for the swains, But they were unwilling to purchase his strains, When he put up his ballads and call'd for his pay, The shepherds slunk off, and the nymphs ran away."

So, we said what we could to encourage poor Bob, And pitied his fortune,--to live by the mob: Advis'd him to cobble, cut throats, or dig ditches If he wish'd to advance to perferment and riches; That the time had arriv'd, when a sycophant race Of poets are only promoted to place-- He should scorn them alike, if attach'd to a crown, Singing lies to a court, or disguis'd in the gown; That a poet of genius (all history shews) Ne'er wanted a puppy, to bark at his muse: And, though their productions were never once read, Yet Bavius and Mevius must also be fed. Then the skipper came in, with a terrible noise, Exclaiming, "The wherry is ready, my boys: The sails are unfurl'd, and the clock has struck eight; Away to the wharf, for no longer I wait!" Now all were embark'd, and the boat under sail, With a dark cloudy sky and a stiff blowing gale: In plying to windward we delug'd our decks-- O'Bluster discours'd of disasters and wrecks-- Snip offer'd the skipper five dollars, and more, And a pair of new trowsers, to run us on shore; "And, if I was there (said the faint-hearted swain) No money should tempt me to travel again! I had rather, by far, I had broken both legs, Been rotting in prison, or pelted with eggs! Now comrades and captains, I bid you good night, And you, Mr. Slender, our journey will write; A journey like this will attention attract, Related in metre, and known to be fact."-- Snipinda was sorry she ever left home-- Ezekiel confess'd it was madness to roam;-- Toupee was alarm'd at the break of the seas, And you, Robert Slender, were not at your ease; Yet couldn't help laughing at captain O'Keef, Who shunn'd little Cynthia, and cast up his beef: "And, Bruin (she said) I am sick at my heart, Come hither, I pray you--and see me depart: What wretches e'er travell'd so rugged a route; Alas! I am sorry that e'er we set out!" And Sam, while he own'd what a thief he had been, O'Bluster made love to a bottle of gin-- Bob's ballads and poems lay scatter'd and torn Himself in the dumps and his visage forlorn;-- Snip lay with his head by the side of a pot, In doubt if his soul was departing or not, Complaining, and spewing, and cursing his luck-- Then look'd at Snipinda--and call'd her his duck. At last to relieve us, when thought of the least, The wind came about to the south of southeast, The barque that was buried in billows before Now flew like a gull by the Long-Island shore, And gaining the port where we wish'd to arrive, Was safe in the bason--precisely at five.

[360] First published in pamphlet form by Bailey, April, 1787, under the title, "A Journey from Philadelphia to New-York by way of Burlington and South-Amboy. By Robert Slender, Stocking Weaver." The advertisement in the _Freeman's Journal_ of April 25 declares that "Some truth in the occasion and a good deal of fancy in the colouring mark the character of the above performance. The style is smooth and easy and the pleasurable air that is diffused over the whole piece will certainly render the whole poem acceptable to such as choose to read it." The poem was republished in the editions of 1788 and 1795, the text of the latter of which I have used. It was again republished in a twenty-four page pamphlet by Thomas Neversink, Philadelphia, Dec. 20, 1809, under the title "A Laughable Poem; or Robert Slender's Journey from Philadelphia to New York." The earlier versions, of which the 1788 text was a reprint, had the poem divided into four cantos. In the 1795 edition the subdivision into sections was made. Freneau thoroughly revised the poem for the 1795 edition, making very many changes, all for the better. He cut out nearly all of the indelicate allusions and expressions of the earlier edition, including the coarse but highly picturesque dialogue between the skipper and the captain, and it has seemed best to me not to resurrect them. The 1809 edition was reprinted with little change from the 1795 version.

[361] The 1788 version here adds this couplet:

"The _Babes in the wood_ was his favourite song, Or _Barbara Allan_, or _Johnny Armstrong_."

THE HERMIT OF SABA[362]

Hermit, First Mariner, Second Mariner, Third Mariner

SCENE, _The Island of Saba_[A]

[A] One of the windward Islands in the W. Indies. It is small, and appears like an immense cone, or sugar loaf, rising out of the surrounding ocean.--The inhabitants are of Dutch origin, and are equally strangers to the luxury and tyranny of the Sugar Islands.--Lat. 17 deg. 30' N. Lon. 63 deg. 12' W.--_Freneau's note._

_Hermit_

Though many years on these tall cliffs residing I recollect not such a dreadful quarrel Between the seas and water-vexing tempests As now torments my ears, and pains my eyes-- Clouds, low suspended, seem to embrace the foam Of yonder angry ocean--bursting thunders, With their pale sheets of lightning, are as busy As though they meant to cleave this mass of nature, Proving at once the world's mortality-- But am I safe on this sea-girded island, Or can these shores, thus beaten, bear the shock Of such a bold assault--? When universal ruin shall approach, Will the grand scene be more astonishing When thou, sky-pointing Saba, Shalt tremble on thy base most fearfully!-- Night comes!--I'll to my cavern in the mountain, Far from the torrent's roar and bursting billow; That cavern, where I oft have found repose Since on this barren isle, a shipwrecked stranger, I made my sole escape--Ha! what are these! A barque half buried in the spouting surge Comes rushing towards the isle, impelled by winds That scorn all motives of compassion. Hark! now she strikes the iron pointed reef Foundering; the horrid surge that breaks upon her Has sealed their doom, and hope itself forsakes them Man is too weak to combat with the power Of these mad elements, that conquer all, Ending the day light of our misery!-- Yes, yes--I'll to my haunt, for scenes like these Pain the shocked soul and damp all resolution;-- Or, shall I to the shore, while day remains, And search among the shell-incrusted coral, Lest if by some great chance or miracle Some wretch survives upon the ragged rocks, Who knowing not of human kind residing On this sequestered, unfrequented isle, Tired in contending with the angry billows And beaten by the surge the whole night through For want of such relief, may die ere morning-- Perdition! three I see upon the rocks Clinging, to keep off death, while the rude billow Swells o'er their heads, insultingly victorious: Now from the reef upborne I see them struggle, Heaven grant, successfully!--they labour on, Now headlong to the shore, now back they go Despairing to the main!--now, now they land Safe in that calm recess, a narrow bay To them the heaven from impending ruin-- So what are you?--

_First Mariner_

If thou art an inhabitant of the isle, Lend your kind aid to three half perished wretches Of threescore souls, the only three remaining-- And if thou knowest of any sheltered spot Where from these horrid blasts and water spouts We may retire to pass the long dull night: Or if thou knowest of any standing pool Or running stream, or earth-supported spring, O tell us! and, as nothing more remains, Our gratitude must be thy sole reward.

_Hermit_

Among the hills, on their declivities Full many a sylvan haunt I have espied Ere now, in wandering when the heaven was bright; But springs or running streams abound not here The skies alone supply the hollowed rock From whence I drain my annual full supply: Yet to my cavern you shall all resort To taste a hermit's hospitality-- If you have strength, ascend this winding path And amongst these rugged rocks, still following me, We soon shall reach a safe retreat, removed Alike from noisy seas, and mountain torrents.

_Second Mariner_

Lo! here the tall palmettoe, and the cedar, The lime tree, and sweet scented shrubs abundant With mingling branches, form a blest abode; Here, bleating lambs crowd to the evening fold And goats and kids, that wander o'er the hills, Vext by the storm, herd to the social hermit; In neighbouring groves the juicy lemon swells, The golden orange charms the admiring eye, And the rich cocoa yields her milky stream.

_Hermit_

Here, strangers, here repose your wearied limbs While some dead boughs I bring from yonder thicket, To wake the friendly blaze.--To drain the dams Of these impatient kids, be next my care: The cocoa's milky flesh, dried pulse and roots Shall be your fare to night; and when to-morrow Dispells the gloom, and this tornado ceases, We'll search along the shores, and find where lie The bodies of your dear and lost companions, That so we may commit them to the dust, And thus obliterate from our remembrance The horrid havock that this storm occasioned.

_Third Mariner_

O good old man, how do I honour thee! My future days, my services are your's; For you, will I be earlier than the sun To bring you sticks to light the morning fire; For you, will I attempt these dangerous cliffs And climb on high to pluck the blushing plum; For you will I from yonder rocky height Drain chrystal waters, to delight your taste: But now be kind; I wish to hear you tell What chance or fortune brought you to these shores: Whether alone on these rough craggs you dwell Where wandering mist is gathered into showers, Or whether town or village decks the plain; Or is there sheltered port, where swelling sails Lodge lofty ships, from hurricanes secure, Fenced in by reefs, or locked by neighbouring hills.

_Hermit_

No town or village owns this scanty soil, Nor round its coast one safe recess is seen, Where lofty ship, or barque of meaner freight Might rest secure, untroubled by the winds, Which still pursue the restless surge that pours, And spits its venom, on these ragged shores; Nor in these woody wilds, till you were wrecked, Except myself, did Christian man reside, Wandering from Europe to these Indian isles So late discovered on the world's green end.-- All lies as Nature formed it, rough throughout, And chance has planted here this garden wild, For such as I, who wandering from the world; Cities, and men, and civilized domains, The farther distant, find the bliss more pure.

_Third Mariner_

In such a sad retreat, and all alone!-- To hold no converse but with senseless trees, To have no friendship but with wandering goats, And worthless reptiles that infest the ground-- Can man be happy in so dull a scene?

_Hermit_

To the steep summit of this slighted isle I often climb at early dawn of day, And o'er the vast expanse I throw my view, Not idly thence the busy scene surveying-- Vast fleets I sometimes see, each kept at bay, Or joining both in angry conversation, Their object avarice half, and half ambition-- What is it all to me? what are they seeking That can give more than a sufficiency?-- That object I have here which they pursue, Grasping it, miser-like, in my embraces-- The stream distilling from the shaded cliff, And fruits mature from trees by Nature planted, And contemplation, heaven-born contemplation! These are my riches! I am wealthier far Than Spain's proud fleets, that load the groaning ocean-- Wait you in yonder cave--I will return-- My herd of goats is wandering in the wild, And I must house them, ere the close of day. (_Exit_)

_First Mariner_

Who can this hermit be--what doth he here? In such a dismal cell who would inhabit Thus lonely, who has crowds and cities seen-- Is he some savage offspring of the isle, The mountain goat his food, his god the sun; Some wretch produced from mingled heat and moisture. Full brother to the hungry pelican; His friend, some monster of the adjacent wood; His wife, some sorceress, red haired hag from hell; His children, serpents, scorpions, centipedes--

_Third Mariner_

It was but now, (he spoke before he thought) he told me, That he is richer than the fleets of Spain That burden the wide bosom of the ocean; And then he seemed so pleased and satisfied, Boasting himself the happiest of mankind.

_Second Mariner_

Where should this wealth be hid--his cave shows none: A prayer book and a cross, a string of beads, A bed of moss, a cap, an earthen jug, And some few goat skins, furnish out his cave: But still this humble guise of poverty Vast sums of splendid riches may conceal: The flooring of his den is a loose sand-- Searching a fathom deep may shew strange things, While we, so long pursuing, hit on fortune.-- Perhaps this hermit is some bloody pirate, Who having plundered friends and foes, alike, Has brought his booty here, to bury it.

_First Mariner_

Lo! there he comes, driving his goats before him: He means to fence them from the tempest's rage Under the shelter of those tufted cedars: It does, indeed, appear most possible, That in this cavern rests his plundered wealth: When sleep has locked his senses in repose We'll seize him on his couch, and binding him, Cast him from yonder jutting promontory That hangs a hundred fathoms o'er the deep-- Thus, shall his fate prevent discovery.

_Second Mariner_

Your project pleases me--it is most wrong That such a savage should enjoy such hoards Of useful wealth, he has not heart to use:-- He builds no ships, employs no mariners; But, like a miser, hides the ill-gotten store, And had he died before we wandered hither His gold had perished, and none been the wiser.

_Third Mariner_

While you observe his motions, fellow sufferers, Of twisted bark I'll make a sett of thongs Wherewith to bind him at the midnight hour, Lest waking, he should struggle to be free And slip our hands before we gain the summit From whence we mean to plunge his tawny carcase:-- There, there he comes--"Now, hermit, now befriend us, "For cruel, merciless hunger gnaws our vitals, "And every mischief that can man dishearten "Is ripe to drive us into desperation!"

_Hermit_

Have patience, till from yonder arched grotto I bring my bowls of milk, and seasoned roots, And fruits I plucked before the day was high: Now, friends, enjoy my hospitality: All's at your service, wretched shipwrecked men; And when you've satisfied the rage of hunger Repose on these soft skins; your sea-beat limbs Demand the aid of kind refreshing sleep: I'll to my evening prayers, as I am wont, And early dreams;--for travelling o'er the hills, And pelted by the storm the whole day past, My knees grow feeble, and I wish for rest. (_Exit_)

_Second Mariner_

Yes, yes--first pray, and then repose in peace, Hermit of Saba, ne'er to wake again! Or should you wake, it must be in convulsions, Tossed from the peak of yonder precipice, Transfixt on pointed rocks, most bloodily.

_Third Mariner_

Now, now's the time: he sleeps: I hear him snore-- This hidden gold has so possessed my brain, That I, at all events, must handle it: Yet should the hermit 'wake while thus engaged, Sad mischief might ensue: his nervous arm (More than a match for our exhausted vigour) Might exercise most horrible revenge! Long practising among these rugged mountains, Pursuing goats, bounding from rock to rock, And cleaving trees to feed his evening fire, His nerves and blood are all activity: And then he is of so robust a fabrick That we should be mere children in his hands, Whirling us from the precipice at pleasure, (Thus turning on ourselves our own designs) Or catching up some fragment of a rock Grind into atoms our pale, quivering limbs; Taking full vengeance on ingratitude.

_First Mariner_

Fast bound in chains of sleep, I first assail him; This knotty club shall give the unerring blow; You follow on, and boldly second me! Thus--comrades--thus!--that stroke has crushed his brain! He groans! he dies?--now bear him to the summit Of yon' tall cliff, and having thence dislodged him, Uninterrupted we shall dig his riches, Heirs to the wealth and plenty of his cave.

_Second Mariner_ (_conscience struck_)

'Tis done, 'tis done--the hermit is no more:-- Say nothing of this deed, ye hills, ye trees, But let eternal silence brood upon it. O, base, base, base!!--why was I made a man, And not some prowling monster of the forest, The worst vile work of Nature's journeymen! Ye lunar shadows! no resemblance yield From craggy pointed rock, or leafy bush, That may remind me of this murdered hermit.

_Third Mariner_

Deep have I fathomed in his cave, but find No glimpse of gold--we surely did mistake him: His treasures were not of that glittering kind; Dryed fruits, and one good book; his goats, his kids, These were, indeed, his riches-- Now, hermit, now I feel remorse within me: While here we stay thy shadow will torment us, From every haunted rock, or bush, projecting; And when from hence we go, that too shall follow, Crying--Perdition on these fiends from Europe, Whose bloody malice, or whose thirst for gold, Fresh from the slaughter-house of innocence Unpeoples isles, and lays the world in ruin!

[362] This poem was doubtless a product of Freneau's earlier Muse, as were also the poems "The Indian Burying Ground," "The Indian Student," "The Man of Ninety," and "Alcina's Enchanted Island" which follow. They were, however, first printed in the edition of 1788 and there is no other hint as to their date. I have followed in all cases except the last the 1809 text.

THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND[363]

In spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture, that we give the dead, Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands-- The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast.[A]

[A] "The North American Indians bury their dead in a sitting posture; decorating the corpse with wampum, the images of birds, quadrupeds, &c: And (if that of a warrior) with bows, arrows, tomhawks, and other military weapons."--_Freneau's note._

His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul, Activity, that knows no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent, And arrows, with a head of stone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit-- Observe the swelling turf, and say They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far-projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest played!

There oft a restless Indian queen (Pale Shebah, with her braided hair) And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews; In habit for the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer, a shade![364]

And long shall timorous fancy see The painted chief, and pointed spear, And Reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here.

[363] In the 1788 edition this has the title "Lines Occasioned by a Visit to an old Indian Burying Ground."

[364] Campbell borrowed this line for his poem "O'Connor's Child." Stanza IV of the poem begins as follows:

"Bright as the bow that spans the storm In Erin's yellow vesture clad, A son of light--a lovely form He comes and makes her glad; Now on the grass-green turf he sits, His tassel'd horn beside him laid; Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, The hunter and the deer a shade!"

THE INDIAN STUDENT

Or, Force of Nature[365]

From Susquehanna's farthest springs Where savage tribes pursue their game, (His blanket tied with yellow strings,) A shepherd of the forest came.

Not long before, a wandering priest Expressed his wish, with visage sad-- "Ah, why (he cried) in Satan's waste, "Ah, why detain so fine a lad?

"In white-man's land there stands a town "Where learning may be purchased low-- "Exchange his blanket for a gown, "And let the lad to college go."--

From long debate the council rose, And viewing Shalum's tricks with joy To Cambridge Hall,[A] o'er wastes of snows, They sent the copper-coloured boy.

[A] Harvard College, at Cambridge in Massachusetts.--_Freneau's note, edition 1788._

One generous chief a bow supplied, This gave a shaft, and that a skin; The feathers, in vermillion dyed, Himself did from a turkey win:

Thus dressed so gay, he took his way O'er barren hills, alone, alone! His guide a star, he wandered far, His pillow every night a stone.

At last he came, with foot so lame, Where learned men talk heathen Greek, And Hebrew lore is gabbled o'er, To please the Muses,--twice a week.

Awhile he writ, awhile he read, Awhile he conned their grammar rules-- (An Indian savage so well bred Great credit promised to the schools.)

Some thought he would in law excel, Some said in physic he would shine; And one that knew him, passing well, Beheld, in him, a sound Divine.

But those of more discerning eye Even then could other prospects show, And saw him lay his Virgil by To wander with his dearer bow.

The tedious hours of study spent, The heavy-moulded lecture done, He to the woods a hunting went, Through lonely wastes he walked, he run.

No mystic wonders fired his mind; He sought to gain no learned degree, But only sense enough to find The squirrel in the hollow tree.

The shady bank, the purling stream, The woody wild his heart possessed, The dewy lawn, his morning dream In fancy's gayest colours dressed.

"And why (he cried) did I forsake "My native wood for gloomy walls; "The silver stream, the limpid lake "For musty books and college halls.

"A little could my wants supply-- "Can wealth and honour give me more; "Or, will the sylvan god deny "The humble treat he gave before?

"Let seraphs gain the bright abode, "And heaven's sublimest mansions see-- "I only bow to Nature's God-- "The land of shades will do for me.

"These dreadful secrets of the sky "Alarm my soul with chilling fear-- "Do planets in their orbits fly, "And is the earth, indeed, a sphere?

"Let planets still their course pursue, "And comets to the centre run-- "In Him my faithful friend I view, "The image of my God--the Sun.

"Where Nature's ancient forests grow, "And mingled laurel never fades, "My heart is fixed;--and I must go "To die among my native shades."

He spoke, and to the western springs, (His gown discharged, his money spent, His blanket tied with yellow strings,) The shepherd of the forest went.[366]

[365] The 1788 version bore under the title the motto:

"_Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes; Flumina amem, sylvasque inglorius._" VIRG. Georg. II. V. 483.

[366] The 1788 version has this additional stanza:

"Returning to this rural reign The Indians welcom'd him with joy; The council took him home again, And bless'd the copper-colour'd boy."

THE MAN OF NINETY

"To yonder boughs that spread so wide, Beneath whose shade soft waters glide, Once more I take the well known way; With feeble step and tottering knee I sigh to reach my white-oak tree, Where rosy health was wont to play.

If to the shades, consuming slow, The shadow of myself, I go, When I am gone, wilt thou remain!-- From dust you rose, and grew like me; I man became, and you a tree, Both natives of one grassy plain.

How much alike; yet not the same!-- You could no kind protector claim; Alone you stood, to chance resigned: When winter came, with blustering sky, You feared its blasts--and so did I, And for warm suns in secret pined.

When vernal suns began to glow You felt returning vigour flow; Which once a year new leaves supplied; Like you, fine days I wished to see, And May was a sweet month to me, But when November came--I sighed!

If through your bark some ruffian arm A mark impressed, you took the alarm, And tears awhile I saw descend; Till Nature's kind maternal aid A plaister on your bruises laid, And bade your trickling sorrows end.

Like you, I feared the lightning's stroke, Whose flame dissolves the strength of oak, And ends at once this mortal dream;-- You saw, with grief, the soil decay That from your roots was torn away; You sighed--and cursed the stream.

With borrowed earth, and busy spade, Around your roots new life I laid, While joy revived in every vein; (The care of man shall life impart)-- Though Nature owns the aid of art, No art, immortal, makes their reign.

How much alike our fortune--say-- Yet, why must I so soon decay When thou hast scarcely reached thy prime-- Erect and tall, you joyous stand; The staff of age has found my hand, That guides me to the grave of time.

Could I, fair tree, like you, resign, And banish all those fears of mine, Grey hairs would be no cause of grief; Your blossoms die, but you remain, Your fruit lies scattered o'er the plain-- Learn wisdom from the falling leaf.

As you survive, by heaven's decree, Let withered flowers be thrown on me Sad compensation for my doom, While winter greens and withering pines And cedars dark, and barren vines, Point out the lonely tomb.

The enlivening sun, that burns so bright, Ne'er had a noon without a night, So Life and Death agree; The joys of man by years are broke"-- 'Twas thus the man of ninety spoke, Then rose, and left his tree.

ALCINA'S ENCHANTED ISLAND[367]

In These fair fields unfading flowers abound, Here purple roses cloathe the enchanted ground; Here, to the sun expand the lillies pale Fann'd by the sweet breath of the western gale:

Here, fearless hares through dark recesses stray, And troops of leverets take the woodland way, Here stately stags, with branching horns, appear, And rove unsought for, unassail'd by fear:

Unknown the snare, the huntsman's fatal dart That wings the death of torture to the heart, In social bands they trace their sylvan reign, Chew the rich cud, or graze along the plain.

In these gay shades the nimble deer delight, While herds of goats ascend the rocky height, Browse on the shrubs that shade the vale below, And crop the plants, that there profusely grow.

[367] Published in the 1788 edition under the title "Ariosto's Description of the Gardens in Alcina's Inchanted Island. From the Italian." Text from the edition of 1795.

HORACE, LIB. I. ODE 15[368]

Nereus prophesies the destruction of Troy[369]

As 'cross the deep to Priam's shore The Trojan prince bright Helen bore, Old Nereus hushed each noisy breeze And calmed the tumults of the seas.

Then, musing on the traitor's doom, Thus he foretold the woes to come; "Ah why remove, mistaken swain, "The prize that Greece shall seize[370] again!

"With omens sad, you sail along; "And Europe shall resent the wrong, "Conspire to seize your bride away, "And Priam's town in ashes lay.

"Alas! what toils and deaths combined! "What hosts of men and horses joined!-- "Bold Pallas now prepares her shield, "And arms her chariot for the field.

"Can you with heavenly forms engage, "A goddess kindling into rage; "Who ne'er have dared a mortal foe "And wars, alone, of Venus, know.

"In vain you dress your flowing hair, "And songs, to aid the harp, prepare; "The harp, that sung to female ears, "Shall fail when Mars and Greece appears.

"In vain will you bewail your bride, "And meanly in her chamber hide, "In hopes to shun, when lingering there, "The massy dart, and Cretan spear.

"In vain will you, with quickening pace, "Avoid fierce Ajax in the chace; "For late those locks, that please the eye, "In dust and death must scattered lie.

"Do you not see Ulysses, too, "The sage that brings your nation low: "And Nestor from the land of Pyle-- "Chiefs skilled in arms and martial toil.

"Dost thou not see bold Teucer here, "And him--no tardy chariotteer; "Who both pursue with eager force, "And both controul the thundering horse.

"Thou, to thy grief, shalt Merion know, "And Tydeus' son shall prove thy foe, "Who wastes your realms with sword and fire; "Tydides, greater than his sire.

"Like timorous deer, prepared to fly "When hungry wolves are passing by, "No more the herbs their steps detain, "They quit their pastures, and the plain:

"So you from his triumphant arms "Will fly, with all your female charms; "Can deeds, like these, your valour prove, "Was this your promise to your love?

"Achilles' wrath shall but delay "Your ruin to a later day-- "The Trojan matrons then may mourn, "And Troy by Grecian vengeance burn."

[368] First found in the 1788 edition; text from the 1809 edition.

[369] The 1788 edition had the following line after the title: "_Pastor quum traheret per freta navibus_, etc."

[370] "Fetch."--_Ed. 1788._

A SUBSCRIPTION PRAYER[371]

For defraying the burial expences of an Old Soldier

Ah! Give him a tomb, for a tomb is his due, A shilling, great man, is a trifle to You: If you give him a tomb, that his name may survive, May Fortune attend you, and help you to thrive: May you always have something to praise and approve, And the pleasure to dream of the girl that you love.

Prepar'd for the worst, but enjoying the best, With a girl and a bottle he feather'd his nest: Half sick of the world, in the wane of his life, To hasten his exit, he took him a wife, But, finding his fair one a damnable elf, He grounded his arms--and took leave of himself.

[371] Entitled in 1788, "Patrick Mulhoni. A Subscription Prayer. _Date obolum Belisario._" Text from the 1795 edition.

EPISTLE TO THE PATRIOTIC FARMER[372]

Thus, while new laws the stubborn States reclaim, And most for pensions, some for honours aim, You, who first aimed a shaft at George's crown, And marked the way to conquest and renown, While from the vain, the lofty, and the proud, Retiring to your groves, you shun the crowd,-- Can toils, like yours, in cold oblivion end, Columbia's patriot, and her earliest friend? Blest, doubly blest, from public scenes retired, Where public welfare all your bosom fired; Your life's best days in studious labours past Your deeds of virtue make your bliss at last; When all things fail, the soul must rest on these!-- May heaven restore you to your favourite trees, And calm content, best lot to man assigned, Be heaven's reward to your exalted mind. When her base projects you beheld, with pain, And early doomed an end to Britain's reign. When rising nobly in a generous cause (Sworn foe to tyrants and imported laws) Thou Dickinson! the patriot and the sage, How much we owed to your convincing page:[A] That page--the check of tyrants and of knaves, Gave birth to heroes who had else been slaves, Who, taught by you, denied a monarch's sway; And if they brought him low--you planned the way. Though in this glare of pomp you take no part Still must your conduct warm each generous heart: What, though you shun the patriot vain and loud, While hosts neglect, that once to merit bowed, Shun those gay scenes, were recent laurels grow, The mad Procession, and the painted show; In days to come, when pomp and pride resign, Who would not change his proudest wreathes for thine, In fame's fair fields such well-earned honours share, And Dickinson confess unrivalled there! [1788]

[A] The Farmer's Letters, and others of his truly valuable writings.--_Freneau's note._

[372] John Dickinson (1732-1808), a lawyer in Philadelphia, and a member of the Colonial Congress of 1765 and of the Continental Congress of 1774, first came into wide prominence in 1767 through the publication of his series of papers entitled "Letters from a Pennsylvania Farmer to the Inhabitants of the British Colonies." From this time until his death he was a vigorous and voluminous publicist. His influence upon his times was very great. The text of the poem is from the 1809 edition.

PALEMON TO LAVINIA[373]

[Written 1788]

"Torn from your arms by rude relentless hands, No tears recall our lost Alcander home, Who, far removed by fierce piratic bands, Finds in a foreign soil[A] an early tomb:

[A] Algiers, the piratical city on the coast of Barbary.--_Freneau's note._

Well may you grieve!--his race so early done, No years he reached, to urge some task sublime;-- No conquests made, no brilliant action won, No verse to bear him through the gulph of time.

Amidst these shades and heart depressing glooms, What comfort shall we give--what can we say; In her distress shall we discourse on tombs, Or tell Lavinia, 'tis a cloudy day?

The pensive priest accosts her with a sigh: With movement slow, in sable robes he came-- But why so sad, philosopher, ah, why, Since from the tomb alone all bliss we claim?

By pining care and wakeful sorrow worn, While silent griefs her downcast heart engage, She saw me go, and saw me thrice return To pen my musings on some vacant page.

To learning's store, to Galen's science bred, I saw Orestes rove through all the plain: His pensive step no friendly genius led To find one plant that might relieve your pain!

Say, do I wake?--or are your woes a dream! Depart, dread vision!--waft me far away: Seek me no more by this sky painted stream That glides, unconscious, to the Indian bay.

Alcander!--ah!--what tears for thee must flow-- What doom awaits the wretch that tortured thee! May never flower in his cursed garden blow, May never fruit enrich his hated tree:

May that fine spark, which Nature lent to man, Reason, be thou extinguished in his brain; Sudden his doom, contracted be his span, Ne'er to exist, or spring from dust again.

May no kind genius save his step from harms: Where'er he sails, may tempests rend the sea; May never maiden yield to him her charms, Nor prattling infant hang upon his knee!

Retire, retire, forget the inhuman shore: Dark is the sun, when woes like these dismay; Resign your groves, and view with joy no more The fragrant orange, and the floweret gay."

[373] First published in the 1795 edition. Text from the edition of 1809.

A NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS[374]

Though past events are hourly read, The various labours of the dead, In vain their story we recall, The rise of empires, or the fall; Our modern men, a busy crew, Must, in their turn, have something new. By moralists we have been told That "Time himself in time grows old; "The seasons change, the moons decay, "The sun shines weaker every day, "Justice is from the world withdrawn, "Virtue and friendship almost gone, "Religion fails (the clergy shew) "And man, alas, must vanish too." Let others such opinions hold, (Since grumbling has been always old;) All Nature must decay, 'tis true, But Nature shall her face renew, Her travels in a circle make, Freeze but to thaw, sleep but to wake. Die but to live, and live to die, In summer smile, in autumn sigh, Resume the garb that once she wore, Repeat the words she said before, Bow down with age, or, fresh and gay, Change, only to prevent decay. As up and down, with weary feet, I travel each fatiguing street, Meeting the frowns of party men, Foes to the freedom of the pen, And to your doors our sheets convey-- I sometimes think I hear you say, "Ah, were it not for what he brings, (This messenger of many things) We should be in a sorry plight; The wars of Europe out of sight, No paragraphs of home affairs To tell us how the fabric wears Which Freedom built on Virtue's plan, And Virtue only can maintain." But something further you pretend,-- From want of money, heaven defend! Leave that to those who sleep in sheds, Or on the pavement make their beds, Who clean the streets, or carry news, Repair old coats, or cobble shoes-- Of every ill with which we're curs'd This want of money is the worst: This was the curse that fell on Cain, The vengeance for a brother slain: For this he quit his native sod, Retreated to the land of Nod, And, in the torture of despair, Turn'd poet, pimp, or newsman there-- Divines have labour'd in the dark To find the meaning of his mark: How many idle things they wrote-- 'Twas nothing but a ragged coat. Should money, now, be scarce with you, With me, alas, 'tis nothing new! We news-men always are in need, (So Beer and Bacchus have decreed) And still your bounty shall implore Till--printing presses are no more!-- Did we not conjure up our strain The year might come and go again, Seasons advance, and moons decay, And life itself make haste away, And news-men only vex their brains To have their labour for their pains-- Such usage I may find, 'tis true, But then it would be--something new!

[374] I have not been able to find the paper which first used these New Year's verses. The 1788 edition gave them the title "New Year's Verses for 1788. [Supposed to be written by the Printer's lad, who supplies the customers with his weekly paper.]" Text from the edition of 1795.

ON THE PROSPECT OF A REVOLUTION IN FRANCE[375]

_"Now, at the feast they plan the fall of Troy; "The stern debate ATRIDES hears with joy"._ --_Hom. Odys._

Borne on the wings of time another year Sprung from the past, begins its proud career: From that bright spark which first illumed these lands, See Europe kindling, as the blaze expands, Each gloomy tyrant, sworn to chain the mind, Presumes no more to trample on mankind: Even potent Louis trembles on his throne, The generous prince who made our cause his own, More equal rights his injured subjects claim, No more a country's strength--that country's shame; Fame starts astonished at such prizes won, And rashness wonders how the work was done. Flushed with new life, and brightening at the view, Genius, triumphant, moulds the world anew; To these far climes in swift succession moves Each art that Reason owns and sense approves. What though his age is bounded to a span Time sheds a conscious dignity on man, Some happier breath his rising passion swells, Some kinder genius his bold arm impels, Dull superstition from the world retires, Disheartened zealots haste to quench their fires; One equal rule o'er twelve[A] vast States extends, Europe and Asia join to be our friends, Our active flag in every clime displayed Counts stars on colours that shall never fade; A far famed chief o'er this vast whole presides Whose motto Honor is--whom Virtue guides His walks forsaken in Virginia's groves Applauding thousands bow where'er He moves, Who laid the basis of this Empire sure Where public faith should public peace secure. Still may she rise, exalted in her aims, And boast to every age her patriot names, To distant climes extend her gentle sway, While choice--not force--bids every heart obey: Ne'er may she fail when Liberty implores, Nor want true valour to defend her shores, 'Till Europe, humbled, greets our western wave, And owns an equal--whom she wished a slave.

[A] At this time, Rhode-Island was not a member of the general Confederation of the American States. [1788]--_Freneau's note._

[375] This appeared first in the _Daily Advertiser_ of New York, March 7, 1790. It is the first of Freneau's series of poems on the French Revolution and its message. Text from the edition of 1809.

TO A DOG[376]

Occasioned by putting him on shore at the Island of Sapola, for theft

Since Nature taught you, Tray, to be a thief, What blame have you, for working at your trade? What if you stole a handsome round of beef; Theft, in your code of laws, no crime was made.

The ten commandments you had never read, Nor did it ever enter in your head: But art and Nature, careful to conceal, Disclos'd not even the Eighth--_Thou shalt not steal_.

Then to the green wood, caitiff, haste away: There take your chance to live--for Truth must say, We have no right, for theft, to hang up Tray.

[376] First published in the _National Gazette_, Nov. 3, 1791. Sapola Island is one of the sea-islands of McIntosh County, Georgia, forty-two miles southwest of Savannah. The somewhat unusual proceeding of putting a worthless dog on shore, instead of the more common expedient of killing him at once, is only another evidence of the poet's kindly heart. Text from the edition of 1809.

TO LYDIA[377]

"_Tu procul a patria, ah dura! inculta deserta, Me sine, sola videbis----_ VIRG. ECLOG.

Thus, safe arrived, she greets the strand, And leaves her pilot for the land; But Lydia, why to deserts roam, And thus forsake your floating home!

To what fond care shall I resign The bosom, that must ne'er be mine: With lips, that glow beyond all art, Oh! how shall I consent to part!--

Long may you live, secure from woes, Late dying, meet a calm repose, And flowers, that in profusion grow, Bloom round your steps, where'er you go.

On you all eyes delight to gaze, All tongues are lavish in your praise; With you no beauty can compare, Nor Georgia boast one flower so fair.

Could I, fair girl, transmit this page, A present, to some future age, You should through every poem shine, You, be adored in every line:

From Jersey coasts too loth to sail, Sighing, she left her native vale; Borne on a stream that met the main, Homeward she looked, and looked again.

The gales that blew from off the land Most wantonly her bosom fanned, And, while around that heaven they strove, Each whispering zephyr owned his love.

As o'er the seas, with you I strayed, The hostile winds our course delayed, But, proud to waft a charge so fair, To me were kind--and held you there.

I could not grieve, when you complained That adverse gales our barque detained Where foaming seas to mountains grow, From gulphs of death, concealed below.

When travelling o'er that lonely wave To me your feverish hand you gave, And sighing, bade me tell you, true, What lands again would rise to view!

When night came on, with blustering gale, You feared the tempest would prevail, And anxious asked, if I was sure That on those depths we sailed secure?

Delighted with a face so fair, I half forgot my weight of care, The dangerous shoal, that seaward runs, Encircled moons, and shrouded suns.

With timorous heart and tearful eyes, You saw the deep Atlantic rise, Saw wintry clouds their storms prepare, And wept, to find no safety there.

Throughout the long December's night, (While still your lamp was burning bright) To dawn of day from evening's close My pensive girl found no repose.

Then now, at length arrived from sea, Consent, fair nymph, to stay with me-- The barque--still faithful to her freight, Shall still on your direction wait.

Such charms as your's all hearts engage! Sweet subject of my glowing page, Consent, before my Argo roves To sun-burnt isles and savage groves.

When sultry suns around us glare, Your poet, still, with fondest care, To cast a shade, some folds will spread Of his coarse topsails o'er your head.

When round the barque the billowy wave And howling winds, tempestuous, rave, By caution ruled, the helm shall guide Safely, that Argo o'er the tide.

Whene'er some female fears prevail, At your request we'll reef the sail, Disarm the gales that rudely blow, And bring the loftiest canvas low.

When rising to harass the main Old Boreas drives his blustering train, Still shall they see, as they pursue, Each tender care employed for you.

To all your questions--every sigh! I still will make a kind reply; Give all you ask, each whim allow, And change my style to _thee_ and _thou_.

If verse can life to beauty give, For ages I can make you live; Beyond the stars, triumphant, rise, While Cynthia's tomb neglected lies:

Upon that face of mortal clay I will such lively colours lay, That years to come shall join to seek All beauty from your modest cheek.

Then, Lydia, why our bark forsake; The road to western deserts take? That lip--on which hung half my bliss, Some savage, now, will bend to kiss;

Some rustic soon, with fierce attack, May force his arms about that neck; And you, perhaps, will weeping come To seek--in vain--your floating home!

[377] There is a discrepancy in the dates given to this poem. It was published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Sept. 3, 1788, with the preliminary remarks: "The following copy of verses came accidentally into my hands. I am told that it was written by Capt. Freneau and addressed to a young Quaker lady who went passenger in his vessel to Georgia to reside in the western parts of that State. From the New York Daily Advertiser." It was reprinted in the 1795 edition, and in the edition of 1809, where it has the note: "Miss Lydia Morris, a young quaker lady, on her landing from the sloop Industry, at Savannah, in Georgia, December 30th, 1806." I have followed the 1809 text.

TO CYNTHIA[378]

Through Jersey[379] groves, a wandering stream That still its wonted music keeps, Inspires no more my evening dream, Where Cynthia, in retirement, sleeps.

Sweet murmuring stream! how blest art thou To kiss the bank where she resides, Where Nature decks the beechen bough That trembles o'er your shallow tides.

The cypress-tree on Hermit's height, Where Love his soft addresses paid By Luna's pale reflected light-- No longer charms me to its shade!

To me, alas! so far removed, What raptures, once, that scenery gave, Ere wandering yet from all I loved, I sought a deeper, drearier wave.

Your absent charms my thoughts employ: I sigh to think how sweet you sung, And half adore the painted toy That near my careless heart you hung.

Now, fettered fast in icy fields, In vain we loose the sleeping sail; The frozen wave no longer yields, And useless blows the favouring gale.

Yet, still in hopes of vernal showers, And breezes, moist with morning dew, I pass the lingering, lazy hours, Reflecting on the spring--and you.

[378] This poem appeared in the _Freeman's Journal_, Jan. 29, 1789, under the title: "Stanzas written at Baltimore in Maryland, Jan. 1789, by Capt. P. Freneau." It was republished in the _Daily Advertiser_, Jan. 5, 1790, under the title "To Harriot." It was used in the editions of 1795 and 1809. The text follows the latter edition.

[379] "Monmouth's."--_Ed. 1789._ "Morven's vale."--_Ed. 1790._

AMANDA'S COMPLAINT[380]

"In shades we live, in shades we die, Cool zephyrs breathe for our repose; In shallow streams we love to play, But, cruel you, that praise deny Which you might give, and nothing lose, And then pursue your destined way.

Ungrateful man! when anchoring here, On shore you came to beg relief; I shewed you where the fig trees grow, And wandering with you, free from fear, To hear the story of your grief I pointed where the cisterns are, And would have shewn, if streams did flow!

The Men that spurned your ragged crew, So long exposed to Neptune's rage-- I told them what your sufferings were: Told them that landsmen never knew The trade that hastens frozen age, The life that brings the brow of care.

A lamb, the loveliest of the flock, To your disheartened crew I gave, Life to sustain on yonder deep-- Sighing, I cast one sorrowing look When on the margin of the main You slew the loveliest of my sheep.

Along your native northern shores, From cape to cape, where'er you stray, Of all the nymphs that catch the eye, They scarce can be excelled by our's-- Not in more fragrant shades they play;-- The summer suns come not so nigh.

Confess your fault, mistaken swain, And own, at least, our equal charms-- Have you no flowers of ruddy hue, That please your fancy on the plain?-- Would you not guard those flowers from harm, If Nature's self each picture drew!

Vain are your sighs--in vain your tears, Your barque must still at anchor lay, And you remain a slave to care; A thousand doubts, a thousand fears, 'Till what you said, you shall unsay, Bermudian damsels are not fair!

[380] First published in the _New York Daily Advertiser_, Sept. 7, 1790, under the title, "Written at Cape Hatteras," and dated June, 1789. The last line of this version reads, "Hatteras maidens are not fair." It was republished in the _National Gazette_, March 19, 1792, under the title "Tormentina's Complaint," and dated "Castle Island, Bermuda, Jan. 20, 1789." In the 1809 edition, the text of which I have followed, it was grouped with the Amanda poems.

HATTERAS[381]

In fathoms five the anchor gone; While here we furl the sail, No longer vainly labouring on Against the western gale: While here thy bare and barren cliffs, O Hatteras, I survey, And shallow grounds and broken reefs-- What shall console my stay!

The dangerous shoal, that breaks the wave In columns to the sky; The tempests black, that hourly rave, Portend all danger nigh: Sad are my dreams on ocean's verge! The Atlantic round me flows, Upon whose ancient angry surge No traveller finds repose!

The Pilot comes!--from yonder sands He shoves his barque, so frail, And hurrying on, with busy hands, Employs both oar and sail. Beneath this rude unsettled sky Condemn'd to pass his years, No other shores delight his eye, No foe alarms his fears.

In depths of woods his hut he builds, Devoted to repose, And, blooming, in the barren wilds His little garden grows: His wedded nymph, of sallow hue, No mingled colours grace-- For her he toils--to her is true, The captive of her face.

Kind Nature here, to make him blest, No quiet harbour plann'd; And poverty--his constant guest, Restrains the pirate band: His hopes are all in yonder flock, Or some few hives of bees, Except, when bound for Ocracock,[A] Some gliding barque he sees:

[A] All vessels from the northward that pass within Hatteras Shoals, bound for Newbern and other places on Palmico Sound, commonly in favourable weather take a Hatteras pilot to conduct them over the dangerous bar of Ocracock, eleven leagues north southwest of the cape.--_Freneau's note._

His Catharine then he quits with grief, And spreads his tottering sails, While, waving high her handkerchief, Her commodore she hails: She grieves, and fears to see no more The sail that now forsakes, From Hatteras' sands to banks of Core Such tedious journies takes!

Fond nymph! your sighs are heav'd in vain; Restrain those idle fears: Can you--that should relieve his pain-- Thus kill him with your tears! Can absence, thus, beget regard, Or does it only seem? He comes to meet a wandering bard That steers for Ashley's stream.

Though disappointed in his views, Not joyless will we part; Nor shall the god of mirth refuse The Balsam of the Heart: No niggard key shall lock up Joy-- I'll give him half my store Will he but half his skill employ To guard us from your shore.

Should eastern gales once more awake, No safety will be here:-- Alack! I see the billows break, Wild tempests hovering near: Before the bellowing seas begin Their conflict with the land, Go, pilot, go--your Catharine join, That waits on yonder sand.

[381] Text from the edition of 1795. The poem seems to have appeared first in the _Freeman's Journal_ of Dec. 9, 1789, with the title "The Pilot of Hatteras, by Capt. Philip Freneau." Affixed was the note: "This celebrated genius, the Peter Pindar of America, is now a master of a packet which runs between New York, Philadelphia, and Charleston. His tuneful numbers during the war did much to soften the disagreeable sensations which a state of warfare so generally occasions." The poem was reprinted in the _National Gazette_ of Jan. 16, 1792, with the note, "Written off the Cape, July, 1789, on a voyage to South Carolina, being delayed sixteen days with strong gales ahead." The poem was omitted from the edition of 1809.

ST. CATHARINE'S[A][382]

[A] An island on the sea-coast of Georgia.--_Freneau's note._

He that would wish to rove a while In forests green and gay, From Charleston bar to Catharine's isle Might sigh to find the way! What scenes on every side appear, What pleasure strikes the mind, From Folly's train, thus wandering far, To leave the world behind.

The music of these savage groves In simple accents swells, And freely here, their sylvan loves The feather'd nation tells; The panting deer through mingled shades Of oaks forever green The vegetable world invades, That skirts the watery scene.

Thou sailor, now exploring far The broad Atlantic wave, Crowd all your canvas, gallant tar, Since Neptune never gave On barren seas so fine a view As here allures the eye, Gay, verdant scenes that Nature drew In colours from the sky.

Ye western winds! awhile delay To swell the expecting sail-- Who would not here, a hermit, stay In yonder fragrant vale, Could he engage what few can find, That coy, unwilling guest (All avarice banish'd from the mind) Contentment, in the breast!

[382] Text from the edition of 1795. The poem seems to have appeared first in the _National Gazette_ of Feb. 16, 1792, under the title, "Lines written at St. Catharine's Island on the coast of Georgia, November, 1789." The poem is not found in the 1809 edition.

TO MR. CHURCHMAN[383]

On the rejection of his Petition to the Congress of the United States, to enable him to make a voyage to BAFFIN'S BAY, to ascertain the truth of his Variation Chart

Churchman! methinks your scheme is rather wild Of travelling to the pole Where icy billows roll, And pork and pease Are said to freeze Even at the instant they are boil'd.

Rejected, now, your humble, ardent prayer For cash, to speed your way To Baffin's frozen bay, 'Tis your own fault if you repine! You should have mention'd some rich golden mine-- Not Variation Charts, that claim no care.

Avarice, alone, would sooner bid you go Than all the inducements Art can shew: The men, whom you petition for some dollars, Tho' willing to be thought prodigious scholars, Yet care as much for variation charts As king of spades, and knave of hearts.

Churchman! 'tis best to quit this vain pursuit This Variation is a common thing! Rather attach yourself to Caesar's wing-- You'll find it better--better, sir, by half, To sooth Pomposo's ear--or make him laugh: So shall you, mounted in a coach and six, Ride envoy to the country of the Creeks-- So shall you visit Europe's gaudy courts, And see the polish'd world, at public charge; Return--and spend your life in sports, Be air'd in coach, and sail'd in barge:-- Pursue this track, thou man of curious soul, Nor, like a whale, go puffing to the pole.

[383] This poem is found only in the 1795 edition. The Journal of the House of Representatives, 1st Congress, 1st Session, April 20, 1789, notes the investigations of John Churchman in regard to the magnetic needle and the determination of longitude by his method and grants to Churchman the right of exclusive use of his invention. Unfavorable report on his petition for aid to enable him to make a voyage to Baffin's Bay to pursue his investigations of the causes of the variation of the magnetic needle.

THE PROCESSION TO SYLVANIA[384]

In Life's dull round, how often folks are cross'd, Their projects spoil'd, their sayings misapplied; Some friends in woods and some in oceans lost, Some doom'd to walk on foot, while others ride.

But, now, let preachers moralize in verse, While I to yonder caravan attend That all prepar'd, like some slow moving herse Begins its journey to an Indian land;

Bound for Sylvania!--sad, disheartening town, When thou art nam'd how many a nymph will sigh, Sigh, lest her sweet-heart should return a clown With grizly homespun coat, long beard, and pumpkin pye.

This caravan with wondrous geer is stow'd, All sorts of moveables--straw beds, and cradles, Old records, salted fish, make up their load, With kegs of brandy, frying pans, and ladles.

A pensive Printer in a one-horse chair (Dragg'd slowly on by sullen sleepy steed, With some ill-fated squires) brings up the rear, Contriving future news for folks to read.

To guard the whole, a trusty knight appears, With chosen men, to keep the wolves at bay: They march--and lo! Belinda all in tears That bears must hug instead of ladies gay.

[384] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, Dec. 30, 1789, with this introduction: "The seat of government in South Carolina is removed by act of Assembly from Charleston to Columbia, a dismal place in the centre of that state consisting of only four houses. This removal is by many in Carolina considered as premature and amongst other animadversions has occasioned the two following poetic pieces which from several circumstances we conclude to have been written by Mr. Freneau." The title of the poem was originally "The Procession to Columbia." It was published only in the 1795 edition.

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS[385]

From his obscure abode, On many a tiresome road The pilgrim, musing, took his way: Through dark and dismal groves Where the sad turtle loves To pass the night, and kill the day.

In an obscure retreat, I saw the pilgrim greet, A barren soil and dreary town;-- Thy streets be-gloomed with trees With pain the traveller sees, Sylvania, barren of renown.--

What can console him there?-- Not even a house of prayer With glittering spire is seen to rise-- No nymphs in gaudy trim Will there be seen by him;-- No music, sermons, balls, or pigeon pies.

Dull, melancholy streams, Dutch politics and schemes, Owls screeching in the empty street-- Wolves howling at the doors-- Bears breaking into stores; These make the picture of the town--complete.

[385] In the _Daily Advertiser_ of Dec. 30, 1789, this bore the title, "A View of Columbia," and the opening line was "From Charleston's gay abode." In the 1795 edition the title was changed to "Lysander's Retreat." Text from the edition of 1809.

SANGRADO'S EXPEDITION TO SYLVANIA[386]

Tir'd of his journey o'er a sandy waste, Sangrado to Sylvania[387] came at last: A bear-skin coat was round his carcase roll'd, Shivering with northern winds,[388] that blew so cold: Dark was the night--much for his shins he fear'd, For not one lamp in all the town appear'd, Twelve was the hour--the citizens, in bed, Slept sound--of bears and wolves no more in dread;

No city-guards, no watchmen hove in sight, No chyming bell sung out the time of night; But foggy blasts their wintry music blew Through shabby trees that round the court-house[389] grew; At length, alighting at one scurvy dome, He knock'd--and hop'd the people were at home.--

Ho!--(cry'd the man within) ho! who are you?-- What! heigh!--from Cambria?[390]--have you nothing new?--

_Sangrado_

Nothing at all--the times are shameful bad; Money at ten per cent--hard to be had: With apples and potatoes, our dear cousins The northern men, are pouring in by dozens: The French, 'tis said, will soon discharge their king-- This, friend, is all I know--and all I bring--

_Citizen_

What! not some oysters, gather'd near the coast, Such as in days of old we lov'd to roast?

_Sangrado_

No, not an oyster--faith, you're in a dream, To think I'd load my little nag with them: We both are weary; let me in, I pray, Even though you turn us out at break of day.

_Citizen_

'Tis midnight now--return from whence you come-- High time all honest people were at home.

_Sangrado_

Brother, me thinks my toes are somewhat cold-- Unbar your door--if one may be so bold: Wet to the skin, and travelling all the day, I want some rest--open the door, I say!

_Citizen_

Open the door, forsooth! the man is mad: Lodging is not so easy to be had; It is an article we do not trade in, Nor shall my bed by all the world be laid in. Our very hay-loft is as full as can be-- Push off, my friend, and try your luck at Granby.

[386] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, Feb. 5, 1790, under the title "A Columbian Dialogue from the Charleston Gazette, supposed to have been written by Capt. Freneau." Text from the 1795 edition.

[387] "Columbia."--_Ed. 1790._

[388] "Shivering with Hobaw winds."--_Ib._

[389] "The State house."--_Ib._

[390] "Charleston."--_Ib._

THE DISTREST THEATRE[A][391]

[A] Harmony Hall, at Charleston, now demolished.--_Freneau's note._

Health to the Muse!--and fill the glass, Heaven grant her soon some better place, Than earthen floor and fabric mean, Where disappointment shades the scene:

There as I came, by rumour led, I sighed and almost wished her dead; Her visage stained with many a tear, No Hallam and no Henry here!

But what could all their art attain?-- When pointed laws the stage restrain The prudent Muse obedience pays To sleepy squires, that damn all plays.

Like thieves they hang beyond the town, They shove her off--to please the gown;-- Though Rome and Athens owned it true, The stage might mend our morals too.

See, Mopsus all the evening sits O'er bottled beer, that drowns his wits; Were Plays allowed, he might at least Blush--and no longer act the beast.

See, Marcia, now from guardian free, Retailing scandal with her tea;-- Might she not come, nor danger fear From Hamlet's sigh, or Juliet's tear.

The world but acts the player's part[B]-- (So says the motto of their art)-- That world in vice great lengths is gone That fears to see its picture drawn.

[B] _Totus Mundus agit Histrionem.--Freneau's note._

Mere vulgar actors cannot please; The streets supply enough of these; And what can wit or beauty gain When sleepy dullness joins their train?

A State betrays a homely taste, By which the stage is thus disgraced, Where, drest in all the flowers of speech, Dame virtue might her precepts teach.

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

[391] Published in the _National Gazette_, Nov. 21, 1791, with the following explanation: "The amusements of the Theatre were some time since prohibited within the limits of the City of Charleston by an act of the Legislature of the State of South Carolina. In obedience to this act all subsequent dramatic exhibitions were removed to an obscure building in the City of liberties called Harmony Hall. The following stanzas owe their origin to the above edict." Text from the 1809 edition.

TO MEMMIUS[392]

Whoe'er at Court would hope to cut a dash, He must go loaded with some useful trash, Something, sage Dullness, to prolong your reign; All fancy--stuff--all ornament is vain! Happy the man who plans, by force of steam To drive his boat twelve knots against the stream; Still happier he, who, born to build a bridge, Schemes mighty matters on some river's edge:-- Such to the world the noblest light impart, The first in genius, and the first in art! Hence, then, ye bards, from our wise court refrain; Wiseacres have forestall'd the present reign: "No empty scribblings we endure at court" (Cries Publius, poring o'er a dull Report;) "Nothing but useful projects we require, (Cries a new-fangled, self-important 'squire) "Even Churchman, with his chart, will just but do, "Who to the pole will now all art pursue: "For foreign courts have fail'd our men of song, "And trust me, bards, the Muses went along; "Since that bright morn they stept on board their brig, "No Muses here--no Muses are with pig; "Nor 'till their barque shall heave in sight, once more, "Shall one true Muse grow pregnant on this shore!" Now, had not wayward Fortune fix'd me fast, Firm to a point, that never shall be pass'd; Did I the smiles of Fortune still pursue, And, Memmius, wish to rise in fame, like you, Were this my scheme, I'd quit at once the sail, And haste to court with compasses and scale, Quit all the hopes the finer arts bestow, The flowers of fancy, and--no fruits that grow; Indulge that powerful something in the scull That makes us wealthy while it keeps us dull, To the best place ensures a certain claim, The road to fortune, and the road to fame.

[392] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition. The reference to steamboats alludes to Fitch, who at that time was experimenting with steam navigation. In 1790 he completed his fourth boat, which during the summer made regular trips from Philadelphia to Burlington, at the rate of eight miles per hour.

END OF VOLUME II