PART VI

THE WAR OF 1812

1809-1815

THE WAR OF 1812

1809-1815

ON THE SYMPTOMS OF HOSTILITIES.[199]

1809

But will they once more be engaged in a war, Be fated to discord again? A peace to the nations will nothing restore But the challenge of death and a deluge of gore! A modern crusade Is undoubtedly made:-- With treaties rejected, and treaties renew'd, A permanent treaty they never conclude.

And who is to blame? we submissively ask-- Did nature predestine this curse to mankind; Or is it the cruel detestable task That tyrants impose, with their minions combined? We are anxious to know The source of our wo In a world where the blessings of nature abound Why discord, the bane of her blessings, is found.

Must our freedom, our labors, our commerce, our all Be tamely surrender'd, to tyrants convey'd; Must the flag of the country disgracefully fall, To be torn by the dogs of the slaughtering trade? Does no one reply, With a tear in his eye, It must be the case, if we do not resent What monarchs have menaced and tyranny meant.

Not a ship, or a barque, that departs from the shore But her cargo is plunder'd, her sailors are slain, Or arriving in England, we see them no more, Condemn'd in the court of deceit and chicane, Where their wicked decrees And their costs and their fees Have ruin'd the merchant--mechanics half fed, And sailors uncaptured are begging their bread.

To reason with tyrants is surely absurd; To argue with them is to preach to the deaf: They argue alone by the length of the sword; Their honor the same as the word of a thief. In such to confide When a cause they decide, Is the wolf and the lamb (if the tale we recall) Where the weakest and meekest must go to the wall.

But an englishman's throat is expanded so wide Not the ocean itself is a mess for his maw: And missions there are, and a scoundrel employ'd To divide, and to rule by the florentine law[A]: New-England must join In the knavish design, As some have predicted to those who believe 'em; --The event is at hand--may the devil deceive 'em.

[A] Nicholas Machiavel's maxim, _divide et impera_; divide and govern. He was a native of Florence, in Italy.--_Freneau's note._

With an empire at sea and an empire on land, And the system projected, monopolization, The western republic no longer will stand Than answers the views of a desperate nation, Who have shackled the east, Made the native a beast, And are scheming to give us--the matter is clear-- A man of their own for the president's chair,

Then arouse from your slumbers, ye men of the west, Already the indian his hatchet displays; Ohio's frontier, and Kentucky distrest; The village, and cottage, are both in a blaze:-- Then indian and english No longer distinguish, They bribe, and are bribed, for a warfare accurst; Of the two, we can hardly describe which is worst.

In the court of king Hog was a council convened, In which they agreed we are growing too strong: They snuffled and grunted, and loudly complained The sceptre would fall, if they suffer'd it long; To cut up our trade Was an object, they said, The nearest and dearest of all in their view; Not a fish should be caught if old England said, No!

Then arouse from your slumbers, ye men of the west, A war is approaching, there's room to suppose; The rust on your guns we abhor and detest, So brighten them up--we are coming to blows With the queen of the ocean The prop of devotion, The bulwark of all that is truly divine; A motto she often has put on her sign.

[199] The poems in this section are all from the edition of 1815.

LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. JEFFERSON,

On his retirement from the Presidency of the United States.--1809.

Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores--_Hor._

To you, great sir, our heartfelt praise we give, And your ripe honors yield you--while you live.

At length the year, which marks his course, expires, And Jefferson from public life retires; That year, the close of years, which own his claim, And give him all his honors, all his fame. Far in the heaven of fame I see him fly, Safe in the realms of immortality: On Equal Worth his honor'd mantle falls, Him, whom Columbia her true patriot calls; Him, whom we saw her codes of freedom plan, To none inferior in the ranks of man.

When to the helm of state your country call'd No danger awed you and no fear appall'd; Each bosom, faithful to its country's claim, Hail'd Jefferson, that long applauded name; All, then, was dark, and wrongs on wrongs accrued Our treasures wasted, and our strength subdued; What seven long years of war and blood had gain'd, Was lost, abandon'd, squander'd, or restrain'd: Britania's tools had schemed their easier way, To conquer, ruin, pillage, or betray; Domestic traitors, with exotic, join'd, To shackle this last refuge of mankind; Wars were provoked, and France was made our foe, That George's race might govern all below, O'er this wide world, uncheck'd, unbounded, reign, Seize every clime, and subjugate the main.

All this was seen--and rising in your might, By genius aided, you reclaim'd our right, That Right, which conquest, arms, and valor gave To this young nation--not to live a slave.

And what but toil has your long service seen? Dark tempests gathering over a sky serene-- For wearied years no mines of wealth can pay, No fame, nor all the plaudits of that day, Which now returns you to your rural shade, The sage's heaven, for contemplation made, Who, like the Roman, in their country's cause Exert their valor, or enforce its laws, And late retiring, every wrong redress'd, Give their last days to solitude and rest.

This great reward a generous nation yields-- Regret attends you to your native fields; Their grateful thanks for every service done, And hope, your thorny race of care is run.

From your sage counsels what effects arise! The vengeful briton from our waters flies; His thundering ships no more our coasts assail, But seize the advantage of the western gale. Though bold and bloody, warlike, proud, and fierce, They shun your vengeance for a Murdered Pearce, And starved, dejected, on some meagre shore, Sigh for the country they shall rule no more.

Long in the councils of your native land, We saw you cool, unchanged, intrepid, stand: When the firm Congress, still too firm to yield, Stay'd masters of the long contested field, Your wisdom aided, what their counsels framed-- By you the murdering savages were tamed-- That Independence we had sworn to gain, By you asserted (nor Declared in vain) We seized, triumphant, from a tyrant's throne, And Britain totter'd when the work was done.

You, when an angry faction vex'd the age, Rose to your place at once, and check'd their rage; The envenom'd shafts of malice you defied, And turn'd all projects of revolt aside:-- We saw you libell'd by the worst of men, While hell's red lamp hung quivering o'er his pen, And fiends congenial every effort try To blast that merit which shall never die--

These had their hour, and traitors wing'd their flight, To aid the screechings of distracted night.

Vain were their hopes--the poison'd darts of hell, Glanced from your flinty shield, and harmless fell.

All this you bore--beyond it all you rose, Nor ask'd despotic laws to crush your foes. Mild was your language, temperate though severe; And not less potent than Ithuriel's spear To touch the infernals in their loathsome guise, Confound their slanders and detect their lies.

All this you braved--and, now, what task remains, But silent walks on solitary plains: To bid the vast luxuriant harvest grow, The slave be happy and secured from wo-- To illume the statesmen of the times to come With the bold spirit of primeval Rome; To taste the joys your long tried service brings, And look, with pity, on the cares of kings:-- Whether, with Newton, you the heavens explore, And trace through nature the creating power, Or, if with mortals you reform the age, (Alike, in all, the patriot and the sage) May peace and soft repose, attend you, still, In the lone vale, or on the cloud-capp'd hill, While smiling plenty decks the abundant plain, And hails Astrea to the world again.

ON THE PROSPECT OF WAR,

AND AMERICAN WRONGS.

Americans! rouse at the rumors of war, Which now are distracting the hearts of the nation, A flame blowing up, to extinguish your power And leave you, a prey, to another invasion; A second invasion, as bad as the old, When, northward or southward, wherever they stroll'd With heart and with hand, a murdering band Of vagrants, came over to ravage your land: For liberty's guard, you are ever array'd And know how to fight, in the sun or the shade.

Remember the cause that induced you to rise When oppression advanced, with her king-making host, Twas the cause of our nation that bade you despise And drive to destruction all England's proud host, Who, with musket and sword, under men they adored, Rush'd into each village and rifled each shade To murder the planter, and ravish the maid.

What though you arose, and resolved to be free, With spirit to humble all Europe combining, You had soon bit the dust or been drown'd in the sea By the slaves of a king, and a court all designing, Had not liberty swore she would cover your shore, Her colors display'd, and with vengeance repaid The myriads that came from a blood-thirsty isle Our groves, and our streams, and our beds to defile.

Our churches defaced, by a merciless foe, Or made the poor captive's distress'd habitation: The prison-ship, fraught with its cargo of wo, Where thousands were starved, without shame or compassion; All these, and yet more, were the evils we bore From a motherly dame, Great Britain her name, From a nation, that once we accounted our friends, Who would shackle the country, that freedom defends.

All true-born americans! join, as of old; For freedom's defence, be your firm resolution; Whoever invades you by force, or with gold, Alike is a foe to a free constitution: Unite to pull down that imposture, a crown; Oppose it at least, tis a mark of the beast: All tyranny's engines again are at work To make you as poor and as base as the turk.

Abandon'd to all the intrigues of a knave, Abounding with sharpers of every description, They would plunder our towns, and prohibit the wave; Their treaties of commerce are all a deception: Not a ship do we send but they rob without end; With their law of blockade they have ruin'd our trade; The shops of mechanics at midnight they burn That home manufactures may cease to be worn.

Look round the wide world; and observe with a sigh, Wherever a monarch presides o'er a nation, Sweet nature appears with a tear in her eye, And the mantle of sorrow enshrouds the creation. The ocean is chain'd, all freedom restrain'd, The soil is resign'd to the pests of mankind, To royals and nobles, the guard of the throne, And the slaves they have bribed, to make freedom their own.

All hail to the nation, immortal and great, Who, rising on bold philosophical pinion, Reforms, and enlightens, and strengthens the state, Not places her weal in excess of dominion. What reason can do she intends to pursue; And true to the plan, on which she began, Will the volume unfold she to freedom assign'd, Till tyrants are chased from the sight of mankind.

Since the day we declared, they were masters no more, The day we arose from the colony station, Has England attack'd us, by sea and by shore, In war by the sword, as in peace by vexation; Impressment they claim'd, till our seamen, ashamed, Grew sick of our flag, that against the old hag Of Britain, no longer their freedom protected But left them, like slaves, to be lash'd and corrected.

Old Rome, that in darkness so long had been lost, Since on her republic bright freedom was shining: The warmth of her spirit congeal'd in a frost, Under tyrants and popes, many centuries, pining: At the close of the page, who can bridle his rage To see her return to the fetters she broke, When tyranny sicken'd, and liberty spoke: What an image of clay have they thrown in her way! The king and the priest on her carcass will feast; When these are allied, the world they divide; The nations they plunder, the nations they kill, And bend all the force of the mind to their will: Not the spirit to rise, or the strength to command, But friars and monks--and the scum of the land.-- No more of your Nero's or Caesars complain, Leave Brutus and Cato, and take them again.

But reason, that sun, whose unquenchable ray Progressive, has dawn'd on the night of the mind, From the source of all good, may hereafter display, And man a more dignified character find: As far as example and vigor can go, As long as forbearance and patience will do, The western republic will carry it through--: May order and peace through the nations increase, And murder, and plunder, and tyranny cease: May justice and honor through empires prevail And all the bad passions weigh light in the scale, Till man is the being that nature at first Placed here, to be happy, and not to be cursed.

Approaching, at hand, in the progress of time, An era will come, to begin its career, When freedom reviving, and man in his prime, His rights will assert, and maintain without fear Of that cunning, bold race, who our species disgrace; On the blood of a nation who make calculation To rise into splendor and fill a high station; Nay, climb to the throne on a villanous plan To plunder his substance, and trample on man.

ON THE BRITISH COMMERCIAL DEPREDATIONS.

As gallant ships as ever ocean stemm'd-- A thousand ships are captured, and condemn'd! Ships from our shores, with native cargoes fraught, And sailing to the very shores they ought: And yet at peace!--the wrong is past all bearing; The very comets[A] are the war declaring: Six thousand seamen groan beneath your power, For years immured, and prisoners to this hour:

[A] A large comet appeared for several months, about this time.--_Freneau's note._

Then England come! a sense of wrong requires To meet with thirteen stars your thousand fires; On your own seas the conflict to sustain, Or drown them, with your commerce in the main!

True do we speak, and who can well deny, That England claims all water, land, and sky Her power expands--extends through every zone, Nor bears a rival--but must rule alone. To enforce her claims, a thousand sails unfurl'd Pronounce their home the cock-pit of the world; The modern Tyre, whose fiends and lions prowl, A tyrant navy, which in time must howl.[B] Heaven send the time--the world obeys her nod: Her nods, we hope, the sleep of death forbode; Some mighty change, when plunder'd thrones agree, And plunder'd countries, to make commerce free.

[B] Howl, ye ships of Tarshish, &c.--Ezekiel.--_Freneau's note._

TO AMERICA:

On the English Depredations on the American Coast.

When Alfred held the english throne, And England's self was little known, Yet, when invaded by the Dane, He early faced them on the main.

That scythian race who ruled the sea-- He soon pronounced their destiny; To leave his isle, to sheath the sword; Disgraced, defeated, and abhorr'd.

So now, these worse than danes appear To do their deeds of havoc here-- For all they did in seasons past, The day of grief must come at last.

For plains, yet white with human bones, For murders past, no prayer atones; For ruin spread in former years, Not even the mitred clergy's tears.

Let us but act the part we ought, And tyrants will be dearly taught That they, who aid a country's claim, Fight not for ribands, or a name.

Still hostile to the rights of man, A deadly war, the english plan; The gothic system will prevail, To ruin where they can assail; A war, where seas of blood may flow To ornament their scenes of wo.

O Washington! thy honored dust The foe will not profane, we trust; Or if they do, will vengeance sleep, Or fail to drive them to the deep?

For shores well known, they shape their course, An english fleet, with all its force; A british fleet may soon appear To ravage all we counted dear.

Advancing swift, by beat of drum, Half England's dregs, or Scotland's scum; With these unite the indian tribes, Now hostile made by force of bribes-- And they will dare the eagle's frown, Though half his force can put them down.

The envenom'd foe, inured to war, May scatter vengeance wide and far, Unless, to assert our country's right, All hearts resolve, all hands unite.

Let party feuds be hush'd, forgot, Past discord from the memory blot, And Britain, from our coasts repell'd, Shall rue the day she took the field.

The dart, to assail the english power, In time must reach that hostile shore, And red with vengeance, on its way, Their naval power in ruins lay.

The western world a blow must deal To let them know, and make them feel That much too long a plundering hag Has mortified all Europe's flag.

By wars and death while despots thrive What pity one remains alive! By them the seeds of war are sown, By them, our lives are not our own.

Their deadly hate to freedom's growth, To reason's light--that spurns them both, That deadly hate predicts our doom, And digs the pit for freedom's tomb.

Be not deceived--the league of kings, Confederate crowns, this warfare brings; These send their hosts to forge our chains, Harass our shores, renew their reigns.

At Pilnitz they who join'd to swear And wage with France wide wasting war Till freedom should her claims recall, And Louis reign, or myriads fall;

At Pilnitz, with decided aim, They form'd their schemes to blast our fame: And, faithful now to what they swore, Would, kings dismiss'd and thrones, restore.

Ye hearts of steel, observe these hosts! The odious train my soul disgusts; They rise upon the vultures wings To prop the tottering cause of kings.

Observe them well--through every grade They exercise the robber's trade; They sail upon a plundering scheme, They march, to give you sword and flame.

And burn you must, if, slow to act, You wait to see your cities sack'd, Yourselves enslav'd, and all things lose That labor earns or wealth bestows; If slow to send your heated balls, Indignant, through their wooden walls.

O may you see their squadrons yield Their legions sink on every field; And new Burgoynes, to slaughter bred, Burgoynes, once more, in fetters led.

And may you see all foreign power Forever banish'd from your shore, And see disheartened tyrants mourn, And Britain to her hell return.

THE SUTTLER AND THE SOLDIER.

"Who would refuse this cheering draught?" The suttler said, and saying, laugh'd The soldier, then, the liquor quaff'd, And felt right bold.

The suttler soon foresaw the rest, And thus the son of Mars address'd, "This brandy is the very best Of all I've sold.

"The journey you are bound to go, In former times, I travell'd too, When Arnold march'd, with lord knows who, To seize Quebec.

"And if he fail'd in that assault, It was not, sure, the brandy's fault; The best, at times, may make a halt, Ay, break his neck.

"Now hear a dotard of your trade:-- Of old I lived by flint and blade, But, disregarded, and decay'd, I'm nothing now.

"This leaky shed is not my own, And here I stay, unheard, unknown, Poor Darby, and without a Joan, Nor horse, nor cow.

"But mend your draught--I have more to say:-- You now are young, and under pay; Be warn'd by me, whose hairs are grey; The time will come

"When you may find this trade of arms, The march, that now your bosom warms, Has little but illusive charms, Mere beat of drum:

"But yet, in such a cause as this I deem your ardor not amiss-- I know you are no hireling swiss; Your country calls:

"And when she calls, you must obey; For wages not--fig for the pay-- Tis honor calls you out this day To face the balls.

"You have to go where George Provost Has many a soldier made a ghost, Where indians many a prisoner roast Or seize their scalps.

"And what of that?--mere fate of war-- God grant you may have better fare-- Go, fight beneath a kinder star, And scourge the whelps.

"They scarce are men--mere flesh and blood-- Mere ouran-outangs of the wood, Forever on the scent of blood, And deers at heart.

"When men, like you, approach them nigh, They make a yell, retreat, and fly: On equal ground, they never try The warrior's art.

"Then dare their strength--at honor's call Explore the road to Montreal, To dine, perchance, in Drummond's hall, Perhaps in jail.

"Of all uncertain things below The chance of war is doubly so; For this I saw, and this I know;-- Yet, do not fail.

"To live, for months on scanty fare, To sleep, by night in open air, To fight, and every danger share; All these await.

"But bear them all!--wherever led, And live contented, though half fed:-- A couch of straw, and canvas shed Shall be your fate!

"And mind the mark--remember me-- When full of fight, and full of glee, Be of your brandy not too free:-- Ay, mind the mark!

"Who drinks too much, the day he fights, Calls danger near, and death invites To dim, or darken all his lights;-- His noon is dark!

"It is a friend in a stormy day; Then brandy drives all care away, But, over done, it will betray The wisest sage.

"Then strictly guard the full canteen-- Its power enlivens every scene, And helps to keep the soul serene When battles rage.

"This potent stuff, if managed well, (And strong it is, the sort I sell) Can every doubt and fear expel, When prudence guides.

"Though mountains rise, or rocks intrude, This nectar smooths the roughest road, And cheers the heart, and warms the blood Through all its tides.

"Then drink you this, and more," (he said, And held the pitcher to his head) "This drink of gods, when Ganymede Hands round the bowl,

"Will nerve the arm, and bid you go Where prowls the vagrant Eskimau,[A] Where torpid winter tops with snow The darkened pole,--"

[A] The savage inhabitants of Labrador, or New-Britain.--_Freneau's note._

"Enough, enough!"--(the sergeant said) "Now, suttler, he must go to bed-- See! topsy-turvy goes his head; I hear him snort."

"Since I know where to get my pay (The suttler answered rather gay) No matter what I said or say-- I've sold my quart."

MILITARY RECRUITING

To a Recruit Fond of Segar Smoking

----Ex fumo dare lucem Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat--_Hor._

When first I arrived to the age of a man And met the distraction of care, As the day to a close rather sorrowful ran Yet I smiled and I smoked my segar: O, how sweet did it seem What a feast, what a dream What a pleasure to smoke the segar!

In vain did the din of the females assail Or the noise of the carts in the street, With a spanish segar and a pint of good ale I found my enjoyment complete: Old care I dismiss'd While I held in my fist The pitcher, and smoked the segar.

What a world are we in, if we do not retire, And, at times, to the tavern repair To read the gazette, by a hickory fire, With a sixpence or shilling to spare, To handle the glass And an evening pass With the help of a lively segar.

The man of the closet, who studies and reads, And prepares for the wars of the bar; The priest who harangues, or the lawyer who pleads, What are they without the segar? What they say may be right, But they give no delight Unless they have smoked the segar.

The farmer still plodding, who follows his plough, A calling, the first and the best, Would care not a fig for the sweat on his brow If he smoked a segar with the rest: To the hay-loft alone I would have it unknown, For there a segar I detest.

The sailor who climbs and ascends to the yard Bespatter'd and blacken'd with tar, Would think his condition uncommonly hard If he did not indulge the segar, To keep them in trim While they merrily swim On the ocean, to countries afar.

The soldier untry'd, in the midst of the smoke, The havoc and carnage of war, Would stand to his cannon, as firm as a rock, Would they let him but smoke his segar: Every gun in the fort Should make its report From the fire which illumes the segar.

Come then, to the tavern, ye sons of the sword, No fear of a wound or a scar; If your money is gone, your account will be scored By the lady who tends at the bar: And this I can say, Not a cent need you pay For the use of the social segar.

ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIERE,

Captain Dacres, August 19, 1812--by the Constitution, american frigate, capt. Hull.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

Long the tyrant of our coast Reign'd the famous Guerriere; Our little navy she defy'd, Public ship and privateer: On her sails in letters red, To our captains were display'd Words of warning, words of dread, All, who meet me, have a care! I am England's Guerriere.[A]

[A] Female warrior, or amazon.--_Freneau's note._

On the wide, Atlantic deep (Not her equal for the fight) The Constitution, on her way, Chanced to meet these men of might: On her sails was nothing said, But her waist the teeth displayed That a deal of blood could shed, Which, if she would venture near, Would stain the decks of the Guerriere.

Now our gallant ship they met-- And, to struggle with John Bull-- Who had come, they little thought, Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull: Better, soon, to be acquainted: Isaac hail'd the lord's anointed-- While the crew the cannon pointed, And the balls were so directed With a blaze so unexpected; Isaac did so maul and rake her That the decks of captain Dacres Were in such a woful pickle As if death, with scythe and sickle, With his sling, or with his shaft Had cut his harvest fore and aft.

Thus, in thirty minutes ended, Mischiefs that could not be mended: Masts, and yards, and ship descended, All to David Jones' locker-- Such a ship in such a pucker!

Drink about to the Constitution! She perform'd some execution Did some share of retribution For the insults of the year When she took the Guerriere. May success again await her, Let who will again command her Bainbridge, Rodgers, or Decatur-- Nothing like her can withstand her, With a crew, like that on board her Who so boldly call'd "to order" One bold crew of english sailors, Long, too long our seamen's jailors, Dacre' and the Guerriere!

THEODOSIA

In the _Morning Star_.[200]

The fatal and perfidious barque! Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that angel form of thine!

The morning star, resplendent in the east, May be our station, when from life released,

Tempestuous cape! how fatal proved the day When from thy shores the faithless ship withdrew, Yet, prosperous gales impell'd her on her way Till the broad canvas vanish'd from the view.

Long on that height the pensive friends remain'd Till ocean's curve conceal'd her from the eye, And all was hope that she her port attain'd Ere ten more suns illumed the morning sky.

Fond friends! false hope! no port beheld her come With flowing sheet, to meet the pilot's sail: No pilot met her on the Atlantic foam-- What could the pilot, or his art, avail?

Detested barque! nor art thou yet arrived-- Nor wilt thou come! three years are roll'd away! You, Theodosia of her life deprived, You sunk her from the cheerful beams of day!

Where dost thou rest, with her whose genius rose Above her sex--for science so renown'd-- But does her spirit in the deep repose Or find new mansions on celestial ground?

That soars above to heights unknown before, Where all is joy, and life that never ends; Where all is rapture, all admire, adore; Immortal nature, with angelic friends.

Oh! shed no more the tears of sad regret; The hymns of joy, the lofty verse prepare-- Her briny doom, the ingulphing wave forget For Theodosia in the Morning Star.

[200] Theodosia, the brilliant and accomplished daughter of Aaron Burr, embarked from Charleston, S. C., December 29, 1812, in the schooner _Patriot_ for New York. The boat never was heard from afterwards. It doubtless foundered off Cape Hatteras in the severe gale which sprang up soon after the vessel had left the harbor.

IN MEMORY OF JAMES LAWRENCE, ESQUIRE,

Late commander of the United States frigate Chesapeake, who fell in the action, with the british ship of war Shannon, June 1st. 1813

--Semper honoratum habebo--_Virg._

To lift his name to high renown His native merits led the way; His morning sun resplendent shone Till clouds obscured the fading ray: His country's voice his worth confess'd, His country's tears disclose the rest, In battle brave, his lofty mind Aspired to all that fame relates Of those, who on her page we find Defenders of insulted states: Of all who fought, or all who fell, The noblest part he copied well.

For Lawrence dead, his Jersey mourns, With tearful eye laments the day When all the worth that men adorns One fatal moment snatch'd away! On honor's bed his doom he found, In honor's cause, the deadly wound.

To what vast heights his mind aspired, Who knew him best can best relate:-- A longer term the cause required That urged him to an early fate: But He, whose fires illumed his breast, Knew what was right and what was best.

His country to her breast receives His mangled form, and holds it dear; She plants her marble, while she grieves, Where all, who read, might drop a tear, And say, while memory calls to mind The chief, who with our worthies shined, Here Lawrence rests, his country's pride, On valor's decks who fought and died!

ON THE LAKE EXPEDITIONS

Where Niagara's awful roar Convulsive shakes the neighboring shore, Alarm'd I heard the trump of war, Saw legions join!

And such a blast, of old, they blew, When southward from st. Lawrence flew The indian, to the english true, Led by Burgoyne.

United, then, they sail'd Champlain, United now, they march again, A land of freedom to profane With savage yell.

For this they scour the mountain wood; Their errand, death, their object, blood: For this they stem thy subject flood, O stream Sorel!

Who shall repulse the hireling host, Who force them back through snow and frost, Who swell the lake with thousands lost, Dear freedom? say!--

Who but the sons of freedom's land, Prepared to meet the bloody band; Resolved to make a gallant stand Where lightnings play.

Their squadrons, arm'd with gun and sword, Their legions, led by knight and lord Have sworn to see the reign restored Of George, the goth;

Whose mandate, from a vandal shore, Impels the sail, directs the oar, And, to extend the flames of war, Employs them both.

THE BATTLE OF LAKE ERIE

September 10, 1813

"To clear the lake of Perry's fleet And make his flag his winding sheet This is my object--I repeat--" --Said Barclay, flush'd with native pride, To some who serve the british crown:-- But they, who dwell beyond the moon, Heard this bold menace with a frown, Nor the rash sentence ratified.

Ambition so bewitch'd his mind, And royal smiles had so combined With skill, to act the part assign'd He for no contest cared, a straw; The ocean was too narrow far To be the seat of naval war; He wanted lakes, and room to spare, And all to yield to Britain's law.

And thus he made a sad mistake; Forsooth he must possess the lake, As merely made for England's sake To play her pranks and rule the roast; Where she might govern, uncontrol'd, An unmolested empire hold, And keep a fleet to fish up gold, To pay the troops of George Provost.

The ships approach'd, of either side, And Erie, on his bosom wide Beheld two hostile navies ride, Each for the combat well prepared: The lake was smooth, the sky was clear, The martial drum had banish'd fear, And death and danger hover'd near, Though both were held in disregard.

From lofty heights their colors flew, And Britain's standard all in view, With frantic valor fired the crew That mann'd the guns of queen Charlotte. "And we must Perry's squadron take, And England shall command the lake;-- And you must fight for Britain's sake, (Said Barclay) sailors, will you not?"

Assent they gave with heart and hand; For never yet a braver band To fight a ship, forsook the land, Than Barclay had on board that day;-- The guns were loosed the game to win, Their muzzles gaped a dismal grin, And out they pulled their tompion pin, The bloody game of war to play.

But Perry soon, with flowing sail, Advanced, determined to prevail, When from his bull-dogs flew the hail Directed full at queen Charlotte. His wadded guns were aim'd so true, And such a weight of ball they threw, As, Barclay said, he never knew To come, before, so scalding hot!

But still, to animate his men From gun to gun the warrior ran And blazed away and blazed again-- Till Perry's ship was half a wreck: They tore away both tack and sheet,-- Their victory might have been complete, Had Perry not, to shun defeat In lucky moment left his deck.

Repairing to another post, From another ship he fought their host And soon regain'd the fortune lost, And down, his flag the briton tore: With loss of arm and loss of blood Indignant, on his decks he stood To witness Erie's crimson flood For miles around him, stain'd with gore!

Thus, for dominion of the lake These captains did each other rake, And many a widow did they make;-- Whose is the fault, or who to blame?-- The briton challenged with his sword, The yankee took him at his word, With spirit laid him close on board-- They're ours--he said--and closed the game.

ON THE CAPTURE

OF THE UNITED STATES FRIGATE ESSEX,

Of thirty-two guns, David Porter, esq. commander, in the neutral port of Valparisso, on the coast of Chili, in South America, January, 1814, by the british frigate Phoebe, capt. Hillyer, of forty-nine guns, and the Cherub of thirty-two guns.

"All the devils were there, and hell was empty!"

From cruising near the southern pole Where wild antarctic oceans roll, With a gallant crew, a manly soul, Heroic Porter came. Then, weathering round the stormy cape, And facing death in every shape, Which Anson[A] hardly could escape, (So says the page of fame.)

[A] See Lord Anson's voyage round the world between 1740 and 1744, by his chaplain, the rev. Richard Walter. The terrors and dangers of a winter passage round Cape Horn into the Western Ocean, are depicted in that work by a masterly hand, who was witness to the scene.--_Freneau's note._

He made the high chilesian coast, The Andes, half in vapor lost, The Andes, topp'd with snow and frost, Eternal winter's reign! Then, to the rugged western gale, He spread the broad columbian sail; And, Valparisso, thy fair vale Received him, with his men.

There, safely moor'd, his colors fly, Columbia's standard waved on high; The neutral port, his friends, were nigh; So gallant Porter thought; Nor deem'd a foe would heave in sight Regardless of all neutral right; And yet, that foe he soon must fight, And fight them as he ought.

His Essex claim'd his fondest care, With her he every storm could dare, With her, to meet the blast of war, His soul was still in trim: In her he cruised the northern main, In her he pass'd the burning line, In her he all things could attain, If all would act like him.

At length, two hostile ships appear, And for the port they boldly steer-- The Phoebe first, and in her rear The Cherub, all secure. They loom'd as gay as for a dance, Or ladies painted in romance-- Do, mind how boldly they advance. Who can their fire endure?

The Phoebe mounted forty-nine-- All thought her on some grand design-- Does she alone the fight decline? Say, Captain Hillyer, say? The Cherub's guns were thirty-two-- And, Essex! full a match for you-- Yet to her bold companion true, She hugg'd her close, that day.

Ye powers, that rule the southern pole! Are these the men of English soul? Do these, indeed, the waves control? Are these the ocean's lords? Though challenged singly to the fight (As Porter, Hillyer, did invite) These men of spunk, these men of might, Refused to measure swords!

What, fight alone! bold Hillyer said-- I will not fight without my Aid-- The Cherub is for war array'd, And she must do her share! Now Porter saw their dastard plan-- To fight them both was surely vain; We should have thought a man insane That would so madly dare.

Then, hands on deck! the anchors weigh! --And for the sea he left the bay, A running fight to have that day, And thus escape his foes. But oh!--distressing to relate-- As round a point of land he beat A squall from hell the ship beset, And her maintopmast goes!

Unable to attain that end, He turns toward the neutral friend, And hoped protection they might lend, But no protection found. In this distress, the foe advanced-- With such an eye at Essex glanced! And such a fire of death commenced As dealt destruction round!

With every shot they raked the deck, Till mingled ruin seized the wreck: No valor could the ardor check Of England's martial tars! One hundred men the Essex lost: But Phoebe found, and to her cost, That Porter made them many a ghost To serve in Satan's wars.

Oh, clouded scene!--yet must I tell Columbia's flag, indignant, fell-- To Essex, now, we bid farewell; She wears the english flag! But Yankees she has none on board To point the gun or wield the sword; And though commanded by a lord They'll have no cause to brag.

THE TERRIFIC TORPEDOES[201]

OR SIR THOMAS HARDY'S SOLILOQUY.

"Then traitor come! as black revenge excites, Extinguish all our claims with all my lights! But keen remorse, which vengeful furies lead, Will act her part for this inhuman deed. How will her vultures on your vitals prey! How will her stings our every death repay!-- O nature! is all sympathy a jest; Art thou a stranger to the human breast? Has manly prowess quit the abandon'd stage, Are midnight plots the order of the age?

"Where proud New-London holds her flaming guide To steer Decatur through the darksome tide, I stay too long! what station can I find To shake distraction from a tortured mind!

"Then, traitor, come! your dark attack begin, Renown'd inventor of the black machine: But mark!--for when some future poet tells, Or some historian on the subject dwells, No word of praise shall meet the listening ear, Disgustful story, to repeat or hear-- Was you, an infant, to a mother press'd, Or did ferocious tigers give the breast-- Did nature in some angry moment plan Some fierce hyena to degrade the man? Resolve me quick, for doubtful while I stay These dark torpedoes may be on their way. Does nature thus her heaviest curse impart And will she give such countenance to art?-- She gave you all that rancor could bestow, She lent her magic from the world below; She gave you all that madness could propose, And all her malice in your bosom glows; She gave you sulphur, charcoal, nitre join'd: She gave you not--a great and generous mind."

So spoke the knight, and slamm'd the door, And thus went on, with feelings sore: "I relish not torpedo war:-- Die when I will, or where I may, I would not choose so short a way: These twenty nights I did my best To shut my eyes, and take my rest, But drowsy Morpheus might as well Upon the main mast try his spell. No potion from the poppy's leaf Can close my lids;--and, to be brief, This Fulton, with his dashing plans, Distracts my head, my heart unmans: And, every night, I have my fears Of such infernal engineers; Who, when I sup, or could I sleep Might row their wherry through the deep, And screw their engine to the keel, And blow us--where there's no appeal; No question how, or where we died, But how we lived, and how applied The little sense our heads contain To save our souls, and live again.

"They, who support torpedo plans Should have no plaudit for their pains; Should be employ'd on dark designs, Explorers of peruvian mines; Such have not felt the patriot glow, A feeling they could never know: For treasons they were surely made, Have princes slain and kings betray'd.-- Ye powers above! and must I wait Till these prevail in every state, Till pale disease, or shivering age Drives such false patriots from the stage!

"The chaplain said he heard me snore, But many a fib he told before; And if I snored, I'm satisfied Twas when my eyes were open wide.

"Torpedoes! who contrived the word? Torpedoes! worse than gun or sword! They are a mode of naval war We cannot have a relish for:-- In all the chronicles I read Of former times, they nothing said Of such a horrible machine That would disgrace an algerine, And only yankees would employ, Not to distress, but to destroy.

"What human eye, without dismay Can see torpedo-lightning's play? What mortal heart, but dreads a foe That fights unseen from fields below!

"What passion must that heart inspire That dives the sea, to deal in fire, What can he fear, I trembling ask Who undertakes the daring task?

"With engines of perdition spread, Amazed, I see the ocean's bed! And find with rage, regret, despair, I have no power to meet them there!

"Alack! my nerves are on the rack-- They're hammering at the garboard streak! Some yankee dog is near the keel! Ho, sailors give the ship a heel: Go, chaplain, to the starboard chains And ask the rascal what he means? Who knows but Fulton's self is there With all his dark infernal gear: Who knows but he has fix'd his screws, And left a match, to fire the fuze-- Who knows, but in this very hour, The Ramillies will be no more! Will only live in empty fame, And I, myself, be but a name!

"Should the torpedo take effect, Her carcass will be worse than wreck'd; In scatter'd fragments to the sky This ship of ships will clattering fly: And then--ah, chaplain!--ah, what then! Where will I be, and all my men? And where will you a lodging find, A traveller on a gale of wind! And where will be the pretty maid That sweeps my floor and makes my bed?

Oh Fanny, Fanny! must we part?-- Torpedoes!--I am sick at heart!-- How will the flames those lips deface! How will they spoil that blooming face! How will they scorch your auburn hair--? --You'll have your plagues, and I my share.

And must I all my fears impart; And do these guns my ship ensure? And must I ask my fluttering heart If on these decks I stand secure?

"Do, Fanny, go and boil some tea: Come hither, love, and comfort me: A glass of wine! my spirits sink! The last perhaps that I shall drink!-- Or go--unlock the brandy case And let us have a dram a piece;-- No matter if your nose is red, We shall be sober when we're dead.

"In fancy's view the mine is sprung, The rudder from the stern unhung, My valiant sailors torn asunder, The ship herself a clap of thunder, From fathoms down, a deadly blast Unbolts the keel, unsteps the mast, While Fulton, with a placid grin Exulting, views the infernal scene!

The sails are vanish'd, tack and clue, The rigging burnt, by lord knows who, The star that glitter'd on my breast Is gone to Davy Jones's chest; The glorious ensign of st. George, Of Spain the dread, of France the scourge, Is from the staff, unpitied, torn And for a cloak by satan worn: The Lion mounted on the prow, To awe the subject sea below With flames that Lion is oppress'd-- They will not spare the royal beast.-- O vengeance! why does vengeance sleep? The yards are scatter'd o'er the deep, Our guns are buried in the seas, And thus concludes the Ramillies!

"The world, I think, can witness bear My name was never stain'd by fear: At least the british fleet can say I never shunn'd the face of clay: But Fulton's black, infernal art-- Has stamp'd me--coward--to the heart!

"When Nelson met the spanish fleet, And every pulse for conquest beat, At Nelson's side I had my stand; When Nelson fell I took command: Not Etna's self, with all her flames-- Vesuvius--such description claims; Not Hecla, in her wildest rage, Does with such fires the heavens engage, As on that day, in mourning clad, Was thunder'd from the Trinidad.[A]

[A] The Santa Trinidada, the spanish admiral's ship, of 112 guns, from the mizen top of which admiral Nelson was mortally wounded by a musket shot. Another account says, he received his death wound from the Redoubtable, french 74.--_Freneau's note._

"And yet, amidst that awful scene, I stood unhurt, composed, serene; Though balls, by thousands, whistled round, Not one had leave to kill or wound-- But here! in this torpedo war I perish, with my glittering star, The laurels that adorn my brow-- My laurels are surrender'd now. O Fanny! these envenom'd states Have doom'd our deaths among the rats, In one explosion, to the sky Our chaplain, rats, and sailors fly.

"To deal in such inhuman war Is more than English blood can bear; It brings again the gothic age, Renews that period on the stage, When men against the gods rebell'd, And Ossa was on Pelion piled: The trojan war, when Diomede In battle, made fair Venus bleed; Or, when the giants of renown Attempted Jove's imperial crown:-- From such a foe, before we meet, The safest way, is to retreat, To leave this curst unlucky shore And come to trouble them no more.

"But, should it be my fate to-night Not to behold to-morrow's light But mingle with the vulgar dead, With all my terrors on my head-- Should such a fate be mine, I say, Dear Fanny, you must lead the way;-- You are the saint that will atone For what amiss I might have done: If such as you will intercede The chaplain may a furlow plead, While you and I in raptures go Where stormy winds no longer blow, Where guns are not, to shed our blood, Or if there be, are made of wood; Where all is love, and no one hates; No falling kings or rising states; No colors that we must defend, If sick, or dead, or near our end; Where yankees are admitted not To hatch their damn'd torpedo plot: Where you will have no beds to make, Nor I be doom'd to lie awake."

[201] It is a fact well ascertained that during a great part of the summer of 1814 the knight was under such serious apprehensions of being blown up by the Torpedo men, that he enjoyed no sleep or rest for many nights together. With such feelings, and under such impressions, he is supposed to begin his soliloquy abruptly, under all the emotions of horror, incident to such an occasion.--_Freneau's note._

Sir Thomas Hardy was commander of the 74 gun ship _Ramillies_, the leader of the squadron which lay off New London during the summer of 1814. The following in _Niles' Register_, May 7, 1814, is suggestive: "It appears the British squadron off _New London_ are yet disturbed by torpedoes. One of them lately exploded under the sprit-sail yard of the _La Hoque_, and threw up a volume of water near her fore top. The enemy, it seems, has a list of the persons concerned in the management of these machines!"

THE NORTHERN MARCH

Written Previously to the Battles of Chippewa and Bridgewater.[202]

Come, to the battle let us go, Hurl destruction on the foe; Who commands us, well we know, Tis the gallant general Brown. Haste away from field or town, Pull the hostile standard down-- If but led by general Brown What will be the event, we know.

If but led against that foe, Soon their doom the english know, Soon their haughtiest blood shall flow, When opposed to general Brown. Haste away from town and farm: If we meet them, where's the harm? English power has lost its charm, England's fame is tumbling down.

Long she ruled the northern waste, Freedom is by her debased, Freedom is not to her taste; All the world must wear her chain!!! "Not a keel shall plough the wave, Not a sail, without her leave; Not a fleet, the nations have, Safe from her, shall stem the main!!!

Let this day's heroic deeds Let the generous breast that bleeds, Let our chief who bravely leads Tell them that their reign is done: Soon to quit Columbia's shore, Is their doom--we say no more; General Brown, in the cannon's roar Tells them how the field is won!

[202] Early in the year 1814 the British army obtained possession of Fort Niagara and thereupon determined to remove the seat of the war to the Niagara frontier. The American expedition intended to invade Canada was directed, under command of General Jacob Brown, to dislodge the British from this position. The first decisive action was the battle of Chippewa, fought July 5, 1814, on Canadian soil, opposite Niagara Falls. Three weeks later, July 25, he again closed with the British at Bridgewater, or Lundy Lane, in the same vicinity. In both engagements the Americans were victorious.

ON POLITICAL SERMONS

When parsons preach on politics, pray why Should declamation cease, if you go by?

We heard a lecture, or a scold, And, doubtful which it might be call'd, But senseless as the bell that toll'd, And pleasing neither young nor old.

We kept our seats amid the din, Then quit the field, with all our sin, Just as good as we went in.

Tell me what the preacher said, Ye, who somewhat longer stay'd Till the last address was made:--

Why,--he talk'd of ruin'd states, Demagogues and democrates, Falling stars, and Satan's baits.

Did he mention nothing more?-- Simply, what he said before-- Repetitions, twenty score.

His arguments could nothing prove, His text alarm'd the sacred grove, His prayer displeased the powers above.

He would not pray for those who rule, But hoped that in Bethesda's pool They all might dip, to make them cool.

He deprecated blood and war, Its many mischiefs did deplore Except when England mounts the car.

At Congress he had such a fling, As plainly show'd, he wish'd a king, Might here arrive, on Vulture's wing;

And that himself an horn might blow To shake our modern Jericho, And bring its ramparts very low.

To english notes his psalm was sung, With politics the pulpit rung, And thrice was bellow'd from his tongue, "The president is always wrong!

"He brought these evils on our land, And he must go--the time's at hand-- With Bonaparte to take his stand."--

Must not the wheels of fate go on? Must not the lion's teeth be drawn, Because it suits not Prester John!--

A Bishop's Lawn is such a prize Such virtue in a mitre lies, Democracy before it flies.

And these he hopes, if George prevails, In time may hoist his shorten'd sails And waft him on, with fortune's gales.

To gain by preaching, nett and clear, Some twenty hundred pounds a year; Which democrats would never bear.

To England why so much a friend, Or why her cause with heat defend?-- There is, no doubt, some selfish end.

Dear Momus come, and help me laugh-- This England is the stay and staff Of true religion--more than half!

She is the prop of all that's good, A bulwark, which for ages stood To guard the path and mark the road!

One proof of which can soon be brought, The temple rais'd to Jaggernaut,[A] And India to his temple brought,

[A] The temple of Jaggernaut, an idolatrous establishment in India, to the support of which the english government contributed largely. The unwieldy idol, to which the temple is dedicated, is, on certain days, carried about the streets on a huge carriage, under the wheels of which the superstitious multitude, it is said, suffer themselves to be trampled and crushed to pieces, by hundreds, from a superstitious motive. If this be not fiction, may the british government exert its influence to eradicate so barbarous and bloody a superstition from the minds of millions of idolatrous wretches.--_Freneau's note._

To see her murder'd, mangled sons, To worship idols, stocks, and stones, Or reliques of some scoundrel's bones.

And "long may heaven on England smile-- (So says our preacher, all the while) The world's last hope, fast anchor'd isle!"--

Religion there is made no sport, State tailors there have deckt her out In a birth-day suit--to go to court!--

LINES ON NAPOLEON BONAPARTE[203]

Napoleon, born for regal sway, With fortune in a smiling mood, To a foreign land explored his way, Where Cairo stands, or Memphis stood.

And still he fought, and still she smiled, And urged him far, and spurr'd him on, And on his march, at length beguiled, One thinking man to wear a crown.

The crown attracted many a care, And war employ'd him, day and night; He by a princess had an heir Born to succeed him, or--who might.

Through russian tribes he forced his way, To blast their hopes and hurl them down Whose valor might dispute his sway, Or dispossess him of a crown.

At last arrived the fatal time, When powerful tyrants, jealous grown, Agreed to count it for a crime A commoner should fill a throne.

European states, with England join'd To keep unmixt the royal race, And let the famed Napoleon find A dotard might supply his place.

[203] This poem and the one following were written shortly after the news of Napoleon's banishment to Elba, April 11, 1814, had reached America.

ON THE DISMISSION OF BONAPARTE

From the French Throne.

Famed Bonaparte, in regal pride, Put slighted Josephine aside, And wedded an imperial bride, Of fortune sure.

But when he droop'd, and when he fell, (I took my pen and mark'd it well) This jilt of jilts, this austrian belle, No longer styled him, Mon Amour;

Which means, I think, my dearest heart, My love!--but lovers often part When friendship does not point the dart, Nor fix the flame.

And warning, hence, let others take, Nor love's decree for interest break; In marriage, too much lies at stake To slight its claim.

Retreating to the tuscan coast, An empire, wife, and fortune lost, He found the throne a dangerous post, And wars a cheat;

Where all, who play their game too deep, Must hazard life, and discord reap, Or thrown from grandeur's giddy steep, Lament their fate.

Napoleon, with an empty chest! An austrian princess must detest; And yet, she wears upon her breast The painted toy;[A]

[A] A miniature picture of the late emperor Napoleon.--_Freneau's note._

And often weeps, the story goes, That royal blood not wholly flows In every vein, from head to toes, Of her dear boy.

To Elba's isle she could not go-- The royal orders said "No, no! On Elba's island we bestow No royal throne:"

And thus Napoleon, shoved from power, Has many a lonely gloomy hour To walk on Elba's sea-beat shore, Alone! alone!

O save us from ambition's sway, Ye powers, who tread the milky way; It will deceive, it will betray Nine out of ten.

Napoleon's history let us read: In science he was great indeed-- Ambition's lantern did mislead This prince of men:--

And yet, ambition had its use, It check'd the royal game of goose, And many a flagrant vile abuse Fell at his frown.

But, doom'd to share immortal fame, Despotic powers will dread his name, Though he, perhaps, was much the same, Raised to a throne!

THE PRINCE REGENT'S RESOLVE

The regent prince, enraged to find The standard from his frigates torn, To a full court thus spoke his mind, With hand display'd and soul of scorn, "Since fate decreed Napoleon's fall, Now, now's the time to conquer all!

"We at the head of all that's great, Tis ours to hold the world in awe: Let Louis reign in regal state, And let his subjects own his law; Their tide of power tis ours to stem-- We'll govern those who govern them.

"But here's the rub, and here's my grief; My frigates from the seas are hurl'd! What shall we do? how find relief? How strike and stupefy the world? Our flag, that long control'd the main, Our standard must be raised again.

"A land there lies towards the west There must my royal will be done; That land is an infernal nest Of reptiles, rul'd by Madison: That nest I swear to humble down, There plant a king, and there a crown.

"Depart, my fleet, depart, my slaves, Invade that nest, attack and burn; Where'er the ocean rolls his waves, Subdue, or dare not to return; Subdue and plunder all you can, Who plunders most--shall be my man.

"To scatter death, by fire and sword, To prostrate all, where'er you go: That is the mandate, that the word, Though seas of blood around you flow: No more!--go, aid the indian yell: Be conquerors, and I'll feed you well.

So spoke the prince, but little knew His minions were for slaughter fed; Nor did he guess, that vengeance, too, Would fall on his devoted head; When all his plans and projects fail, And he ascends Belshazzar's scale.[A]

[A] Mene mene, Tekel, Peres!--thou art weighed in the balance, and art found wanting!--Daniel.--_Freneau's note._

THE VOLUNTEER'S MARCH[A]

July, 1814

Dulce est pro patria mori.

[A] This little ode, with the addition of two new stanzas is somewhat altered from one of Robert Burns' compositions, and applied to an american occasion: the original being Bruce's supposed address to his army, a little before the battle of Bannockbourne.--_Freneau's note._

Ye, whom Washington has led, Ye, who in his footsteps tread, Ye, who death nor danger dread, Haste to glorious victory.

Now's the day and now's the hour; See the British navy lour, See approach proud George's power, England! chains and slavery.

Who would be a traitor knave? Who would fill a coward's grave? Who so base to be a slave? Traitor, coward, turn and flee.

Meet the tyrants, one and all; Freemen stand, or freemen fall-- At Columbia's patriot call, At her mandate, march away!

Former times have seen them yield, Seen them drove from every field, Routed, ruin'd, and repell'd-- Seize the spirit of those times!

By oppression's woes and pains-- By our sons in servile chains We will bleed from all our veins But they shall be--shall be free.

O'er the standard of their power Bid Columbia's eagle tower, Give them hail in such a shower As shall blast them--horse and man!

Lay the proud invaders low, Tyrants fall in every foe; Liberty's in every blow, Forward! let us do or die.

THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON

ON THE SEABOARD OF CONNECTICUT

In an attack upon the town and a small fort of two guns, by the Ramillies, seventy-four gun ship, commanded by Sir Thomas Hardy; the Pactolus, 38 gun ship, Despatch, brig of 22 guns, and a razee, or bomb ship.--August, 1814.

Four gallant ships from England came Freighted deep with fire and flame, And other things we need not name, To have a dash at Stonington.

Now safely moor'd, their work begun; They thought to make the yankees run, And have a mighty deal of fun In stealing sheep at Stonington.

A deacon, then popp'd up his head And parson Jones's sermon read, In which the reverend doctor said That they must fight for Stonington.

A townsman bade them, next, attend To sundry resolutions penn'd, By which they promised to defend With sword and gun, old Stonington.

The ships advancing different ways, The britons soon began to blaze, And put th' old women in amaze, Who fear'd the loss of Stonington.

The yankees to their fort repair'd, And made as though they little cared For all that came--though very hard The cannon play'd on Stonington.

The Ramillies began the attack, Despatch came forward--bold and black-- And none can tell what kept them back From setting fire to Stonington.

The bombardiers with bomb and ball, Soon made a farmer's barrack fall, And did a cow-house sadly maul That stood a mile from Stonington.

They kill'd a goose, they kill'd a hen, Three hogs they wounded in a pen-- They dash'd away, and pray what then? This was not taking Stonington.

The shells were thrown, the rockets flew, But not a shell, of all they threw, Though every house was full in view, Could burn a house at Stonington.

To have their turn they thought but fair;-- The yankees brought two guns to bear, And, sir, it would have made you stare, This smoke of smokes at Stonington.

They bored Pactolus through and through, And kill'd and wounded of her crew So many, that she bade adieu T' the gallant boys of Stonington.

The brig Despatch was hull'd and torn-- So crippled, riddled, so forlorn, No more she cast an eye of scorn On th' little fort at Stonington.

The Ramillies gave up th' affray And, with her comrades, sneak'd away-- Such was the valor, on that day, Of british tars near Stonington.

But some assert, on certain grounds, (Besides the damage and the wounds) It cost the king ten thousand pounds To have a dash at Stonington.

ON THE BRITISH INVASION

1814[204]

From France, desponding and betray'd, From liberty in ruins laid, Exulting Britain has display'd Her flag, again to invade us.

Her myrmidons, with murdering eye, Across the broad Atlantic fly Prepared again their strength to try, And strike our country's standard.

Lord Wellington's ten thousand slaves,[A] And thrice ten thousand, on the waves, And thousands more of brags and braves Are under sail, and coming

[A] Lord Wellington's army embarked on the river Garonne, in France, in several divisions, for the invasion of the United States, amounting, it was said, to sixty or seventy thousand men.--_Freneau's note._

To burn our towns, to seize our soil, To change our laws, our country spoil, And Madison to Elba's isle To send without redemption.

In Boston state they hope to find A yankee host of kindred mind To aid their arms, to rise and bind Their countrymen in shackles:

But no such thing--it will not do-- At least, not while a Jersey Blue Is to the cause of freedom true, Or the bold Pennsylvanian.

A curse on England's frantic schemes! Both mad and blind--her monarch dreams Of crowns and kingdoms in these climes Where kings have had their sentence.

Though Washington has left our coast, Yet other Washingtons we boast, Who rise, instructed by his ghost, To punish all invaders.

Go where they will, where'er they land, This pilfering, plundering, pirate band, They liberty will find at hand To hurl them to perdition:

If in Virginia they appear, Their fate is fix'd, their doom is near, Death in their front and hell their rear-- So says the gallant buckskin.

All Carolina is prepared, And Charleston doubly on her guard; Where, once, sir Peter badly fared, So blasted by fort Moultrie.

If farther south they turn their views, With veteran troops, or veteran crews, The curse of heaven their march pursues To send them all a-packing:

The tallest mast that sails the wave, The longest keel its waters lave, Will bring them to an early grave On the shores of Pensacola.

[204] This poem was written early in August, on receipt of the news that a large squadron was on its way across the Atlantic to lay waste the seaboard cities. The squadron finally sailed into Chesapeake Bay and turned its attention first to Washington and Baltimore.

ON THE ENGLISH DEVASTATIONS

AT THE CITY OF WASHINGTON[205]

Their power abused! that power may soon descend: Years, not remote, may see their glory end:-- The british power, the avaricious crown, Pull'd every flag, hurl'd every standard down; Columbian ships they seized on every sea, Condemn'd those ships, nor left our sailors free.-- So long a tyrant on the watery stage, They thought to tyrannize through every age; They hoped all commerce to monopolize; Europe, at sea, they affected to despise; They laugh'd at France contending for a share Of commerce, one would think, as free as air. They captured most, without remorse or plea, And grew as proud as arrogance could be.

Stung by a thousand wrongs, at length arose The Western States, these tyrants to oppose; With just resentment, met them on the main, And burnt, or sunk their ships, with hosts of slain.

The blood ran black from every english heart To see their empire from the seas depart, To see their flag to thirteen stripes surrender, And many an english ship made fire and tinder; They swore, they raged; they saw, with patience spent, Each last engagement had the same event-- What could they do? revenge inspired their breasts, And hell's sensations seized their swelling chests.-- All to revenge, to Maryland they came, And costly works of art assail'd with flame; In Washington they left a dismal void,-- Poor compensation for their ships destroy'd!-- We burn, where guns their frigates poorly guard; They burn, where scarce a gun is seen or heard!

[205] Washington was taken by the British, August 24, 1814. "It was only the vandalism of the British soldiers and sailors, incited by Cockburn and ill restrained by Ross, that made this incursion at once memorable and infamous. To public edifices, having no immediate relation to the war, the torch was applied; to the unfinished Capitol (which contained the library of Congress); the President's house, the Treasury,--to all the government buildings in fact, except the Patent Office, besides numerous private dwellings about Capitol Hill."--Schouler's _History of the United States_.

"All this was the more shameful because done under strict orders from home."--Green's _History of the English People_.

ON THE CONFLAGRATIONS AT WASHINGTON

August 24, 1814

----Jam deiphobi dedit ampla ruinam, Vulcano superante, domus; jam proximus ardet Ucalegon.--_Virgil._

Now, George the third rules not alone, For George the vandal shares the throne, True flesh of flesh and bone of bone.

God save us from the fangs of both; Or, one a vandal, one a goth, May roast or boil us into froth.

Like danes, of old, their fleet they man And rove from Beersheba to Dan, To burn, and beard us--where they can.

They say, at George the fourth's command This vagrant host were sent, to land And leave in every house--a brand.

An idiot only would require Such war--the worst they could desire-- The felon's war--the war of fire.

The warfare, now, th' invaders make Must surely keep us all awake, Or life is lost for freedom's sake.

They said to Cockburn, "honest Cock! To make a noise and give a shock Push off, and burn their navy dock:

"Their capitol shall be emblazed! How will the buckskins stand amazed, And curse the day its walls were raised!"

Six thousand heroes disembark-- Each left at night his floating ark And Washington was made their mark.

That few would fight them--few or none-- Was by their leaders clearly shown-- And "down," they said, "with Madison!"

How close they crept along the shore! As closely as if Rodgers saw her-- A frigate to a seventy-four.

A veteran host, by veterans led, With Ross and Cockburn at their head-- They came--they saw--they burnt--and fled.

But not unpunish'd they retired; They something paid, for all they fired, In soldiers kill'd, and chiefs expired.

Five hundred veterans bit the dust, Who came, inflamed with lucre's lust-- And so they waste--and so they must.

They left our congress naked walls-- Farewell to towers and capitols! To lofty roofs and splendid halls!

To courtly domes and glittering things, To folly, that too near us clings, To courtiers who--tis well--had wings.

Farewell to all but glorious war, Which yet shall guard Potomac's shore, And honor lost, and fame restore.

To conquer armies in the field Was, once, the surest method held To make a hostile country yield.

The mode is this, now acted on; In conflagrating Washington, They held our independence gone!

Supposing George's house at Kew Were burnt, (as we intend to do,) Would that be burning England too?

Supposing, near the silver Thames We laid in ashes their saint James, Or Blenheim palace wrapt in flames;

Made Hampton Court to fire a prey, And meanly, then, to sneak away, And never ask them, what's to pay?

Would that be conquering London town? Would that subvert the english throne, Or bring the royal system down?

With all their glare of guards or guns, How would they look like simpletons, And not at all the lion's sons!

Supposing, then, we take our turn And make it public law, to burn, Would not old english honor spurn

At such a mean insidious plan Which only suits some savage clan-- And surely not--the english man!

A doctrine has prevail'd too long; A king, they hold, can do no wrong-- Merely a pitch-fork, without prong:

But de'il may trust such doctrines, more,-- One king, that wrong'd us, long before, Has wrongs, by hundreds, yet in store.

He wrong'd us forty years ago; He wrongs us yet, we surely know; He'll wrong us till he gets a blow

That, with a vengeance, will repay The mischiefs we lament this day, This burning, damn'd, infernal play;

Will send one city to the sky, Its buildings low and buildings high, And buildings--built the lord knows why;

Will give him an eternal check That breaks his heart or breaks his neck, And plants our standard on Quebec.

TO THE LAKE SQUADRONS[206]

The brilliant task to you assign'd Asks every effort of the mind, And every energy, combined, To crush the foe.

Sail where they will, you must be there; Lurk where they can, you will not spare The blast of death--but all things dare To bring them low.

To wield his thunders on Champlain, Macdonough leads his gallant train, And, his great object to sustain, Vermont unites

Her hardy youths and veterans bold From shelter'd vale and mountain cold, Who fought, to guard, in days of old Their country's rights.

That country's wrongs are all your own And to the world the word is gone-- Her independence must to none Be sign'd away.

Be to the nation's standard true, To Britain, and to Europe shew That you can fight and conquer too, And prostrate lay.

That bitter foe, whose thousands rise No more to fight us in disguise, But count our freedom for their prize, If valor fails:

Beneath your feet let fear be cast, Remember deeds of valor past, And nail your colors to the mast And spread your sails.

In all the pride and pomp of war Let thunders from the cannon roar, And lightnings flash from shore to shore, To wing the ball.

Let Huron from his slumbers wake, Bid Erie to his centre shake, Till, foundering in Ontario's lake, You swamp them all!

[206] This poem refers to the campaign during the late summer of 1814 against the English fleet on Lake Ontario and Lake Champlain.

THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN

September 11, 1814

Between the british squadron, of 93 guns and 1050 men, and the American fleet of 86 guns and 820 men. The Confiance, of 39 and the Saratoga, of 26 guns, were the flag ships of the two commanders, Downie and Macdonough.

Parading near saint Peter's flood Full fourteen thousand soldiers stood; Allied with natives of the wood, With frigates, sloops, and galleys near; Which southward, now, began to steer; Their object was, Ticonderogue.

Assembled at Missisqui bay A feast they held, to hail the day, When all should bend to british sway From Plattsburg to Ticonderogue.

And who could tell, if reaching there They might not other laurels share And England's flag in triumph bear To the capitol, at Albany!!!

Sir George advanced, with fire and sword, The frigates were with vengeance stored, The strength of Mars was felt on board,-- When Downie gave the dreadful word, Huzza! for death or victory!

Sir George beheld the prize at stake, And, with his veterans, made the attack, Macomb's brave legions drove him back; And England's fleet approach'd to meet A desperate combat, on the lake.

With sulphurous clouds the heavens were black; We saw advance the Confiance, Shall blood and carnage mark her track, To gain dominion on the lake.

Then on our ships she pour'd her flame, And many a tar did kill or maim, Who suffer'd for their country's fame, Her soil to save, her rights to guard.

Macdonough, now, began his play, And soon his seamen heard him say, No Saratoga yields, this day, To all the force that Britain sends.

"Disperse, my lads, and man the waist, Be firm, and to your stations haste, And England from Champlain is chased, If you behave as you'll see me."

The fire began with awful roar; At our first flash the artillery tore From his proud stand, their commodore, A presage of the victory.

The skies were hid in flame and smoke, Such thunders from the cannon spoke, The contest such an aspect took As if all nature went to wreck! From isle La Motte to Saranac[A]

[A] A river which rises from several small lakes among the mountains to the westward of Lake Champlain, and after a north easterly course of near seventy-five miles, enters the grand lake in the vicinity of Plattsburg.--_Freneau's note._

Amidst his decks, with slaughter strew'd, Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood, Or waded through a scene of blood, At every step that round him stream'd:

He stood amidst Columbia's sons, He stood amidst dismounted guns, He fought amidst heart-rending groans, The tatter'd sail, the tottering mast.

Then, round about, his ship he wore, And charged his guns with vengeance sore, And more than Etna shook the shore-- The foe confess'd the contest vain.

In vain they fought, in vain they sail'd, That day; for Britain's fortune fail'd, And their best efforts nought avail'd To hold dominion on Champlain.

So, down their colors to the deck The vanquish'd struck--their ships a wreck-- What dismal tidings for Quebec, What news for England and her prince!

For, in this fleet, from England won, A favorite project is undone: Her sorrows only are begun-- And she may want, and very soon, Her armies for her own defence.

A DIALOGUE AT WASHINGTON'S TOMB

Genius of Virginia--and--Virginia.

_Genius._ Who are these that lawless come Washington! too near thy tomb?-- Are they those who, long before, Came to subjugate this shore?-- Are they those whom he repell'd, Captured, or imprison'd held? Or the sons of those of old Cast in nature's rudest mould,-- Dear Virginia, can it be? What a stain is laid on thee!

_Virginia._ Such a stain as I do swear Fills my swelling heart with care How to wash away the stain, How to be myself again. From my breast the hero rose, In my soil his bones repose: But this insult to thy shade, Washington, shall be repaid.

_Genius._ Dear Virginia! tell me how?-- Tell me not, or tell me now, Can you wield the bolts of Jove, Seize the lightnings from above? Tear the mountain from its base To confound this hated race, Who, with hostile step, presume To violate the honor'd tomb Of my bravest, noblest son, Of th' immortal Washington!

_Virginia._ Not the artillery of the sky, Not the vengeance from on high Did I want, to guard my son, I have lightnings of my own! But I wanted----

_Genius._ ----Wanted what? Tell me now, or tell me not.

_Virginia._ Men, whom Washington had taught, Men of fire, and men of thought, All their spirits in a glow, Ever ready for the foe; Born to meet the hostile shock, Sturdy as the mountain oak-- Active, steady, on their guard, For the scene of death prepared; Such I wanted--say no more; Time, perhaps, may such restore.

_Genius._ By the powers that guard this spot, Want them longer you shall not, I, the patron of your land, From this moment take command, Kindle flames in every breast, Thirst of vengeance for the past; Vengeance, that from shore to shore Shall dye your bay with english gore, And see them leave their thousands slain, If they dare to land again: This is all I choose to say-- Seize your armour--let's away!

SIR PETER PETRIFIED

On the Modern Sir Peter Parker's[207] Expedition to Kent Island in Chesapeake Bay.

--1814--

Sir Peter came, with bold intent, To persecute the men of Kent His flag aloft display'd: He came to see their pleasant farms, But ventured not without his arms To talk with man or maid.

And then the gallant colonel Reed Said, "we must see the man indeed; He comes perhaps in want-- Who knows but that his stores are out: Tis hard to dine on mere sour krout, His water may be scant."

He spoke--but soon the men of Kent Discover'd what the errand meant, And some, discouraged, said, "Sir Peter comes to petrify, He points his guns, his colors fly, His men for war array'd!"

Secure, as if they own'd the land, Advanced this daring naval band, As if in days of peace; Along the shore they, prowling, went, And often ask'd some friends in Kent Where dwelt the fattest geese?

The farmers' geese were doom'd to bleed; But some there were, with colonel Reed, Who would not yield assent; And said, before the geese they take, Sir Peter must a bargain make With us, the boys of Kent.

The Britons march'd along the shore, Two hundred men, or somewhat more; Next, through the woods they stray'd: The geese, still watchful, as they went, To save the capitol of Kent Their every step betray'd.

The british march'd with loaded gun To seize the geese that gabbling run About the isle of Kent: But, what could hardly be believed, Sir Peter was of life bereaved Before he pitch'd his tent.

Some kentish lad, to save the geese, And make their noisy gabbling cease Had took a deadly aim: By kentish hands sir Peter fell, His men retreated, with a yell And lost both geese and game!

Now what I say, I say with grief, That such a knight, or such a chief On such an errand died!!! When men of worth their lives expose For little things, where little grows They make the very geese their foes; The geese his fall deride:

And, sure, they laugh, if laugh they can, To see a star and garter'd man For life of goose expose his own, And bite the dust, with many a groan-- Alas! a gander cry'd-- "Behold, (said he,) a man of fame Who all the way from England came No more than just to get the name Of Peter Petrified!"

[207] Sir Peter Parker, commander of the British Frigate _Menelaus_, was prominent for a month in the blockading squadron in Chesapeake Bay during the summer of 1814. After the burning of Washington he was ordered down the bay "but Sir Peter said he 'must have a frolic with the yankees before he left them' and on the 30th of August after dancing and drinking they proceeded to the sport and made a circuitous route to surprise Col. Read encamped in Moore's fields not far from Georgetown X Roads on the eastern shore of Maryland. The Colonel was fully apprised of their proceedings.... The ground was obstinately contended for nearly an hour when the enemy retreated leaving thirteen killed and three wounded on the field. It is ascertained that they carried off seventeen others among whom was Sir Peter who, with several others, are since dead."--_Niles' Register._

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL ROSS[208]

Who had the principal command of the english army at the attack upon Baltimore, in which he fell, while out with a reconnoitering party.

Give them the shadow of the cypress bough! The chief who came our prowess to defy, Who came, to bind fresh laurels on his brow, Who came, too sure to conquer not to die:-- Low lies the chief upon th' unconscious plain, The laurels wither, and no wreathes remain.

To kindle up your torch, ambition's flame Heroic chief, had all its flames supplied; A monarch's smiles, a never-dying name, The historian's subject, and the soldier's pride; Your native land with splendid trophies hung; Joy sparkling in the eye, and praise from every tongue.

Deceived how much! a name alone remains, Not yet complete in fame, nor ripe in years;-- What is the applause such thirst of glory gains, Which not the grave regards or valor hears: In war's wild tumult, for a name he died, He fell, the victim of a monarch's pride.

A country's rights, or freedom to defend May sooth the anguish of a dying hour, A ravaged land to succor or befriend, To brave the efforts of a tyrant's power: These may console, when mad ambition's train Fade from the view, or sooth the soul in vain.

[208] General Robert Ross, who with Sir George Cockburn had burned Washington, was killed at North Point, Md., Sept. 12, 1814.

ON THE NAVAL ATTACK NEAR BALTIMORE[209]

September 14, 1814

The sons of old ocean advanced from the bay To achieve an exploit of renown; And Cochrane and Cockburn commanded, that day, And meant to exhibit a tragical play, Call'd, The plunder and burning of Baltimore town.

The scenes to be acted were not very new, And when they approach'd, with their rat-tat-too, As merry as times would allow, We ran up the colors to liberty true, And gave them a shot, with a tow-row-dow.

By land and by water how many have fail'd In attacking an enemy's town, But britons they tell us, have always prevail'd Wherever they march'd, or wherever they sail'd, To honor his majesty's sceptre and crown:

Wherever they went, with the trumpet and drum, And the dregs of the world, and the dirt, and the scum, As soon as the music begun, The colors were struck, and surrender'd the town When the summons was given of down, down, down!

But fortune, so fickle, is turning her tide, And safe is old Baltimore town, Though Cockburn and Cochrane, with Ross at their side, The sons of Columbia despised and defy'd, And determined to batter it down; Rebuff'd and repulsed in disgrace they withdrew, With their down, down, down, and their rat-tat-too, As well as the times would allow: And the sight, we expect, will be not very new When they meet us again, with our tow-row-dow.

[209] After the burning of Washington the British fleet and army concentrated upon Baltimore. Here they met a stubborn resistance and were at length beaten off. It was during the bombardment of Fort McHenry near the city that Francis Scott Key composed the patriotic song "The Star Spangled Banner."

ON THE BRITISH BLOCKADE

And Expected Attack on New York, 1814

Old Neversink,[A] with bonnet blue, The present times may surely rue When told what England means to do:

[A] The highlands, a little southward of Sandy Hook; being a tract of bold high country, several thousand acres in extent; to the southward of which there is no land that may be termed mountainous, on the whole coast of the United States to Cape Florida. The real aboriginal name of this remarkable promontory was Navesink, since corrupted into Neversink.--_Freneau's note._

Where from the deep his head he rears The din of war salutes his ears, That teazed him not for thirty years.

He eastward looks toward the main To see a noisy naval train Invest his bay, our fleets detain.

What can be done in such a case?-- His rugged heights the blast must face, The storm that menaces the place.

With tents I see his mountain spread, The soldier to the summit led, And cannon planted on his head:

From Shrewsbury beach to Sandy Hook The country has a martial look, And quakers skulk in every nook.--

What shall be done in such a case?-- We ask again with woful face To save the trade and guard the place?

Where mounted guns the porte secure, The cannon at the embrasure, Will british fleets attempt to moor?

Perhaps they may--and make a dash, To fill their pockets with our cash-- Their dealings now are rather harsh.

They menace to assail the coast With such a fleet and such a host As may devour us--boil'd or roast.

Their feelings are alive and sore For what they got at Baltimore, When, with disgrace, they left the shore,

And will revenge it, if they can, On town and country, maid and man-- And all they fear is Fulton's plan;

Torpedoes planted in the deep, Whose blast may put them all to sleep, Or ghostify them at a sweep.

Another scheme, entirely new, Is hammering on his anvil too, That frightens christian, turk, and jew.

A frigate,[B] mounting thirty six!-- Who'er with her a quarrel picks Will little get but cuffs and kicks:

[B] The steam frigate _Fulton the First_: Qui me percellit morti debetur--who strikes at me to death is doomed!--_Freneau's note._

A frigate meant to sail by steam!-- How can she else but torture them, Be proof to all their fire and flame.

A feast she cooks for England's sons Of scalded heads and broken bones Discharged from iron hearted guns.

Black Sam[C] himself, before he died, Such _suppers_ never did provide;-- Such dinners roasted, boil'd, and fry'd.

[C] A character well known in New York several years since, remarkable for elegance and luxurious refinements in the art of cookery.--_idem._

To make a brief of all I said-- If to attack they change blockade Their godships will be well repaid

With water, scalding from the pot, With melted lead and flaming shot, With vollies of--I know not what,

The british lads will be so treated: Their wooden walls will be so heated, Their ruin will be soon completed.

Our citizens shall stare and wonder-- The Neversink repel their thunder And Cockburn miss a handsome plunder.

ROYAL CONSULTATIONS

Relative to the Disposal of Lord Wellington's Army

Said the goth to the vandal, the prince to the king, Let us do a mad action, to make the world ring: With Wellington's army we now have the means To make a bold stroke and exhibit new scenes.

A stroke at the states is my ardent desire, To waste, and harass them with famine and fire; My vengeance to carry through village and town, And even to batter their capitol down.

The vandal then answer'd, and said to the goth, Dear George, with yourself I am equally wroth: Of Wellington's army dispose as you please, It is best, I presume, they should go beyond seas; For, should they come home, I can easily show The hangman will have too much duty to do.

So, away came the bruisers, and when they came here Some mischief they did, where no army was near: They came to correct, and they came to chastise And to do all the evil their heads could devise.

At Washington city, they burnt and destroy'd Till among the big houses they made a huge void; Then back to their shipping they flew like the wind, But left many more than five hundred behind Of wounded and dead, and others say, double; And thus was the hangman excused from some trouble.

Alexandria beheld them in battle array; Alexandria they plunder'd a night and a day. Then quickly retreated, with moderate loss, Their forces conducted by Cockburn and Ross.

At Baltimore, next, was their place of attack; But Baltimore drove them repeatedly back; There Rodgers they saw, and their terror was such, They saw they were damn'd when they saw him approach.

The forts were assail'd by the strength of their fleet, And the forts, in disorder beheld them retreat So shatter'd and crippled, so mangled and sore, That the tide of Patapsco was red with their gore.

Their legions by land no better succeeded-- In vain they manoeuvered, in vain they paraded, Their hundreds on hundreds were strew'd on the ground, Each shot from the rifles brought death or a wound. One shot from a buckskin completed their loss, And their legions no longer were headed by Ross!

Where they mean to go next, we can hardly devise, But home they would go if their master was wise.

Yet folly so long has directed their course; Such madness is seen in the waste of their force, Such weakness and folly, with malice combined, Such rancor, revenge, and derangement of mind, That, all things consider'd, with truth we may say, Both Cochrane and Cockburn are running away.[A]

[A] About this time, September, 1814, the admirals Cochrane and Cockburn quitted the coast of the United States in their respective flag ships.--_Freneau's note._

To their regent, the prince, to their master the king They are now on the way, they are now on the wing, To tell them the story of loss and disaster, One begging a pension, the other a plaister. Let them speed as they may, to us it is plain They will patch up their hulks for another campaign, Their valor to prove, and their havoc to spread When Wellington's army is missing or dead.

ON THE LOSS OF THE PRIVATEER BRIGANTINE

GENERAL ARMSTRONG

Captain Samuel C. Reid, of New-York, which sailed from Sandy Hook, on a cruise, the ninth of September, 1814, and on the 26th came to anchor in the road of Fayal, one of the Azores, or Western Islands, a neutral port belonging to the crown of Portugal. She anchored in that port for the purpose of procuring a supply of fresh water, when she was attacked by the british ship of war Plantaganet, of 74 guns, capt. Lloyd; the Rota frigate of 36 guns, and the armed national brig Carnation, of 18 guns, and many barges of considerable force, all of which she repulsed, with an immense slaughter, and was then scuttled and sunk by order of Captain Reid, to prevent her falling into the hands of the enemy.

The Armstrong arrived in the port of Fayal, And her actions of valor we mean to recall; Brave Reid, her commander, his valorous crew, The heroes that aided, his officers, too. Shall it fall to their lot To be basely forgot? O no! while a bard has a pen to command Their fame shall resound through american land.

In the road of Fayal, when their anchors were cast, The british were watching to give them a blast; Not far from the port, for destruction sharp set, Lay the Rota, Carnation, and Plantagenet: With a ship of the line Did a frigate combine, And a brig of great force, with her boats in the rear, To capture or burn one New-York privateer!

Four boats from the brig were despatch'd in great haste, And onward they came, of the Armstrong to taste; To taste of her powder, to taste of her ball, To taste of the death she must hurl on them all!-- They came in great speed, And with courage, indeed, Well mann'd and well arm'd--so they got along side, Destruction their motto, damnation their guide.

Now the Armstrong, with vengeance, had open'd her fire, And gave them as much as they well could desire; A score of them fell--full twenty fell dead-- Then quarters! they cried, and disgracefully fled:-- To their ships they return'd Half shatter'd and burn'd-- Not quite in good humor, perhaps in a fret, And waited new orders from Plantagenet.

Then the Armstrong haul'd in, close abreast of the beach, So near, that a pistol the castle could reach; And there she awaited the rest of their plan, And there they determined to die, to a man, Ere the lords of the waves With their sorrowful slaves, The tyrants, who claim the command of the main, With strength, though superior, their purpose should gain.

And now the full moon had ascended the sky, Reid saw by her light that the british were nigh: The bell of Fayal told the hour--it was nine-- When the foe was observed to advance in a line; They manoeuvred a while With their brig, in great style, Till midnight approach'd when they made their attack, Twelve boats, full of men, and the brig at their back!

They advanced to the conflict as near as they chose, When the Armstrong her cannon discharged on her foes-- The town of Fayal stood aghast in amaze The Armstrong appear'd like all hell in a blaze! At the blast of Long Tom The foe was struck dumb: O lord! are the sons of old England alarm'd-- With music like this they were formerly charm'd!

Huzza for old England! three cheers, and a damn! And up to the conflict they manfully came; On the bows and the quarters they grappled a hold, And board! was the word in those barges so bold; But board they could not--to no devil she strikes, So the Armstrong repell'd them with pistols and pikes-- From her musquetry fire They by dozens expire! And soon was the work of destruction complete, And soon was determined their total defeat--!

Three hundred brave fellows were wounded and kill'd, Their boats and their barges with slaughter were fill'd; With shame they retreated, the few that remain'd, To tell the event of the battle--not gain'd: Their commander in chief Was astounded with grief!-- Dont grieve, my good fellows--he hail'd them--I beg I too have my wounds--"an ox trod on my leg!"

But to save the stout Armstrong--even Reid could not do-- A ship of the line with a frigate in tow--! A brig of their navy accoutred for war--! All this was too much for e'en yankees to dare: So he scuttled his barque-- Nor need we remark That she sunk on the sands by the beach of Fayal With her colors all flying--no colors could fall!

Of neutrals what nonsense some tell us each day! Exists there a neutral where Britain has sway? The rights of a neutral!--away with such stuff-- What neutral remains that can England rebuff?-- To be safe from disgrace The deep seas are our place: The flag of no neutral our flag can defend, By ourselves we must fight, on ourselves must depend.

Now in bumpers of reason, success to brave Reid! Himself and his heroes are heroes indeed!-- In conquests, like this, can an englishman glory, One traitor among us, one Halifax tory? If they can--let them brag-- Here's success to our flag! May it ever be ready, the britons to maul, As the Armstrong behaved in the road of Fayal.--

ON THE BRIGANTINE PRIVATEER

Prince de Neufchatel[210]

Ordonneaux, commander, which arrived at Boston some time since, from a cruise of three months, chiefly in the english and irish channels, in which she captured thirteen or fourteen valuable prizes, to the amount, it was said, of more than a million of dollars.

Quid petis hic est.--_Martial._

What is wealth, that men will roam, Risque their all, and leave their home, Face the cannon, beat the drum, And their lives so cheaply sell!

Let them reason on the fact Who would rather think than act-- Their brains were not with morals rack'd Who mann'd the prince of Neufchatel.

Having play'd a lucky game, Homeward, with her treasure, came This privateer of gallant fame, Call'd the prince of Neufchatel.

Are the english cruisers near? Do they on the coast appear To molest this privateer?-- --She shall be defended well.

Soon a frigate hove in sight:-- As the wind was rather light, She, five barges, out of spite, Sent, to attack, with gun and blade.

On our decks stood rugged men, Little more than three times ten; And I tremble, while my pen Tells the havoc that was made.

Up they came, with colors red, One a stern, and one a head-- Shall I tell you what they said?-- Yankees! strike the buntin rag!

Three were ranged on either side-- Then the ports were open'd wide, And the sea with blood was dyed; Ruin to the english flag!

Now the angry cannons roar, Now they hurl the storm of war, Now in floods of human gore Swam the prince of Neufchatel!

Then the captain, Ordonneaux, Seconded the seaman's blow, And the remnant of the foe Own'd the brig defended well.

For the million she contain'd He contended, sword in hand, Follow'd by as brave a band Of tars, as ever, trod a deck.

In these bloody barges, five, Scarce a man was left alive, And about the seas they drive; Some were sunk, and some a wreck.

Every effort that they made With boarding pike, or carronade, Every effort was repaid, Scarcely with a parallel!

Fortune, thus, upon the wave, Crown'd the valor of the brave:-- Little lost, and much to save, Had the prince of Neufchatel.

[210] Of the numerous vessels fitted out during the war by private parties to prey on British commerce the Prince de Neufchatel was doubtless the most successful.

THE PARADE AND SHAM-FIGHT

A Pine Forest Picture--on a Training Day.

----Invictaque bello Dextera! non illi se quisquam impune tulisset Obvius armato---- _Virg._

The drum was beat, the flag display'd, The soldiers met upon parade, And all for action ready made With loud huzza!

When forth a stately figure strode, Of stature such, of such a mode, As those who lived before the flood, If stuff'd with straw.

His vigor seem'd by years unbroke; But then his phiz had such a look, As if preserved in Etna's smoke For half an age.

God help us all to look our best! This man was captain of the rest, And valor seem'd to fire his breast With martial rage.

His horse was of an iron grey; (A prancing steed he rode that day,) Not of the bold virginian breed, Nor yet remote from Quixote's steed.

This chief was of the bullet mould; To meet the conflict, firm and bold, His coat was patch'd, his boots new soal'd, Ham stuff'd his maw:

Two pounds of powder fill'd his horn, His pantaloons were old and worn, A cap and hat his head adorn-- The chapeau bras.

With vengeance heated, long in store, He sallied forth, a man of war; And all that meet him, pray take care Of rusty pikes.

He had no helmet for the head, But death and ruin near him tread, And slaughter, in a suit of red, That deadly strikes.

A blanket from his shoulders hung, Three dollars in his pockets rung, And to his thigh a faulchion clung, That made us quake:

A veteran in the fighting trade! The owner of so keen a blade! Do not provoke him, man or maid, For mercy's sake.

O could you but one furlong ride With such a faulchion at your side, Your bosom would for glory beat And show Napoleon all complete!

Two pistols, to his girdle tied, Foreboded vengeance, far and wide, To all that were not on our side, With heart and hand.

Accoutred thus, with martial air, He gave the warning word, "Take care!" And, in a moment, all was war, Sublime and grand.

They march'd, and march'd, as thick as bees. Then march'd towards a clump of trees; And "blaze away!" the leader says-- "Each take his aim!

"Who wounds a tree can kill a man-- "If you but practise on that plan, "The britons shall go home again With grief and shame!"

Not Philip's famed, unrivall'd son, For Greece subdued, or India won, Not Cockburn, burning Washington, Look'd so elate:

Not Bonaparte, on Egypt's sands With such importance gave commands, With such discretion train'd his bands, Assumed such state!

Not Caesar, when he pass'd the Rhine, Not Marlborough leading up his line, Not Perry, when he said, "they're mine!" Put on such airs;--

As now were shown to front and rear When victory seem'd to hover near. Indeed not purchased very dear-- No wounds nor scars.

Departing from the norman shore, Not William such a feature wore When England hail'd him conqueror, With loud acclaim:

Not Fulton, when his steam he try'd And Neptune's car stemm'd Hudson's tide Felt such a generous glow of pride For well earn'd fame.

That day Cornwallis met his fate, Not Washington felt half so great When tow'rd him flew the gallic fleet To share his smile:

Not conquest had for Gates such charms When, yielding to the victor's arms, He bade Burgoyne resign his arms, In soldier's style.

Not Ajax' self, with such a grace Gave orders to attack a place; Not Hannibal with bolder face Approach'd old Rome,--

When marching for the Tiber shore, He yet his alpine jacket wore, And hoped to sweep the senate floor, And fix their doom:

Not Parker,[A] when he cross'd the bar Of Charleston with his men of war, Was, near fort Moultrie, half so sure Of victory gain'd:

[A] Sir Peter Parker, it is well remembered, attacked fort Moultrie, on Sullivan's Island, in 1776, and after a sanguinary action, was repulsed with great loss.--_Freneau's note._

Not Parker, when departing thence So shatter'd--at the king's expense-- Was so provoked at the defence, Felt so chagrined,

As did our chief (no captain Brag) When he perceiv'd some worthless wag Had stolen away the brandy keg-- Ah! loss indeed!

For this, he swore he would resign, All future trust in man decline; Of whom, at least, there was one swine, They all agreed--

And cry'd "like hell his heart is black-- Pursue him, boys, and scent his track, If drunk or dead, we'll have him back, This man of scum!"

Each took his mark, and hit a tree; The battle's done!--all sober, we; Huzza! we have the victory! Then scamper'd home!

RETALIATION

A Marine Ode--1814

"Ye powers who rule the western gale Not for the golden fleece we sail, Nor yet on wild ambition's plan, But vengeance gathers man with man.

For wrongs which wearied patience bore, For slighted rules of legal war, We rear our flag, our sails display, And east north east explore our way.

Let some assert, ten thousand pounds Would place our fleet on british grounds, And urge us onward to saint James To wrap his palaces in flames.

A motive of so mean a cast Allures no mind, excites no breast; From such reward we loathing turn And would at such a proffer spurn.

No--to retaliate on the foe, Free-will'd, we independent go, Our ship well mann'd, in war's attire, To light the skies with english fire.

November comes! tis time to sail, The nights are long and brisk the gale, And England, soon, the odds may prove Between our hatred and our love."

ON THE LAUNCHING

Of the Seventy-four Gun Ship _Independence_,[211] at Charlestown, near Boston

Our trade to restore as it stood once before We have launched a new ship from the stocks, Her rate is our first, and her force will, we trust, Be sufficient to humble the hawks; The hawks of old England we mean, don't mistake, Some harpies of England our prizes we'll make.

Independence her name, independent our minds, And prepared for the toils of the sea, We are ready to combat the waves and the winds, And fight till the ocean is free: Then, away to your stations, each man on our list Who, when danger approaches, will never be miss'd.

In asserting our rights we have rather been slow And patient till patience was tired; We were plunder'd and press'd ere we ventur'd a blow Till the world at our patience admired, And language was held, of contempt and disgrace, And Europe mis-call'd us a pitiful race.

Twas time to arise in the strength of our might When Madison publish'd the war, And many have thought that he would have been right Had he published it three years before; While France was unpester'd with traitors and knaves, Nor Europe polluted with Wellington's slaves.

To arm for our country is never too late, No fetters are yet on our feet; Our hands are more free, and our hearts are as great As the best in the enemy's fleet: And look at the list of their navy, and think, How many are left, to burn, capture, and sink!

Let the nations of Europe surrender the sea, Or crouch at the foot of a throne; In liberty's soil we have planted her tree, And her rights will relinquish to none: Then stand to your arms, Then stand to your arms, Then stand to your arms--half the battle is done! And bravely accomplish what valor begun.

The day is approaching, a day not remote, A day with impatience we hail, When Decatur and Hull shall again be afloat, And Bainbridge commission'd to sail; To raise his blockades, will advance on the foe, And bulwark with Bull to the bottom shall go.

On the waves of Lake Erie we show'd the old brag We, too, could advance in a line, And batter their frigates and humble their flag; "I have met them," said Perry, "they're mine!" And so, my dear boys, we can meet them again On the waves of the sea, or the waves of Champlain.

To the new Independence then, pour out a glass, And drink, with the sense of a man: She soon will be ready, this pride of her class, Sir Thomas[A] to meet on his plan: He hates our torpedoes--then teaze him no more, Let him venture his luck with our Seventy-four. Then stand to your arms, you shall ne'er be enslav'd, Let the battle go on till the nation is saved!

[A] Sir Thomas Hardy, of the Ramillies 74.--_Freneau's note._

[211] The _Independence_ was one of the four 74-gun frigates authorized by Congress at the opening of the war. It was launched late in 1814, too late to play any part in the war.

THE BROOK OF THE VALLEY

The world has wrangled half an age, And we again in war engage, While this sweet, sequester'd rill Murmurs through the valley still.

All pacific as you seem: Such a gay elysian stream;-- Were you always thus at rest How the valley would be blest.

But, if always thus at rest; This would not be for the best: In one summer you would die And leave the valley parch'd and dry.

Tell me, where your waters go, Purling as they downward flow? Stagnant, now, and now a fall?-- To the gulph that swallows all.

Flowing, peaceful, from your urn Are your waters to return?-- Though the same you may appear, You're not the same we saw last year.

Not a drop of that remains-- Gone to visit other plains, Gone, to stray through other woods, Gone, to join the ocean floods!

Yes--they may return once more To visit scenes they knew before;-- Yonder sun, to cheer the vale From the ocean can exhale

Vapors, that your waste supply, Turn'd to rain from yonder sky; Moisture, vapors, to revive And keep your margin all alive.

But, with all your quiet flow, Do you not some quarrels know! Lately, angry, how you ran! All at war--and much like man.

When the shower of waters fell, How you raged, and what a swell! All your banks you overflow'd, Scarcely knew your own abode!

How you battled with the rock! Gave my willow such a shock As to menace, by its fall, Underwood and bushes, all:

Now you are again at peace: Time will come when that will cease; Such the human passions are; --You again will war declare.

Emblem, thou, of restless man; What a sketch of nature's plan! Now at peace, and now at war, Now you murmur, now you roar;

Muddy now, and limpid next, Now with icy shackles vext-- What a likeness here we find! What a picture of mankind!

APPENDIX

A. THE AMERICAN VILLAGE, &C. B. LIST OF OMITTED POEMS. C. BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE POETRY OF PHILIP FRENEAU.

THE AMERICAN VILLAGE.[212]

WHERE yonder stream divides the fertile plain, Made fertile by the labours of the swain; And hills and woods high tow'ring o'er the rest, Behold a village with fair plenty blest: Each year tall harvests crown the happy field; Each year the meads their stores of fragrance yield, And ev'ry joy and ev'ry bliss is there, And healthful labour crowns the flowing year.

THOUGH _Goldsmith_ weeps in melancholy strains, Deserted Auburn and forsaken plains, And mourns his village with a patriot sigh, And in that village sees Britannia die: Yet shall this land with rising pomp divine, In it's own splendor and Britannia's shine. O muse, forget to paint her ancient woes, Her Indian battles, or her Gallic foes; Resume the pleasures of the rural scene, Describe the village rising on the green, It's harmless people, born to small command, Lost in the bosom of this western land:

SO shall my verse run gentle as the floods, So answer all ye hills, and echo all ye woods; So glide ye streams in hollow channels pent, Forever wasting, yet not ever spent. Ye clust'ring boughs by hoary thickets borne! Ye fields high waving with eternal corn! Ye woodland nymphs the tender tale rehearse, The fabled authors of immortal verse: Ye Dryads fair, attend the scene I love, And Heav'n shall centre in yon' blooming grove. What tho' thy woods, AMERICA, contain The howling forest, and the tiger's den, The dang'rous serpent, and the beast of prey, Men are more fierce, more terrible than they. No monster with it's vile contagious breath, No flying scorpion darting instant death; No pois'nous adder, burning to engage, Has half the venom or has half the rage. What tho' the Turk protests to heav'n his ire, With lift up hand amidst his realms of fire; And Russia's Empress sends her fleets afar, To aid the havock of the burning war: Their rage dismays not, and their arms in vain, In dreadful fury bathe with blood the plain; Their terrors harmless, tho' their story heard, How this one conquer'd, or was nobly spar'd: Vain is their rage, to us their anger vain, The deep Atlantic raves and roars between.

TO yonder village then will I descend, There spend my days, and there my ev'nings spend; Sweet haunt of peace whose mud' wall'd sides delight, The rural mind beyond the city bright: Their tops with hazles or with alders wove, Remurmur magic to the neighb'ring grove; And each one lab'ring in his own employ, Comes weary home at night, but comes with joy: The soil which lay for many thousand years O'er run by woods, by thickets and by bears; Now reft of trees, admits the chearful light, And leaves long prospects to the piercing sight; Where once the lynx nocturnal sallies made, And the tall chestnut cast a dreadful shade: No more the panther stalks his bloody rounds, Nor bird of night her hateful note resounds; Nor howling wolves roar to the rising moon, As pale arose she o'er yon eastern down. Some prune their trees, a larger load to bear Of fruits nectarine blooming once a year: See groaning waggons to the village come Fill'd with the apple, apricot or plumb; And heavy beams suspended from a tree, To press their juice against the winter's day: Or see the plough torn through the new made field, Ordain'd a harvest, yet unknown to yield. The rising barn whose spacious floor receives The welcome thousands of the wheaten sheaves, And spreads it's arms to take the plenteous store, Sufficient for its master and the poor: For as Eumoeus us'd his beggar guest The great Ulysses in his tatters drest: So here fair Charity puts forth her hand, And pours her blessings o'er the greatful land: No needy wretch the rage of winter fears, Secure he sits and spends his aged years, With thankful heart to gen'rous souls and kind, That save him from the winter and the wind.

A LOVELY island once adorn'd the sea, Between New-Albion and the Mexic' Bay; Whose sandy sides washed by the ocean wave, Scarce heard a murmur but what ocean gave: Small it's circumference, nor high it's coast, But shady woods the happy isle could boast; On ev'ry side new prospects catch'd the eye, There rose blue mountains to the arched sky: Here thunder'd ocean in convulsive throws, And dash'd the island as it's waters rose: Yet peaceful all within, no tumults there, But fearless steps of the unhunted hare; And nightly chauntings of the fearless dove, Or blackbird's note, the harbinger of love. So peaceful was this haunt that nature gave, Still as the stars, and silent as the grave; No loud applause there rais'd the patriot breast, No shouting armies their mad joy confest, For battles gain'd, or trophies nobly won, Or nations conquer'd near the rising sun; No clam'rous crews, or wild nocturnal cheer, Or murd'rous ruffians, for no men were here. On it's east end a grove of oak was seen, And shrubby hazels fill'd the space between; Dry alders too, and aspin leaves that shook With ev'ry wind, conspired to shade a brook, Whose gentle stream just bubbling from the ground, Was quickly in the salter ocean drown'd: Beyond whose fount, the center of the isle, Wild plumb trees flourish'd on the shaded soil. In the dark bosom of this sacred wood, Secluded from the world, and all it's own, Of other lands unknowing, and unknown. Here might the hunter have destroy'd his prey, Transfix'd the goat before the dawn of day; And trudging homeward with his welcome load, The fruit of wand'rings thro' each by-way road: Thrown down his burthen with the needless sigh, And gladly feasted his small family. Small fields had then suffic'd, and grateful they, The annual labours of his hands to pay; And free his right to search the briny flood For fish, or slay the creatures of the wood.

THUS spent his days in labour's pleasant pain, Had liv'd and dy'd the homely shepherd swain: Had seen his children and his children's heirs, The fruit of love and memory of years To agriculture's first fair service bent, The work of mortals, and their great intent. So had the Sire his days of pleasure known, And wish'd to change no country for his own: So had he with his fair endearing wife, Pass'd the slow circle of a harmless life; With happy ignorance divinely blest, The path, the centre and the home of rest. Long might the sun have run his bright career, And long the moon her mantled visage rear; And long the stars their nightly vigils kept, And spheres harmonious either sung or wept: He had not dream'd of worlds besides his own, And thought them only stars, beyond the moon; Enjoy'd himself, nor hear'd of future hell, Or heav'n, the recompence of doing well; Had scarcely thought of an eternal state, And left his being in the hands of fate.-- O had this isle such souls sublime contain'd, And there for ages future sons remain'd: But envious time conspiring with the sea, Wash'd all it's landscapes, and it's groves away. It's trees declining, stretch'd upon the sand, No more their shadows throw across the land. It's vines no more their clust'ring beauty show, Nor sturdy oaks embrace the mountain's brow. Bare sands alone now overwhelm the coast, Lost in it's grandeur, and it's beauty lost.

THUS, tho' my fav'rite isle to ruin gone, Inspires my sorrow, and demands my moan; Yet this wide land it's place can well supply With landscapes, hills and grassy mountains high. O HUDSON! thy fair flood shall be my theme, Thy winding river, or thy glassy stream; On whose tall banks tremendous rocks I spy, Dread nature in primæval majesty. Rocks, to whose summits clouds eternal cling, Or clust'ring birds in their wild wood notes sing. Hills, from whose sides the mountain echo roars, Rebounding dreadful from the distant shores; Or vallies, where refreshing breezes blow, And rustic huts in fair confusion grow, Safe from the winds, secur'd by mountains high, That seem to hide the concave of the sky; To whose top oft' the curious hind ascends, And wonders where the arch'd horizon bends; Pleas'd with the distant prospects rising new, And hills o'er hills, a never ending view. Through various paths with hasty step he scours, And breathes the odours of surrounding flow'rs, Caught from their bosoms by the fragrant breath, Of western breezes, or the gale of death.[A] Then low descending, seeks the humble dome, And centres all his pleasures in his home, 'Till day returning, brings the welcome toil, To clear the forest, or to tame the soil; To burn the woods, or catch the tim'rous deer, To scour the thicket, or contrive the snare.

[A] South wind.--_Freneau's note._

SUCH was the life our great fore-fathers led, The golden season now from Britain fled, E'er since dread commerce stretch'd the nimble sail, And sent her wealth with ev'ry foreign gale.-- Strange fate, but yet to ev'ry country known, To love all other riches but it's own. Thus fell the mistress of the conquer'd earth, Great ROME, who owed to ROMULUS her birth. Fell to the monster Luxury, a prey, Who forc'd a hundred nations to obey. She whom nor mighty CARTHAGE could withstand, Nor strong JUDEA'S once thrice holy land: She all the west, and BRITAIN could subdue, While vict'ry with the ROMAN eagles flew; She, she herself eternal years deny'd, Like ROME she conquer'd, but by ROME she dy'd: But if AMERICA, by this decay, The world itself must fall as well as she. No other regions latent yet remain, This spacious globe has been research'd in vain. Round it's whole circle oft' have navies gone, And found but sea or lands already known. When she has seen her empires, cities, kings, Time must begin to flap his weary wings; The earth itself to brighter days aspire, And wish to feel the purifying fire.

NOR think this mighty land of old contain'd The plund'ring wretch, or man of bloody mind: Renowned SACHEMS once their empires rais'd On wholesome laws; and sacrifices blaz'd. The gen'rous soul inspir'd the honest breast, And to be free, was doubly to be blest: 'Till the east winds did here COLUMBUS blow, And wond'ring nations saw his canvas flow. 'Till here CABOT descended on the strand, And hail'd the beauties of the unknown land; And rav'nous nations with industrious toil, Conspir'd to rob them of their native soil: Then bloody wars, and death and rage arose, And ev'ry tribe resolv'd to be our foes. Full many a feat of them I could rehearse, And actions worthy of immortal verse: Deeds ever glorious to the INDIAN name, And fit to rival GREEK or ROMAN fame, But one sad story shall my Muse relate, Full of paternal love, and full of fate; Which when ev'n yet the northern shepherd hears, It swells his breast, and bathes his face in tears, Prompts the deep groan, and lifts the heaving sigh, Or brings soft torrents from the female eye.

FAR in the arctic skies, where HUDSON'S BAY Rolls it's cold wave and combats with the sea, A dreary region lifts it's dismal head, True sister to the regions of the dead. Here thund'ring storms continue half the year, Or deep-laid snows their joyless visage rear: Eternal rocks, from whose prodigious steep The angry tiger stuns the neighb'ring deep; While through the wild wood, or the shrouded plain, The moose deer seeks his food, but often seeks in vain: Yet in this land, froze by inclement skies, The Indian huts in wild succession rise; And daily hunting, when the short-liv'd spring Shoots joyous forth, th' industrious people bring Their beaver spoils beneath another sky, PORT NELSON, and each BRITISH factory: In slender boats from distant lands they sail, Their small masts bending to the inland gale, On traffic sent to gain the little store, Which keeps them plenteous, tho' it keeps them poor. Hither CAFFRARO in his flighty boat, One hapless spring his furry riches brought; And with him came, for sail'd he not alone, His consort COLMA, and his little son. While yet from land o'er the deep wave he plough'd, And tow'rds the shore with manly prowess row'd. His barque unfaithful to it's trusted freight, Sprung the large leak, the messenger of fate; But no lament or female cry was heard, Each for their fate most manfully prepar'd, From bubbling waves to send the parting breath To lands of shadows, and the shade of death. O FATE! unworthy such a tender train, O day, lamented by the Indian swain! Full oft' of it the strippling youth shall hear, And sadly mourn their fortune with a tear: The Indian maids full oft' the tale attend, And mourn their COLMA as they'd mourn a friend.

NOW while in waves the barque demerg'd, they strive, Dead with despair, tho' nature yet alive: Forth from the shore a friendly brother flew, In one small boat, to save the drowning crew. He came, but in his barque of trifling freight, Could save but two, and one must yield to fate. O dear CAFFRARO, said the hapless wife, O save our son, and save thy dearer life: 'Tis thou canst teach him how to hunt the doe, Transfix the buck, or tread the mountain snow, Let me the sentence of my fate receive, And to thy care my tender infant leave. He sigh'd, nor answer'd, but as firm as death, Resolv'd to save her with his latest breath: And as suspended by the barque's low side, He rais'd the infant from the chilling tide, And plac'd it safe; he forc'd his COLMA too To save herself, what more could mortal do? But nobly scorning life, she rais'd her head From the flush'd wave, and thus divinely said:

OF life regardless, I to fate resign, But thou, CAFFRARO, art forever mine. O let thy arms no future bride embrace, Remember COLMA, and her beauteous face, Which won thee youthful in thy gayest pride, With captives, trophies, victors at thy side; Now I shall quick to blooming regions fly, A spring eternal, and a nightless sky, Far to the west, where radiant Sol descends, And wonders where the arch'd horizon ends: There shall my soul thy lov'd idea keep, And 'till thy image comes, unceasing weep. There, tho' the tiger is but all a shade, And mighty panthers but the name they had; And proudest hills, and lofty mountains there, Light as the wind, and yielding as the air; Yet shall our souls their ancient feelings have, More strong, more noble than this side the grave. There lovely blossoms blow throughout the year, And airy harvests rise without our care: And all our sires and mighty ancestors, Renown'd for battles and successful wars, Behold their sons in fair succession rise, And hail them happy to serener skies. There shall I see thee too, and see with joy Thy future charge, my much lov'd Indian boy: The thoughtless infant, whom with tears I see, Once sought my breast, or hung upon my knee; Tell him, ah tell him, when in manly years, His dauntless mind, nor death nor danger fears, Tell him, ah tell him, how thy COLMA dy'd, His fondest mother, and thy youthful bride: Point to my tomb thro' yonder furzy glade, And show where thou thy much lov'd COLMA laid. O may I soon thy blest resemblance see, And my sweet infant all reviv'd in thee. 'Till then I'll haunt the bow'r or lonely shade, Or airy hills for contemplation made, And think I see thee in each ghostly shoal, And think I clasp thee to my weary soul. Oft, oft thy form to my expecting eye, Shall come in dreams with gentle majesty; Then shall I joy to find my bliss began To love an angel, whom I lov'd a man! She said, and downward in the hoary deep Plung'd her fair form to everlasting sleep; Her parting soul it's latest struggle gave, And her last breath came bubbling thro' the wave.

THEN sad CAFFRARO all his grief declares, And swells the torrent of the gulph with tears; And senseless stupid to the shore is borne In death-like slumbers, 'till the rising morn, Then sorrowing, to the sea his course he bent Full sad, but knew not for what cause he went, 'Till, sight distressing, from the lonely strand, He saw dead COLMA wafting to the land. Then in a stupid agony of pray'r, He rent his mantle, and he tore his hair; Sigh'd to the stars, and shook his honour'd head, And only wish'd a place among the dead! O had the winds been sensible of grief, Or whisp'ring angels come to his relief; Then had the rocks not echo'd to his pain, Nor hollow mountains answer'd him again: Then had the floods their peaceful courses kept, Nor the sad pine in all it's murmurs wept; Nor pensive deer stray'd through the lonely grove, Nor sadly wept the sympathising dove.-- Thus far'd the sire through his long days of pain, Or with his offspring rov'd the silent plain; Till years approaching, bow'd his sacred head Deep in the dust, and sent him to the dead: Where now perhaps in some strange fancy'd land, He grasps the airy bow, and flies across the strand; Or with his COLMA shares the fragrant grove, It's vernal blessings, and the bliss of love.

FAREWELL lamented pair, and whate'er state Now clasps you round, and sinks you deep in fate; Whether the firey kingdom of the sun, Or the slow wave of silent Acheron, Or Christian's heaven, or planetary sphere, Or the third region of the cloudless air; Or if return'd to dread nihility, You'll still be happy, for you will not be.

NOW fairest village of the fertile plain, Made fertile by the labours of the swain; Who first my drowsy spirit did inspire, To sing of woods, and strike the rural lyre: Who last shou'd see me wand'ring from thy cells, And groves of oak where contemplation dwells, Wou'd fate but raise me o'er the smaller cares, Of Life unwelcome and distressful years, Pedantic labours and a hateful ease, Which scarce the hoary wrinkled sage cou'd please. Hence springs each grief, each long reflective sigh, And not one comfort left but poetry. Long, long ago with her I could have stray'd, To woods, to thickets or the mountain shade; Unfit for cities and the noisy throng, The drunken revel and the midnight song; The gilded beau and scenes of empty joy, Which please a moment and forever die. Here then shall center ev'ry wish, and all The tempting beauties of this spacious ball: No thought ambitious, and no bold design, But heaven born contemplation shall be mine. In yonder village shall my fancy stray, Nor rove beyond the confines of to-day; The aged volumes of some plain divine, In broken order round my hut shou'd shine; Whose solemn lines should soften all my cares, And sound devotion to th' eternal stars: And if one sin my rigid breast did stain, Thou poetry shou'dst be the darling sin; Which heav'n without repentance might forgive, And which an angel might commit and live: And where yon' wave of silent water falls, O'er the smooth rock or Adamantine walls: The summer morns and vernal eves should see, MILTON, immortal bard my company; Or SHAKESPEARE, DRYDEN, each high sounding name, The pride of BRITAIN, and one half her fame: Or him who wak'd the fairy muse of old, And pleasing tales of lands inchanted told. Still in my hand, he his soft verse shou'd find His verse, the picture of the poets mind: Or heav'nly POPE, who now harmonious mourns, "Like the rapt seraph that adores and burns." Then in sharp satire, with a giant's might, Forbids the blockhead and the fool to write: And in the centre of the bards be shown The deathless lines of godlike ADDISON; Who, bard thrice glorious, all delightful flows, And wrapt the soul of poetry in prose.

NOW cease, O muse, thy tender tale to chaunt, The smiling village, or the rural haunt; New scenes invite me, and no more I rove, To tell of shepherds, or the vernal grove.

[212] "The American Village," Freneau's first distinct poetical publication, was for many years known only from his description of it in a letter to Madison (see Vol. I, page xxii, _supra_). It was supposed to have been lost, until a copy was discovered in a volume of miscellaneous pamphlets which had been purchased by the Library of Congress in November, 1902. A second copy, still more recently discovered, is now in the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University. I have reproduced the entire text of this little volume with the original punctuation and spelling, using however the modern form of the "s", and correcting the _errata_ noted by the author.

THE FARMER'S WINTER EVENING

A POEM

_To the_ NYMPH _I never saw_.

FAR be the pleasures of the day, And mirth and festive joy from me, When cold December nips the plains, Or frozen January reigns. Far he the hunts-man's noisy horn, And coursers fleet thro' thickets borne, Swift as the wind, and far the sight, Of snowy mountains, sadly white; But thou, O night, with sober charms, Shall clasp me in thy sable arms. For thee I love the winter eve, The noisy day for thee I leave. Beneath some mountain's tow'ring height, In cottage low I hail the night, Where jovial swains, with heart sincere, And timely mirth dishearten care: Each tells his tale, or chaunts a song Of her for whom he sigh'd so long; Of CLARA fair, or FLORA coy, Disdaining still her shepherd boy, While near the hoary headed sage, Recalls the days of youthful age, Describes his course of manly years, His journey thro' this vale of tears; How champion he with champions met, And fiercely did they combat it, 'Till envious night in ebon chair, Urg'd faster on her chariotteer, And robb'd him, O for shame, of glory And feats fit for renown in story.-- Thus spent in tales the ev'ning hour, And quaffing juice of sober pow'r, Which handsome KATE with malt did steep, To lead on balmy visag'd sleep, While her neat hand the milk pail strains, A sav'ry supper for the swains. And now the moon exalted high, Gives lustre to the earth and sky, And from the mighty ocean's glass, Reflects the beauty of her face: About her orb you may behold, A thousand stars of burnish'd gold, Which slowly to the west retire, And lose awhile their glitt'ring fire.

O COULD I here find my abode, And live within this fancy'd wood, With thee the weeks and years to pass, My pretty rural shepherdess; With thee the cooling spring to sip, Or live upon thy damask lip: Then sacred groves, and shades divine, And all ARCADIA should be mine. Steep me, steep me some poppies deep In beechen bowl, to bring on sleep; Love hath my mind in shackles kept, Thrice the cock crew, nor once I slept. O gentle sleep, wrap me in dreams, Of fields and woods, and running streams; Of rivers wide, and castles rare, And be my lovely FLORA there: A larger draught, a larger bowl To gratify my drowsy soul; "A larger draught is yet in store, Perhaps with this you wake no more." Then I my lovely maid shall see thee Drinking the deep streams of LETHE, Where now dame ARETHUSA scatters Her soft stream with ALPHEUS' waters, To forget her earthly cares, Lost in LETHE, lost in years! And I too will quaff the water, Lest it should be said, O daughter Of my giddy, wand'ring brain, I sigh'd for one I've never seen.

THE MISERABLE LIFE OF A PEDAGOGUE[213]

TO form the manners of our youth, To guide them in the way of truth, To lead them through the jarring schools, Arts, sciences, and grammar rules; Is certainly an arduous work, Enough to tire out Jew or Turk; And make a christian bite his nails, For do his best, he surely fails; And spite of all that some may say, His praise is trifling as his pay.

FOR My part I, tho' vers'd in booking, Still sav'd my carcase from such cooking; And always slyly shunn'd a trade, Too trifling as I thought and said; But at a certain crazy season, When men have neither sense or reason; By some confounded misadventure, I found myself just in it's centre.

ODD'S fish and blood, and noun and neuter, And tenses present, past and future: I utter'd with a wicked sigh, Where are my brains, or where am I? The dullest creature of the wood, Knows how to shun the distant flood; Whales, dolphins, and a hundred more, Are not the fools to run ashore.

WELL, now contented I must be, Forc'd by the dame Necessity, Who like the tribunal of Spain, Let's you speak once, but not again; And swift to execute the blow, Ne'er tells you why or whence it's so.

NOW I am ask'd a thousand questions, Of ALEXANDERS and EPHESTIONS; With sly designs to know if I Am vers'd in GRECIAN history; And then again my time destroy, With aukward grace to tell of TROY: From that huge giant POLYPHEMUS, Quite down to ROMULUS and REMUS. Then I'm oblig'd to give them lectures, On quadrants, circles, squares and sectors; Or in my wretched mem'ry bear, What weighs a cubic inch of air.

"SIR, here's my son, I beg you'd mind, The graces have been very kind, And on him all their blessings shed, [Except a genius and a head] Teach him the doctrine of the sphere, The sliding circle and the square, And starry worlds, I know not where: And let him quickly learn to say, Those learned words Penna, Pennae; Which late I heard our parson call As learning, knowledge all in all."

AND then a city dame approaches, Known by her horsemen, chairs and coaches: "Sir, here's my son, teach him to speak The Hebrew, Latin, and the Greek: And this I half forgot, pray teach My tender boy--the parts of speech-- But never let this son of me, Learn that vile thing astronomy: Upon my word it's all a sham,"-- O I'm your humble servant ma'am. There certainly is something in it-- "Boy, drive the coach off in a minute." And thus I'm left in street or road, A laughing stock to half the crowd, To argue with myself the case, And prove its being to my face.

A plague I say on such employment, Where's neither pleasure nor enjoyment: Whoe'er to such a life is ty'd, Was born the day he should have dy'd; Born in an hour when angry spheres Were tearing caps, or pulling ears: And Saturn slow 'gainst swift Mercurius, Was meditating battles furious; Or comets with their blazing train, Decreed their life, a life of pain.

[213] This poem was undoubtedly written while Freneau was conducting his school at Flatbush early in 1772. See Vol. I, page xxi.

UPON A VERY ANCIENT DUTCH HOUSE ON LONG ISLAND.[214]

Behold this antique dome by envious time, Grown crazy, and in ev'ry part decay'd; Full well, alas, it claims my humble rhyme, For such lone haunts and contemplation made.

Ah see the hearth, where once the chearful fire Blaz'd high, and warm'd the winter trav'lers toes; And see the walls, which once did high aspire, Admit the storms, and ev'ry wind that blows.

In yonder corner, now to ruin gone, The ancient housewife's curtain'd bed appear'd, Where she and her man JOHN did sleep alone, Nor nightly robber, nor the screech owl fear'd.

There did they snore full oft' the whole night out, Smoking the sable pipe, 'till that did fall, Reft from their jaws by Somnus' sleepy rout, And on their faces pour'd its scorched gall.

And in the compass of yon' smaller gang, The swain BATAVIAN once his courtship made, To some DUTCH lass, as thick as she was long; "Come then, my angel, come," the shepherd said,

"And let us for the bridal bed prepare; For you alone shall ease my future life, And you alone shall soften all my care, My strong, my hearty, and industrious wife."

Thus they--but eating ruin now hath spread Its wings destructive o'er the antique dome; The mighty fabrick now is all a shed, Scarce fit to be the wand'ring beggar's home.

And none but me it's piteous fate lament, None, none but me o'er it's sad ashes mourn, Sent by the fates, and by APOLLO sent, To shed their latest tears upon it's silent urn.

[214] This is the germ of the poem, "The Deserted Farm-House," Vol. I, p. 40, _supra_. A comparison of the two versions will illustrate the thorough way in which Freneau often revised his poems.

B. LIST OF OMITTED POEMS.

It has been found necessary for various reasons to omit some of the poems that appear in the various editions of Freneau. For the most part this omitted material has no historic or poetic significance. Nothing would be gained by resurrecting it. It is only just to the poet, however, to state that aside from a single piece, nothing has been omitted on account of coarseness alone. In each case the earliest known title is given in the list that follows. When a title was significantly changed in later editions, the variation has been given in a foot note, with date of edition.

FROM THE 1786 EDITION.

Epitaph Intended for the Tombstone of Patrick Bay, an Irish Soldier and Innholder, Killed by an Ignorant Physician.--1769.[215]

Epitaph on Peter Abelard. From the Latin.

The Distrest Orator. [Occasioned by R---- A----'s memory failing him in the midst of a public discourse he had got by rote.][216]

The Retort.[217]

The Flagellators.

Humanity and Ingratitude; A Common Case. [From the French.] December 1784.[218]

Elegaic Verses on the Death of a favorite Dog, 1785.[219]

The Five Ages.

New Year's Verses, Addressed to the Customers of the Pennsylvania Evening Post, by the Printer's Lad who carries it. January 4, 1783.

The Literary Plunderers.[220]

FROM THE 1788 EDITION.

The Scornful Lady.

The Prisoner.

Few Honest Coblers; A Poem. In Imitation of Dr. Watts's _Indian Philosopher_.

The Almanac Maker.

Female Caprice; or, the Student's Complaint.

The Drunken Soldier. A Parody.

St. Preux to Eloisa.

The Fiddler's Farewell.[221]

The Modern Miracle.[222]

The Dull Moralist.[223]

The Misfortune of March. [Written in the pastoral style of the old British Poets.][224]

Elegaic Lines.

Highland Sawney.[225]

FROM THE 1795 EDITION.

Epistolary Lines on the Death of a Fiddler.

Farmer Dobbins's Complaint.

The Debtor's Soliloquy.

The Fair Buckle-Thief.

Advice to the Ladies, Not to Neglect the Dentist.

Lines to the memory of a young American Lady; who died soon after her Arrival in London.

The Market Girl.

Elegaic Stanzas on a Young Gentleman Drowned in a Mill-Pond.

The Drunkard's Apology.[226]

On a Painter who was Endeavouring to Recover, from Memory, the Features of a Deceased Young Lady.

Marriage A-la Mode; (Or the Run-a-way Match.)

The Bridge of Delaware.

Minerva's Advice.

Mars and Venus.

Charity A-la-Mode.[227]

The Invalid.

Under the Portraiture of Martha Ray.

Epistle to a Gay Young Lady that was Married to a Doating old Deacon.[228]

The Menace.[229]

The Prudent Philosopher.

The Origin of Wars.

Lines Written in a Severe February on a Shad, &c., caught in a Mild January.

Epitaph on Frederick the Second, late King of Prussia. [From the French.]

A Dialogue between Shadrach and Whiffle.

To the memory of a Lady.[230]

To Clarissa: a handsome Shop-Keeper.

To Cynthia.

To a Very Little Man, Fond of Walking with a Very Long Cane.

The Rural Bachelor.

To Messieurs Fungus, Froth, and Co.

Shadrach and Pomposo: A Tale.

On Pest-Eli-Hali, the Traveling Speculator.[231]

Elegiac lines on a Theological Script-Monger.

On the Approaching Dissolution of Transatlantic Jurisdiction in America.

FROM THE 1809 EDITION.

Translation of the Third Elegy of the First Book of Ovid's Tristia.

Description of the Plague which Happened at Athens ... From the Sixth Book of Lucretius on the Nature of Things.

Love's Suicide. Stanzas Intended for the Tomb Stone of a Person who Killed Himself in Consequence of his Suit being Rejected by a Young Lady.

Translation, from Ovid's Tristia. Book 3d, Elegy 3d.

Stanzas Written near a Certain Clergyman's Garden.

On a Nocturnal View of the Planet Jupiter, and several of his Satellites, through a Telescope.

The Fading Rose.

A College Story.

On a Man Killed by a Buffaloe (or wild Cow.)

To the Dog Sancho, on his being Wounded in the Head with a Sabre, in a Midnight Assault and Robbery, near the Neversink Hills, 1778.

Science, Favourable to Virtue.

Reflections on the Constitution, or Frame of Nature.

On the Powers of the Human Understanding.

Lines Written in a very Small Garden.

Nereus and Thetis.

A Usurer's Prayer.

Suicide: the Weakness of the Human Mind. A Marine Anecdote.

The Gougers: on Seeing a Traveller Gouged, and otherwise ill treated by some Citizens of Logtown, near a Pine Barren.

Lines written for Mr. Ricketts, on the Exhibitions at his Equestrian Circus.

Monumental Lines, Addressed to a Disconsolate Person, that was Successively Enamoured of Two Sisters, who Died of a Consumption within about Two Years of Each other, in the Prime of Youth and Beauty.

Esperanza's March: being Stanzas, Addressed to a Person who Complained "He was always unfortunate."

FROM THE 1815 EDITION.

The New Age; or Truth Triumphant.

On Superstition.

The Royal Apprentice, A London Story.

The Modern Jehu; or, Nobility on Four Wheels.

On a Lady, Now Deceased, that had been both Deaf and Blind Many Years.

The Mistake; a Modern Short Story.

Lines written in a french novel, Adelaide and Durval.

Human Frailty.

On Happiness, as proceeding from the practice of Virtue.

Ode to Good Fortune.

Reflections on doctor Perkins' metallic points, or tractors.

Publius to Pollia. Supposed to have been written during a cruising expedition.

On the Uniformity and Perfection of Nature.

Translation of Gray's Ode, Written at the grand Chartreuse.

On the Universality and Other Attributes of the God of Nature.

On the Religion of Nature.

The Reward of Innocence.

On the Evils of Human Life.

The Scurrilous Scribe.

Belief and Unbelief: humbly recommended to the serious consideration of creed makers.

Susanna's Tomb.

Stanzas on a Political Projector, who was making interest, to be employed on an embassy to Constantinople.

Nature's Debt.

New Year's Eve.

The Order of the Day: to readers of the history of wars ancient and modern.

The Bethlehemite; or, fair solitary.

The Hermit and the Traveller.

Lines on the Establishment of the New Theatre, and the management of the house being placed in the hands of Mr. Cooper.

The Musical Savage. Supposed to express, to the musician, the extatic emotions of a missouri indian, on his first hearing the violin played, or band of music, that accompanied captain Lewis on his expedition to the Columbia-River.

Epitaph on a worthy person, whose decease closed a series of fortune and misfortune in his 50th year.

Written at Poplar-Hill,--Pennsylvania.

The Blast of November. Occasioned by a fatal accident on the Hudson.

The Duelists.

On Seeing a Beautiful Print of a Shipwrecked Sailor sitting on a Rock.

Heaving the Lead: a Marine Story, Founded on Fact.

Translated from the Third Book of Lucretius _de natura rerum_, or, On the nature of Things.

The Two Genii: Addressed to a young Lady, of a consumptive habit, departing from New-York, by sea, for South-Carolina, in 1805.

The Hypochondriac.

On Finding a Terrapin in the Woods, which had A. D. 1756 Marked on the Back of his Shell.

Pythona: or the Prophetess of En-Dor.

To Ismenia.

[215] Epitaph Intended for the Tombstone of Patrick Bay, Innholder, Killed by an Ignorant Physician.--1809.

[216] Lines on a Distrest Orator, at a Public Exhibition.--1809. This was an undergraduate skit by Freneau on his college mate Robert Archibald, of the Class of 1772.

[217] To My Lord Snake, [A Title Hunter.]--1795. The Impertinent.--1809.

[218] Humanity and Ingratitude, A Common Case. [Translated from the French.]--1795.

[219] To a Deceased Dog.--1795.

[220] Devastations in a Library.--1795. On Devastations Committed in a Bookseller's Library, by Rats, Mice, &c.--1809.

[221] The Minstrel's Complaint.--1795.

[222] Susanna's Revival.--1795.

[223] To the Grand Mufti.--1795.

[224] Palaemon: or, the Skaiter.--1795.

[225] Highland Sawney, or the Emigrant Beau.--1795.

[226] An Apology for Intemperance.--1809.

[227] Merchantile Charity.--1809.

[228] The Preposterous Nuptials: or, January and June.--1809.

[229] The Nova Scotia Menace.--1809.

[230] To the Memory of Mrs. Burnet of Elizabeth-town, N. J. By Request.--1809.

[231] On a Travelling Speculator.--1809.

C. BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE POETRY OF PHILIP FRENEAU

The following is a list of the individual and collected poetical publications of Freneau. For a more complete view of the poet's literary activities the reader is referred to the painstaking and admirable "Bibliography of the separate and collected works of Philip Freneau," by Mr. Victor Hugo Paltsits (N. Y., Dodd, Mead & Co., 1903). Opportunity has been taken here to bring the list up to date, to correct a few omissions and errors in Mr. Paltsits' volume, and to locate copies whose existence he overlooked. To avoid confusion the abbreviations used by him have been retained, viz: AAS = American Antiquarian Society, Worcester, Mass.; BA = Boston Athenæum, Boston, Mass.; BM = British Museum, London, England; BPL = Boston Public Library, Boston, Mass.; BU = Brown University Library, Providence, R. I.; C = Library of Congress, Washington, D. C.; GSMT = General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen, N. Y. City; HC = Harvard University Library, Cambridge, Mass.; HSP = Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pa.; LCP = Library Company of Philadelphia, Pa.; MHS = Massachusetts Historical Society, Boston, Mass.; NA = New York Public Library, Astor Foundation, N. Y. City; NJSL = New Jersey State Library, Trenton, N. J.; NkPL = Newark Free Public Library, Newark, N. J.; NL = New York Public Library, Lenox Foundation, N. Y. City; NYHS = New York Historical Society, N. Y. City; NYSL = New York State Library, Albany, N. Y.; PU = Princeton University Library, Princeton, N. J.; SPL = Springfield Public Library, Springfield, Mass.

1772

The | American Village,| a Poem.| To which are added,| Several other original Pieces in Verse.| By Philip Freneau, A. B.| [_Quotation of two lines from Horace._]

New York:| Printed by S. Inslee and A. Car, on Moor's Wharf.| M, DCC, LXXII.| 12mo; pp. [1]-27, [1].

See Vol. I, xxii, and Vol. III, Appendix A, _supra_. _Copies_: BU, C.

1772

A | Poem, | on the | Rising Glory | of | America;| being an | Exercise | Delivered at the Public Commencement at | Nassau-Hall, September 25, 1771. |[_Quotation of six lines from Seneca._]|

Philadelphia:| Printed by Joseph Crukshank, for R. Aitken,| bookseller, opposite the London-coffee-|house, in Front-Street.| M, DCC, LXXII.| 12mo; pp. [3]-27.

See Vol. I, xxi, and 49, _supra_. _Copies_: BU, C, HSP, MHS, NYHS, PU.

1775

American Liberty,| a | Poem.| [_Quotations one line from Virgil and two lines from Pope_].|

New-York:| Printed by J. Anderson, at Beekman-Slip.| MDCCLXXV.| 12mo; pp. 3-12.

See Vol. I, 142, _supra_. _Copies_: C, LCP.

1775

General Gage's Soliloquy. New York: Printed by Hugh Gaine, 1775.

No printed copy of this has thus far been discovered. A manuscript copy of unknown origin is in the Du Simitière collection of the Library Company of Philadelphia. Endorsed upon it are the words "Printed in New York August. 1775. By Gaine." See Vol. I, 152 _supra_.

1775

A | Voyage | to | Boston. | A | Poem.| [_Quotation of five lines from Shakespeare._] By the Author of American Liberty, a Poem: General | Gage's Soliloquy, &c.|

New-York: Printed by John Anderson,| at Beekman's Slip.| 12mo; pp. [III]-IV, [5]-24.

See Vol. I, 158, _supra_. _Copies_: C, LCP, NYHS.

1775

A | Voyage | to | Boston. | A | Poem.| [_Quotation of five lines from Shakespeare._]| By the Author of American Liberty, a Poem: General | Gage's Soliloquy, &c.|

Philadelphia: | Sold by | William Woodhouse, | in Front street.| M, DCC, LXXV.| 12mo; pp. [III]-iv, [5]-24.

A reprint of the Anderson edition. _Copies_: AAS, HSP, NYHS, PU.

1775

General Gage's | Confession,| Being the Substance of | His Excellency's last Conference,| With his Ghostly Father, Friar Francis.| [_Quotation of one line from Virgil._]| By the Author of the Voyage to Boston. | A Poem, &c.|

Printed in the Year, 1775.| Small 8vo; pp. [3]-8.

The copy in the possession of the Library Company of Philadelphia is at present believed to be unique. Written on the title page by a contemporary hand are the words "By Gaine. Published October 25: 1775."

1778

The | Travels | of the | Imagination;| a true Journey from | New Castle to London.| To which are added,| American Independence,| an | everlasting deliverance | from | British Tyranny: | a Poem.|

Philadelphia: | Printed, by Robert Bell, in Third-Street.| M DCC LXXVIII.| 12mo.

The main work is by James Murray. Freneau's poem, pp. [113]-126 of the volume, has the title page:

American | Independence,| an everlasting | Deliverance | from | British Tyranny.| A Poem.| By Philip F----, Author of the American Village,| Voyage to Boston, &c.| [_Quotation of six lines from Shakespeare._]|

Philadelphia: Printed, by Robert Bell, in Third-Street.| M DCC LXXVIII.|

The same sheets were used to form part VI of "Miscellanies | for | Sentimentalists," published the same year by Bell.

See Vol. I, 271, _supra_. _Copy_: HSP.

1779

Sir Henry Clinton's Invitation to the Refugees.

The only evidence at present of the separate publication of this piece is the entry in Frank Moore's _Songs and Ballads of the American Revolution_ (N. Y. 1856, p. 259): "We have it in a ballad sheet, dated 1779."

See Vol. II, p. 7, _supra_.

1781

The British Prison-Ship:|A | Poem,| in four Cantoes.|

{ 1. The Capture, { 2. The Prison-Ship, Viz. Canto { 3. The Prison-Ship, continued, { 4. The Hospital-Prison-Ship.

To which is added,| A Poem on the Death of Capt. N. Biddle,| who was blown up, in an Engagement with the | Yarmouth, near Barbadoes.| [_Quotation of thirteen lines from Milton._]|

Philadelphia:| Printed by F. Bailey, in Market-Street.| M. DCC. LXXXI.| 12mo; pp. [3]-23.

See Vol. II, p. 18, _supra_. _Copies_: BU, LCP, NYHS.

1783

New Year Verses,| Addressed to those Gentlemen who have been | pleased to favour Francis Wrigley, News Car-|rier, with their Custom.| January 1, 1783.| Folio, broadside.

See Vol. II, p. 197, _supra_. _Copy_: C.

1783

New Year's Verses, addressed to The Customers of the Pennsylvania Evening Post, by the Printer's Lad who carries it. January 4, 1783.

This is known only through the version in the 1786 edition of Freneau's poems, pp. 383-385. It was undoubtedly first issued as a broadside.

1783

New Year's | Verses | Addressed to the Customers of | The Freeman's Journal,| By the Lad who carries it.| January 8th, 1783.| Folio, broadside.

See Vol. II, p. 198, _supra_. _Copy_: C.

1784

New-Year | Verses, | For those who Carry the | Pennsylvania Gazette | to the | Customers.| January 1, 1784.| Small folio, broadside.

Reprinted in the 1786 edition, pp. 387-388; in the 1795 edition, p. 265; and in the 1809 edition, Vol. II, pp. 161-162. In the two latter versions, with the title changed to "A News-man's Address," the original first line:

"How things are chang'd since last New Year"

was altered to read:

"What tempests gloomed the by-past year--"

See Vol. II, p. 238, _supra_. _Copy_: HSP.

1784

New Year's Verses, Addressed To the Customers of the Freeman's Journal, by the Lad who carries it. January 7, 1784.

The original broadside has not been found. The only version at present known is in the 1786 edition, pp. 389-390. See Vol. II, p. 240, _supra_.

1785

New Year's Verses, addressed to the Customers of the Freeman's Journal, by the Lad who Carries it. January 1, 1785.

The first trace of this is to be found in the 1786 edition, pp. 391-393. It was doubtless first issued as a broadside. See Vol. II, p. 284, _supra_.

1786

New Year's Verses, for 1786. [Written for the Carriers of the _Columbian Herald_.]

The first trace to be found of this is in the 1788 edition, pp. 142-144. This is signed "Charleston (S. C.) _Jan. 1786_." It doubtless appeared as a broadside. See Vol. II, p. 301, _supra_.

1786

The | Poems | of | Philip Freneau.| Written chiefly during the late War.|

Philadelphia:| Printed by Francis Bailey, at | Yorick's Head, in Market street. | M DCC LXXXVI.|

Small 8vo; pp. [v]-vii, [1]-407.

This is the first collected edition of Freneau's poems. See Vol. I, p. xxxix-xli, _supra_. _Copies_: BM, BPL, BU, C, HSP, LCP, MHS, NA, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU.

1787

A | Journey | from | Philadelphia | to | New-York, | by Way of Burlington and South-Amboy.| By | Robert Slender, Stocking Weaver.| Extracted from the Author's Journals.| [_Quotation of two lines from Horace._]

Philadelphia; Printed by Francis Bailey, at Yorick's Head, in | Market-street.| M DCC LXXXVII.| 12mo; pp. vi, [7]-28.

See Vol. II, p. 388, _supra_. _Copies_: BU, C, NYHS, PU.

1788

New Year's Verses for 1788. [Supposed to be written by the Printer's lad, who supplies the customers with his weekly paper.]

The first trace of this is in the 1788 edition, pp. 393-395. It was doubtless first issued as a broadside for some newspaper. See Vol. II, p. 383, _supra_.

1788

The | Miscellaneous | Works | of | Mr. Philip Freneau | containing his | Essays,| and | additional Poems.|

Philadelphia:| Printed by Francis Bailey, at Yorick's | Head, in Market Street.| M DCC LXXXVIII.| Small 12mo; pp. xii [1]-429.

The second collected edition of Freneau's poems. It contained no poems that had been published in the first collection. See Vol. I, p. xliii, _supra_. _Copies:_ BM, BPL, BU, C, HSP, LCP, MHS, NA, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU.

1794

The | Village Merchant: | A | Poem. To which is added the | Country Printer. | [_Four lines from section five of The Village Merchant._]|

Philadelphia: | Printed by Hoff and Derrick,| M, DCC, XCIV.| Small 8vo; pp. [3]-16.

See Vol. II, p. 14, _supra_. _Copies:_ BU, HSP.

1795

Poems | Written between the Years 1768 & 1794,| by | Philip Freneau,| of | New Jersey: | A New Edition, Revised and Corrected by the | Author; Including a considerable number of | Pieces never before published.| [_Pyramid of fifteen stars, followed by two lines of Latin from Page 435._]|

Monmouth | [N. J.] | Printed | At the Press of the Author, at Mount-Pleasant, near | Middletown-Point; M, DCC, XCV: and, of |--American Independence--| XIX.| 8vo; pp. xv, [1]-455, [1].

The third collected edition of Freneau. See Vol. I, pp. lxvi-lxviii, _supra_. _Copies:_ AAS, BA, BM, BPL, BU, C, HC, HSP, LCP, MHS, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, SPL, GSMT, NkPL.

1797

Means | for the | Preservation | of | Public Liberty. | An | Oration | delivered in the New Dutch Church, | on the | Fourth of July, 1797.| Being the twenty-first | Anniversary of our Independence.| By G. J. Warner.| [_Ten lines from Freneau's poem To a Republican with Mr. Paine's Rights of Man._]|

New York: | Printed at the Argus Office,| for | Thomas Greenleaf and Naphtali Judah.| 1797.| 8vo; pp. [7]-22.

On pp. 20-21 Ode | (Composed for the Occasion, by P. Freneau.) The Musick performed | by the Uranian Musical Society.| See Vol. III, p. 152, _supra_. _Copy:_ NL.

1797

Megara and Altavola. To a female satirist (an English actress) on receiving from her no. 1 of a very satirical and biting attack.

Six copies only were printed, of which none is at present known to exist. See the 1809 edition, Vol. II, p. 30; and Vol. III, p. 146, _supra_.

1798

New Year's Verses.

Issued as a broadside for the _Time Piece_ and dated "January 1, 1798." The only copy that is known at present is bound with the file _Time Piece_ in the library of the New York Historical Society. See Vol. III, p. 194, _supra_.

1809

Poems | written and published during the | American Revolutionary War,| and now | republished from the original Manuscripts;| interspersed | with Translations from the Ancients,| and other Pieces not heretofore in | Print.| By Philip Freneau.| [Four lines of poetry.]| The Third Edition, in two Volumes.| Vol. I. [II.]|

Philadelphia: From the Press of Lydia R. Bailey, No. 10.| North-Alley.| 1809.| 2 vols.; 12mo; Vol. I, pp. 280, iv; Vol. II, pp. 302, XII.

This is generally known as the fourth collected edition. See Vol. I, p. lxxxiv-lxxxvi, _supra_. _Copies_: BM, BPL, BU, C, HSP, LCP, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, NJSL.

1809

A Laughable Poem;| or | Robert Slender's | Journey | from | Philadelphia to New York, | by | Way of Burlington and South Amboy.| By Philip Freneau, |Author of Poems written during the American Revo-|lutionary War, and lately published in this City | by Lydia R. Bailey, in two Volumes, Duodecimo.| Persons of the Poem.| [Nine lines for nine characters.]|

Philadelphia: | Printed for Thomas Neversink.| December 20, 1809.| 12mo; pp. [3]-24.

A reprint with few variations of the 1787 edition. See Vol. II, p. 338, _supra_. _Copies_: BU, HSP, LCP.

1815

A | Collection of | Poems,| on | American Affairs, and a variety of other Subjects,| chiefly moral and political;| written between the Year 1797 and the pre-|sent Time.| By Philip Freneau,| Author of Poems written during the Revolutionary | War, Miscellanies, &c. &c.| In two Volumes.| [_Four lines from Freneau's poem On the British Commercial Depredations._]| Vol. I. [II.]|

New York: Published by David Longworth,| At the Dramatic Repository,| Shakespeare-Gallery.| 1815.| 2 vols.; small 12mo; Vol. I, pp. viii, [13]-188; Vol. II, pp. 176.

See Vol. I, pp. xc-xci, _supra_. _Copies:_ BA, BM, BPL, BU, C, LCP, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, GSMT, NkPL.

1861

Poems on various Subjects, | but chiefly illustrative of the | Events and Actors in the American | War of Independence.| By Philip Freneau. | Reprinted from the rare edition printed at | Philadelphia in 1786.| With a Preface.

London:| John Russell Smith,| Soho Square.| 1861.|

Small 8vo; pp. xxii, [1]-362. Printed at the Chiswick Press.

_Copies:_ BPL, BU, C, HSP, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, NkPL.

1865

Poems | relating to the | American Revolution | By Philip Freneau.| With an introductory memoir and notes.| By | Evert A. Duyckinck.|

New York:| W. J. Widdleton, Publisher.| M.DCCC. LXV. 12mo; pp. xxxviii, [1]-288. por. and facsim.

_Copies:_ AAS, BM, BPL, C, HSP, LCP, NA, NL, NYHS, NYSL, PU, SPL, NkPL. One hundred copies also on large paper, royal 8vo.

1891

Poems | relating to the | American Revolution | by | Philip Freneau | With an introductory memoir and notes | By | Evert A. Duyckinck | New York | Thomas Y. Crowell Co. | 46 East Fourteenth Street. | 12mo. pp. xxxviii, 288.

This is a reissue of the 1865 edition printed with red line borders for Crowell's "Red Line Series of the Poets." Cover title misprinted "_Frenau's_ Poems," Also issued without red line border.

1902

The | Poems of Philip Freneau | Poet of the American Revolution | Edited for | the Princeton Historical Association | By | Fred Lewis Pattee | Princeton N.J. | the University Library | 1902 |.

8^o; 3 vols. pp. CXII, 294; X, 407; XIV, 430 (Vol. II, 1903, Vol. III, 1907).

1906

The American Village | A Poem by | Philip Freneau | Reprinted in facsimile from the original| edition published at New York | in 1772, with an introduction | by | Harry Lyman Roopman | and | Bibliographical Data | by | Victor Hugo Paltsits | [Device] | Providence, Rhode Island | 1906. Square 8vo. pp. XXI, [1]-69.

Edition of 100 copies. The third publication of the Club for Colonial Reprints, of Providence, R. I. See Vol. III, Appendix A, _supra_.

INDEX

Adams, John, i. liv; iii. 207, 210

Adams, Samuel, i. 193

Aitken, R., i. 49

Albertson, Captain, ii. 346

Algiers, pirates of, ii. 302, 344, 381

Amanda poems, ii. 318, 319, 321, 326, 328, 392

"American Crisis, The," ii. 16

_American Museum_, i. lxvii; ii. 313

Americus Vespucius, ii. 268

Amherst, Sir Jeffrey, i. 156; ii. 117

_Analectic Magazine_, i. xci

Anderson, Alexander, i. xcii

Anderson, publisher, i. 142, 158, 185

André, Major John, ii. 39

Annapolis, Md., iii. 15

Arbuthnot, Admiral Marriot, ii. 90

_Argus_, i. lxxii

Arnold, Benedict, ii. 39ff., 103, 336

Asgill, Capt. Charles, ii. 193, 291

Auchmuty, Rev. Samuel, ii. 209

Bache, Benjamin F., i. lviii

Bailey, Commander of packet, ii. 346

Bailey, Francis, i. xxxiv, xxxvi, xl, xliiiff., lxiii, lxiv, lxxx;