eleven years before he had passed five delightful weeks in the family of
the English Governor. The above lines were written on the tempestuous
return voyage, doubtless inspired by her who soon afterward became his
wife. The text follows the 1809 version.
PHILANDER: OR THE EMIGRANT[333]
While lost so long to his Arcadian shade,
Careless of fortune and of fame he stray'd,
Philander to a barbarous region came
And found a partner in a colder shade,
Fair as Amanda; and perhaps might claim
With her the impassion'd soul, and friendship's holy flame;
For sprightly loves upon her bosom play'd,
And youth was in her blush, and every shepherd said
She was a modest and accomplish'd dame.
What have I done, (the wandering shepherd cry'd)
Thus to be banish'd from a face so fair,
(For now the frosts had spoil'd the daisies' pride,
And he once more for roving did prepare)
Ah, what have I to do with swelling seas
Who once could pipe upon the hollow reed?--
I take no joy in such rude scenes as these,
Nor look with pleasure on the vagrant weed
That gulphy streams from rugged caverns bore,
Which floats thro' every clime, and never finds a shore!
But other fields and other flowers were mine,
'Till wild disorder drove me from the plain.
And the black dogs of war were seen to join,
Howl o'er the soil, and dispossess the swain:
Why must I leave these climes of frost and snow?--
Were it not better in these glooms to stay,
And, while on high the autumnal tempests blow,
Let others o'er the wild seas take their way,
And I with my Livinia's tresses play?--
Ah, no, no, no! the imperious wave demands
That I must leave these shores, and lose these lands
And southward to the high equator stray:
But Fancy now has lost her vernal hue;
See Nature in her wintry garb array'd--
And where is that fine dream which once she drew
While yet by Cambria's stream she fondly play'd!
Lavinia heard his long complaint, and said,
Wouldst thou, for me, detain the expecting sail--?
Go, wanderer, go--the trees have lost their shade,
And my gay flowers are blasted by the gale,
And the bright stream is chill'd that wandered thro' the vale:
Ah, why, Philander, do you sigh, so sad!
Why all this change in such a jovial lad?
Smooth seas shall be your guard, and, free from harms,
Restore you, safely, to Lavinia's arms!
Or should the eastern tempest rend your sail,
Trust me, dear shepherd, should the seas prevail,
And you be laid in Neptune's cradle low,
The winds will bring me back the woeful tale
When I must to the long shore weeping go,
And while I see the ruffian surge aspire,
Some consolation will it be to know
No pain or anguish can afflict the head
The limbs or stomach, when the heart is dead.
Thus long discoursing, on the bank they stood,
The heavy burthen'd barque at anchor lay,
While the broad topsails, from the yards unfurl'd,
Shook in the wind, and summon'd him away;
Brisk blew the gales, and curl'd the yielding flood,
Nor had he one excuse to urge his stay--
Be chang'd (he said) ye winds that blow so fair;
Why do not tempests harrow up the deep,
And all but the moist south in quiet sleep!
To the bleak shore the parting lovers came,
And while Philander did his sighs renew,
So near the deep they bade their last farewell
That the rough surge, to quench the mutual flame
Burst in and broke the embrace, and o'er Lavinia flew;
While a dark cloud hung lowering o'er the main,
From whence the attendants many an omen drew,
And said Philander would not come again!
Now to their various heights the sails ascend,
And southward from the land their course they bore.
Lavinia mourn'd the lover and the friend,
And stood awhile upon the sandy shore,
'Till interposing seas the hull conceal'd,
And distant sails could only greet her view,
Like a faint cloud that brush'd the watery field,
And swell'd by whistling winds, impetuous, flew:
Then to a neighbouring hill the nymph withdrew,
And the dear object from that height survey'd,
'Till all was lost and mingled with the main,
And night descended, with her gloomy shade,
And kindled in the heavens her starry train.
Safe to the south the ocean-wading keel
In one short month its rapid course achiev'd,
And the cold star, that marks the Arctic pole,
Was in the bosom of the deep receiv'd:
And now the weary barque at anchor rode
Where Oronoko pours his sultry wave,
Moist Surinam, by torrents overflow'd,
And Amazonia vends the fainting slave;--
Philander, there, not fated to return,
Perceiv'd destruction in his bosom burn,
And the warm flood of life too fiercely, glow:
The vertic sun a deadly fever gave,
And the moist soil bestow'd his bones a grave,
Deep in the waste, where oceans overflow,
And Oronoko's streams the forests lave.
Oft' to the winding shore Lavinia came
Where fond Philander bade his last adieu,
(And that steep hill which gave her the last view)
Till seven long years had round their orbits ran,
Yet no Philander came, or none she knew;
Alas (she cry'd) for every nymph but me
Each sea-bleach'd sail some welcome wanderer brings,
And all but I get tidings of their friends;
Sad Mariamne drowns herself in woe
If one poor month Amyntor quits her arms,
And says, "from Ashley's stream he comes too slow,"--
And bodes the heavy storm, and midnight harms:
What would she say, if doom'd to wait, like me,
And mourn long years, and no Philander see!
[333] The text follows the edition of 1795.
THE FAIR SOLITARY[334]
No more these groves a glad remembrance claim
Where grief consumes a half deluded dame,
Whom to these isles a modern Theseus bore,
And basely left, frail virtue to deplore;--
In foreign climes detained from all she loved,
By friends neglected, long by Fortune proved,
While sad and solemn passed the unwelcome day
What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay?
Deceived in all; for meanness could deceive,
Expecting still, and still condemned to grieve,
She scarcely saw--to different hearts allied
That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride!
Are griefs, like thine, to Florio's bosom known?--
Must these, alas! be ceaseless in your own?
Life is a dream!--its varying shades I see;
But this cold wanderer hardly dreams of thee--
The bloom of health, which bade all hearts adore,
To your pale cheek what physic shall restore?
Vain are those drugs that art and love prepares,
No art redeems the waste of sighs and tears!
[334] Published in the 1795 edition under the title "The Mourning Nun."
Text from the edition of 1809.
AMANDA IN A CONSUMPTION[335]
Smit by the glance of your bright eyes
When I, Amanda, fondly gaze,
Strange feelings in my bosom rise
And passion all my reason sways:
Worlds I would banish from my view,
And quit the gods--to talk with you.
The smile that decks your fading cheek,
To me a heavy heart declares;
When you are silent I would speak
But cowardice alarms my fears:
All must be sense that you do prize,
All that I say--be grave and wise.
When wandering in the evening shade
I shared her pain, and calmed her grief,
A thousand tender things I said,
But all I said gave no relief:
When from her hair I dried the dew,
She sighed, and said--I am not for you!
When drooping, dull, and almost dead
With fevers brought from sultry climes,
She would not wrap my fainting head;
But recommended me some rhymes
On patience and on fortitude,
And other things--less understood.
When, aiming to engage her heart
With verses from the muses' stock;
She sighed, regardless of the art,
And counted seconds by the clock;
"And thus, (she said) will verse decay,
"And thus the muse will pass away!"
When languishing upon her bed
In willow shades, remote from towns,
We came; and while Priscilla read
Of chrystal skies and golden crowns:
She bade us at a distance stand,
And leaned her head upon her hand.
So, drooping hangs the fading rose,
When summer sends the beating shower:
So, to the grave Amanda goes,
Her whole duration--but an hour!
Who shall controul the sad decree,
Or what, fair girl, recover thee?
Such virtue in that spirit dwells--
Such fortitude amidst such pain!--
And, now, with pride my bosom swells,
To think I have not lived in vain.
For, slighting all the sages knew,
I learn philosophy from you.
[335] The _Freeman's Journal_ printed this poem on Feb. 7, 1787, with
the date of composition Jan. 26, 1787. The lady's name in this original
version was Cynthia. The poem was reprinted in the 1788 collection as a
part of the story "Light Summer Reading." The half mad poet, who is
infatuated with the lovely Marcia, writes the verses and inscribes them
"To Marcia." It seems to have been a favorite with the poet. He
republished it in the _National Gazette_ in 1792 under the title
"Marcella in a Consumption." Text from the edition of 1809.
ELEGIAC LINES[336]
With life enamoured, but in death resigned,
To seats congenial flew the unspotted mind:
Attending spirits hailed her to that shore
Where this world's winter chills the soul no more.
Learn hence, to live resigned;--and when you die
No fears will seize you, when that hour is nigh.
Transferred to heaven, Amanda has no share
In the dull business of this world of care.
Her blaze of beauty, even in death admired,
A moment kindled, but as soon expired.
Sweet as the favourite offspring of the May
Serenely mild, not criminally gay:
Adorned with all that nature could impart
To please the fancy and to gain the heart;
Heaven ne'er above more innocence possessed,
Nor earth the form of a diviner guest:
A mind all virtue!--flames descended here
From some bright seraph of some nobler sphere;
Yet, not her virtues, opening into bloom,
Nor all her sweetness saved her from the tomb,
From prospects darkened, and the purpose crossed,
Misfortune's winter,--and a lover lost;
Nor such resemblance to the forms above,
The heart of goodness, and the soul of love!
Ye thoughtless fair!--her early death bemoan,
Sense, virtue, beauty, to oblivion gone.[337]
[336] In the 1788 edition this appeared as two poems. The opening six
lines had the title "Epitaph" and the remainder was entitled "Lines on
the Death of a Lady." In the 1809 edition, the text of which is followed
here, the poem was placed in the group of Amanda poems.
[337] "And while you mourn your fate, think on your own."--_Ed. 1788._
THE INSOLVENT'S RELEASE[338]
(By H. Salem)
Not from those dismal dreary coasts I come
Where wizzard Faustus chews his brimstone rolls,
Nor have I been to wrangle with the men
Of that sad country, where, for want of rum,
Dead putrid water from the stagnant fen
Is drank, unmingled, by departed souls:
Nor from that dog-house do I bring you news,
Where Macedonian Philip[A] mends old shoes,
But from that dreadful place arrived,
Where men in debt at cribbage play,
And I most cunningly contrived
To fatten on two groats a day--
Full on my back now turned the key,
The 'squire himself is not so free.
When to these rugged walls, a fathom thick,
I came, directed by the sheriff's stick,
Alas, said I, what can they mean to do!
I am not conscious of one roguish trick!
I am no thief--I took no Christian's life,
Nor have I meddled with the parson's wife,
(Which would have been a dreadful thing you know)
Then, by these gloomy walls, this iron gate
Appointed by the wisdom of your state
To shut in little rogues, and keep out great;
Tell me, ye pretty lads, that deal in law,
Ye men of mighty wigs, ye judges, say--
Say! by the jailor's speckled face
That never beamed one blush of grace;
How long must I
In prison lie
For just nine guineas--that I cannot pay!
Return, ye happy times, when all were free,
No jails on land, no nets at sea;
When mountain beasts unfettered ran,
And man refused to shut up man,
As men of modern days have shut up me!--
This is the dreary dark abode
Of poverty and solitude;
Such was the gloomy cell where Bunyan lay
While his dear pilgrim helped the time away--
Such was the place where Wakefield's vicar drew
Grave morals from the imprisoned crew,
And found both time to preach and pray.
In bed of straw and broken chair
What consolation could be found!
No gay companions ventured there
To push the ruddy liquor round!
From jug of stone
I drank, alone,
A beverage, neither clear nor strong
No table laid,
No village maid
Came there to cheer me with her song;
My days were dull, my nights were long!
My evening dreams,
My morning schemes
Were how to break that cruel chain,
And, Jenny, be with you again.
[338] The version in the _Freeman's Journal_ is dated Philadelphia,
April 10, 1787. The title in the 1788 version is "The Insolvent's
Release and Miseries of a Country Jail." The "H. Salem" was first
added in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed.
[A] See Lucian's Dialogues; to the following effect:
"Great scholars have in Lucian read,
When Philip, king of Greece, was dead
His soul and body did divide.
And each part took, a different side;
One rose a star, the other fell
Below--and mended shoes in hell."--_Freneau's note._
MAY TO APRIL[339]
Without your showers, I breed no flowers,
Each field a barren waste appears;
If you don't weep, my blossoms sleep,
They take such pleasures in your tears.
As your decay made room for May,
So I must part with all that's mine:
My balmy breeze, my blooming trees
To torrid suns their sweets resign!
O'er April dead, my shades I spread:
To her I owe my dress so gay--
Of daughters three, it falls on me
To close our triumphs on one day:
Thus, to repose, all Nature goes;
Month after month must find its doom:
Time on the wing, May ends the Spring,
And Summer dances on her tomb!
[339] First published in the _Freeman's Journal_ where it was signed
Philadelphia, April 16, 1787. Text from the edition of 1809.
TO AN AUTHOR[340]
Your leaves bound up compact and fair,
In neat array at length prepare,
To pass their hour on learning's stage,[341]
To meet the surly critic's rage;
The statesman's slight, the smatterer's[342] sneer--
Were these, indeed, your only[343] fear,
You might be tranquil and resigned:
What most should touch your fluttering mind;[344]
Is that, few critics[345] will be found
To sift[346] your works, and deal the wound.
Thus, when one fleeting year is past
On some bye-shelf your book is cast--[347]
Another comes, with something new,[348]
And drives you fairly out of view:
With some to praise, but more to blame,
The mind[349] returns to--whence it came;
And some alive, who scarce could read[350]
Will publish satires on the dead.
Thrice happy Dryden[A], who could meet
Some rival bard in every street!
When all were bent on writing well
It was some credit to excel:--[351]
[A] See Johnson's lives of the English Poets.--_Freneau's note._
Thrice happy Dryden, who could find
A Milbourne for his sport designed--
And Pope, who saw the harmless rage
Of Dennis bursting o'er his page
Might justly spurn the critic's aim,
Who only helped to swell his fame.
On these bleak climes by Fortune thrown,
Where rigid Reason reigns alone,
Where lovely Fancy has no sway,
Nor magic forms about us[352] play--
Nor nature takes her summer hue
Tell me, what has the muse to do?--
An age employed in edging steel
Can no poetic raptures feel;
No solitude's attracting power,[353]
No leisure of the noon day hour,
No shaded stream, no quiet grove
Can this fantastic century move;
The muse of love in no request--
Go--try your fortune[354] with the rest,
One of the nine you should engage,[355]
To meet the follies of the age:--
On one, we fear, your choice must fall--
The least engaging of them all--[356]
Her visage stern--an angry style--
A clouded brow--malicious smile--
A mind on murdered victims placed--
She, only she, can please the taste!
[340] First published in the 1788 edition. It doubtless records the
poet's mood a year or two after his first book, the 1786 collection, was
given to the public. Its original title was "An Author's Soliloquy." In
1795 the title was changed to "An Author on Authorship." Text from the
1809 edition.
[341] "Time's broad stage."--_Ed. 1788._
[342] "Pedants."--_Ib._
[343] The poem in the 1788 version is wholly in the first person.
[344] "What most torments my boding mind."--_Ed. 1788._
[345] "No critic."--_Ib._
[346] "Read."--_Ib._
[347] "With dead men's works my book is class'd."--_Ib._
[348] This line and the following not in the original version.
[349] "Soul."--_Ib._
[350]
"And I must wear the marks of time
Who hardly flourish'd in my prime."--_Ed. 1788._
[351] In the 1788 version two lines follow:
"While those condemn'd to stand alone
Can only by themselves be known."--_Ib._
[352] "Around her."--_Ib._
[353]
"No fabled Love's enchanting power,
Nor tale of Flora's painted bower,
Nor woodland haunt, or murmuring grove,
Can their prosaic bosoms move."--_Ib._
[354] "I'll try my fortune."--_Ib._
[355]
"Which of the Nine shall I engage
To suit the humour of the age."--_Ib._
[356] Followed by:
"So late she does her wreathes prepare
I hardly think them worth my care."--_Ib._
TO MISFORTUNE[357]
Dire Goddess of the haggard brow,
Misfortune! at that shrine I bow
Where forms uncouth pourtray thee still,
A leaky ship, a doctor's bill:
A poet damn'd, a beggar's prayer,
The critic's growl, the pedant's sneer,
The urgent dun, the law severe,
A smoky house, rejected love,
And friends that all but friendly prove.
Foe to the pride of scheming man
Whose frown controuls the wisest plan,
To your decree we still submit
Our views of gain, our works of wit.
Untaught by you the feeble mind
A dull repose, indeed, might find:
But life, unvext by such controul,
Can breed no vigour in the soul.
The calm that smooths the summer seas
May suit the man of sloth and ease:
But skies that fret and storms that rave
Are the best schools to make us brave.
On Heckla's heights who hopes to see
The blooming grove, the orange tree
Awhile on hope may fondly lean
'Till sad experience blots the scene.
If Nature acts on Reason's plan,
And Reason be the guide of man:
Why should he paint fine prospects there,
Then sigh, to find them disappear?
For ruin'd states or trade perplext
'Tis almost folly to be vext:
The world at last will have its way
And we its torrent must obey.
On other shores a happier guest
The mind must fix her haven of rest,
Where better men and better climes
Shall soothe the cares of future times.
[357] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, July 18, 1787; dated
"Philadelphia, July 16." Republished in the 1788 and 1795 editions,
the latter of which I have followed.
TO CRACOVIUS PUTRIDUS[358]
The Sailor, toss'd on stormy seas,
Implores his patron-god for ease
When Luna hides her paler blaze,
And stars, obscurely, dart their rays:
For ease the Yankee, fierce in war,
His stores of vengeance points afar:
For ease, the toiling Dutchman sighs,
Which gold, nor gems, nor purple buys!
No treasur'd hoards, from India trade,
No doctor's, or the lawyer's aid
Can ease the tumults of the mind,
Or cares to gilded roofs assign'd.
The end of life he, best, completes
Whose board is spread with frugal treats,
Whose sleep no fears, no thirst of gain,
Beneath his homely shed, restrain.
Why, then, with wasting cares engage,
Weak reptiles of so frail an age--
Why, thus, to far-off climates run,
And lands beneath another sun?
For, though to China's coasts we roam,
Ourselves we ne'er can leave at home:
Care, swift as deer--as tempests strong,
Ascends the prow, and sails along.
The mind that keeps an even state,
And all the future leaves to fate,
In every ill shall pleasure share,
As every pleasure has it's care.
Fate early seal'd Montgomery's doom,
In youth brave Laurens found a tomb;
While Arnold spends in peace and pride
The years, that heaven to them denied.
A host of votes are at your call;
A seat, perhaps, in Congress-Hall;[359]
And vestments, soak'd in Stygian dye,
Where'er you go, alarm the eye:
On me, a poor and small domain,
With something of a poet's vein
The muse bestow'd--and share of pride
To spurn a scoundrel from my side.
[358] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Sept. 5, 1787. In the 1788
edition it was entitled "Horace, Lib. II, Ode 16, Imitated and addressed
to Governor Parr. _Otium divos rogat in patenti_, &c." The poem seems to
have been occasioned by the return of General Arnold to Nova Scotia from
England. Text from the edition of 1795.
[359]
"An hundred _slaves_ before you fall,
A coach and six attends your call."--_Ed. 1788._
SLENDER'S JOURNEY[A][360]
_Sit mihi fas audita loqui._--Virg.
[A] Mr. Robert Slender, of Philadelphia (Stocking Weaver).
_Freneau's note._
I. PRELIMINARY REFLECTIONS
Tormented with landlords and pester'd with care,
This life, I protest, is a tedious affair;
And, since I have got a few dollars to spare,
I'll e'en take a jaunt, for the sake of fresh air.
Since the day I return'd to this king-hating shore
Where George and his cronies are masters no more,
And others are plac'd at the helm of affairs,
Relieving the weight of his majesty's cares;
For many long weeks, it has still been my doom
To sit like a mopus, confin'd to my loom,[B]
Whose damnable clatter so addles my brain,
That, say what they will, I am forc'd to complain.
Our citizens think, when they sit themselves down
In the gardens that grow in the skirts of the town,
They think they have got in some rural retreat,
Where the nymphs of the groves, and the singing birds meet
When only a fence shuts them out from the street;
With the smoke of the city be-clouding their eyes
They sit in their boxes, and look very wise,
Take a sip of bad punch, or a glass of sour wine;
Conceiting their pleasures are equal to mine,
Who rove where I will, and wherever I roam,
In spite of new faces, am always at home.
Poor Richard, the reel-man, had nothing to say;
He knew very well I would have my own way;--
When I said, "My dear Richard, I'm sick of the town,
"And Dutchmen that worry me, upstairs and down,
"A book of bad debts, and a score of bad smells,
"The yelping of dogs, and the chiming of bells;
"I am sick of the house, and the sight of small beer,
"And the loom may be going, tho' I am not here;
"I therefore shall leave you, and that, to be plain,
"'Till I feel in a humour to see you again."--
Poor Richard said nothing to all that I spoke,
But kindled his pipe, and redoubled his smoke.
Yet it would have been nothing but friendship in him
To have said,--"Robert Slender, 'tis only a whim:--
A trip to the Schuylkill, that nothing would cost,
Might answer your ends, and no time would be lost;
But if you are thinking to make a long stay,
Consider, good Robert, what people will say:
His rent running on, and his loom standing still--
The man will be ruin'd!--he must, if he will--!
If tradesmen will always be flaunting about,
They may live to repent it--before the year's out!"
[B] The stocking-loom was invented by a young man who paid his
addresses to a handsome stocking-knitter, and being
rejected, in revenge contrived this curious machine,
which, it is said, consists of no less than six thousand
different pieces. _Freneau's note, 1788 edition._
II. _Characters of the_ TRAVELLERS
WILLIAM SNIP, _Merchant Taylor_
As I never could relish to travel alone,
I look'd round about, but could hit upon none
Whom Satan was tempting to leave their own houses
And ramble to York with their daughters and spouses;
At last, by repeating my trouble and care,
And preaching a month on the sweets of fresh air,
And the curse and the plague of remaining in town,
Where the heat was sufficient to melt a man down,
I got a few friends to consent to the trip;
And the first I shall mention was honest Will. Snip,
Philadelphia the famous had own'd to his birth,
The gravest of towns on the face of the earth;
Where saints of all orders their freedom may claim,
And poets, and painters, and girls of the game:
To him all its streets and its alleys were known,
But his travels had never exceeded the town:--
A salesman by trade (and a dabster was he
To make a silk knee-band set snug to the knee)
With his wife (and he says I may mention her name)
Susanna Snipinda--so charming a dame,
The sun had with pleasure look'd down on her head,
So freckled was she, and her tresses so red.
To wait on the will of so handsome a lady
A youngster was order'd to hold himself ready,
A sly looking lad that was 'prentice to Snip,
And long had been learning to cabbage and clip;--
When Snip was in sight, he was mild as a lamb;
When absent, old Satan could hardly rule Sam.
III. O'KEEF, _a Swaggering Captain_
The next I describe is bold captain O'Keef,
A killer of men, and a lover of beef:
With the heroes of old he had put in his claim,
And catch'd at their mantles, and rose into fame:
To the sound of a fife and the tune of no song
With his Andra Ferrara[C] he paddled along:
From his manners so rough, and his dealing in ruin,
He was known thro' the town by the name of Sir Bruin;
He was, among women, a man of great parts,
A captain of foot, and a master of arts:
He had, a sweet creature put under his care,
(Whose style of address was, my dear, and my dear)
A Milliner's girl, with a bundle of lace,
Whom Cynthia[D] he call'd, for the sake of her face,
At a ball or a frolic how glib his tongue ran,
He was, I may say, an unparallell'd man,
Very apt to harangue on the hosts he has slain
Of people--perhaps that may meet him again:
Yet so kind to the sex of the feminine make,
By his words, he would venture to die for their sake,
Whence some have suspected, that some he ador'd
Have more than made up for the wastes of his sword.
[C] A large kind of sword, in use among the Italians.--_Freneau's
note, 1795 edition._
[D] Cynthia is also a poetical name for the Moon.--_Freneau's
note, 1788 edition._
IV. TOUPPEE: _a French Hair Dresser_
The third in succession was Monsieur Touppee,
A barber from Paris, of royal degree,
(For oft when he takes up his razor, to strap it,
He tells his descent from the house of Hugh Capet[E])
Tho' soft in the head, his discourses were long,
Now counting his honours, and now his l'argent.
This barber, tho' meaning for pleasure to stray,
Yet had some pomatum to sell by the way,
Perfumes, and fine powders, and essence of myrrh,
A bundle of brooms, and a firkin of beer:--
His merits are great (he would have us suppose)
For Louis (it seems) he has had by the nose,
Has bid him, when drooping, to hold up his chin,
And handled a tongs--at the head of the Queen.
[E] A popular French nobleman, who, A. D. 987, usurped the
crown of France, and was the first of a new race of
monarchs.--_Freneau's note, 1788 edition._
V. BOB: _a Ballad Singer_
A singer of ballads was next in our train,
Who long had been dealing in ballads in vain;
He sometimes would sing in a musical tone,
And sometimes would scribble a song of his own:
Yet never was seen with his brethren to mix--
And laugh'd at your poets in coaches and six;
Who sing, like the birds, when the weather is fine;
Whose verses the ladies pronounce "so divine;"
Who ride with Augustus, wherever he goes,
And, meeting old Homer, would turn up the nose--
As to those, like himself, that were held to the ground,
He knew it was folly to feed them with sound--
He knew it was nonsense to crown them with bays,
And was too much their friend to insult them with praise.
For a dozen long years he had liv'd by the mob:
On the word of a weaver, I pitied poor Bob![361]
He had sung for the great and had rhym'd for the small,
But scarcely a shilling had got by them all--
So bad was his luck, and so poor was the trade,
And the Muses, he thought, were so sneakingly paid,
That if times didn't alter, and that very soon,
He said and he swore, he must sing his last tune.
Some devil had put it, somehow, in his head
If he took a short journey his fortune was made:
Some devil had told him (but whether in dreams
Or waking, I know not) some devil, it seems,
Had made him believe that the nymphs and the swains
Were fairly at war with their old fashion'd strains,
That the tunes which the kirk or the curates had made
(And which always had ruin'd the balladman's trade)
Were wholly disus'd, and that now was the time
For singers of catches and dealers in rhyme
To step from their stalls, where they long were disgrac'd,
Reform the old music, and fix a new taste.
VI. O'BLUSTER: _a Seaman_
A mate of a schooner, bespatter'd with tar,
Who had lately come in from Savanna-la-Mar,[F]
For, the sake of an airing had stept from his deck
And ventur'd a jaunt, at the risque of his neck,
His name and his nation no soul could mistake.--
He was Bryan O'Bluster, and much of a rake;
From morning till night he was still on the move,
Was always in taverns, or always in love:
His life was sustain'd by the virtues of grog,
And many long miles he had sail'd by the log.--
Of battles and storms he had known a full share,
And his face, it was plain, was the worse for the wear;
To see a mean fellow, lord how it would fret him;
And he hated a puppy, wherever he met him--
He was ready to bleed for the good of each State,
But since they had left the poor seamen to fate;
Themselves in the dumps, and their fair ones in tears,
And many brave fellows detain'd in Algiers!--
Had spirit sufficient to make themselves free,
But not to resent their affronts on the sea!
As this was the case--he must bid us good night,
And sail with a flag that would do itself right.
At cursing and swearing he play'd a good hand,
But never was easy a minute on land;
If the wind was a-head, or his Kitty untrue,
Why, patience was all the relief that he knew:--
In the midst of misfortune he still was serene,
And Kitty, he said, was a feeble machine:
His heart was too hard for a lady to sigh,
Yet I guess'd him a rogue by the leer in his eye:
"The world (he would say) is a whimsical dance--
And reason had taught him to leave it to chance.
In chace of dame Fortune his prime he had pass'd,
And now was beginning to fail very fast,
But thought it was folly his heart to perplex,
As Fortune was just like the rest of her sex;--
Designing, and fickle, and taken with show,
Now fond of a monkey, and now of a beau:--
Yet, still, as the goddess was made up of whim,
He meant to pursue 'till she smil'd upon him."
And tho' he was always deceiv'd in the chace,
He smooth'd up his whiskers, and wore a bold face.
On horseback he first had attempted to go,
But the horse was no fool, and had give him a throw;
He fell in a pond, and with not a dry rag on
The horse brought him back to the sign of the waggon,
Where three times he call'd for a dram of their best,
And three times the virtues of brandy confess'd;
Then took some tobacco, and soberly said,
"De'il take such a vessel; she's all by the head,
Broach'd to on a sudden, and then, d'ye see,
Myself and the saddle went over the lee."
His head was so full of his ragged command
He could scarcely believe he was yet on dry land;
He would rise in his sleep; call the watch up at four,
Ask the man at the helm how the Eddystone bore;
Then, rubbing his eyes, bawl out, "By my soul,
"We are bearing right down on the Hatteras shoal;
"The devil may trust to such pilots as you:
"We are close on the breakers--the breakers--halloo!"
[F] A seaport town in the S. W. quarter of Jamaica.--_Freneau's
note, 1788 edition._
VII. EZEKIEL: _a Rhode-Island Lawyer_
The sixth, and the last, that attended our journey,
Was a man of the law, a Rhode-Island attorney,
As cunning as Satan to argue or plead,
To break an entailment, or get himself fee'd
They call'd him Ezekiel--I cannot tell what--
Perhaps I forget it--perhaps I do not--
He had once been a parson, and studied at Yale,[G]
But took to the law, when his preaching grew stale;
In his system of thinking, not well understood,
I wander'd about, like a man in a wood;
From morning 'till night he was nothing but whim,
Not a man in the town held opinions, like him:
In regard to the vulgar, he argued that Law
Was better than preaching, to keep them in awe:
That the dread of a gallows had greater effect,
And a post or a pillory claim'd more respect
From a knave--and would sooner contribute to mend,
Than all the grave precepts that ever were penn'd.
[G] Yale College in New-Haven.--_Freneau's note, 1788 edition._
VIII. _The Chapter of_ DEBATES
Having pitch'd on our party, there rose a dispute
On the mode of conveyance--in waggon or boat?
For my part, said Snip, I was always afraid
Of sailors, and sloops and the shallopman's trade,
And the reason thereof I will candidly tell,
My grandmother, Mopsy, was drown'd in a well;
I therefore intreat you, and fervently pray
We may go with the waggons the Burlington way.
"Hold, master," the sailor replied in a fret,
"The devil's not ready to bait for you yet:
Even this way, you know, there is water to pass,
And twenty long miles we should sail with an ass;--
But, gentlemen all, will you take my advice?
Here's Albertson's[H] sloop; she's so new and so nice,
Her bottom so sleek, and her rigging so trim,
Not Bailey[H] or Hyde[H] can be mentioned with him;
In her cabbin and steerage is plenty of room,
And how clever she looks with her flying jib-boom,
A topsail aloft, that will stand by the wind,
And a yard rigg'd athwart, for a squaresail design'd.
"Odds fish! I would sooner some little delay
Than go, like a booby, the fresh-water way
Where your cream-colour'd captains ne'er swear a bad word,
And sail without compass or quadrant on board,
Catch catfish and sturgeons, but never a whale,
Nor balance a mizen, to fight with the gale:
But Albertson goes by the route of Cape May,
Salt-water, and sees the bold porpusses play:
Where the shore of the coast the proud ocean controuls
He travels, nor strikes on the Barnegat shoals."
"You tar-smelling monster! (Snipinda rejoin'd)
Your jargon has almost distracted my mind.
If Snip should be drownded, and lost in the sea,
You never once think what a loss it would be!
I should then be a widow, dejected and sad
And where would I find such another sweet lad!
And Doctor Sangrado a letter has wrote,
And how, in three weeks he will want a new coat."--
Snip's heart, at her answer, seem'd ready to break:
"Snipinda," said he, "I would live for your sake!
If I should be drownded, indeed, it is true,
It would be a bad journey for Sam and for you!"--
For fear they should hear him, Sam whisper'd, "In troth
I would give my new hat that the devil had both."
"If Snip should be drown'd," said the valiant O'Keef,
"Poor woman! already I guess at her grief--
However, for aught that a stranger can see,
There are dozens as brisk at the needle as he,
And, tho' it were hard that the sea-fish should tear him,
I'm fully convinc'd that his brethren can spare him:
"But were I to mention the very best way,
And the quickest to boot (for they go in a day)
I would sleep over night at the sign of the Queen,[I]
(Where the wine is so good, and the beds are so clean)
Then starting by day-break, and riding in state,
Arriving in Bristol--we breakfast at eight,
Then push on our way, with a rapid career,
With nothing to hinder, and nothing to fear,
Till Trenton, and Princeton, and Brunswick are pass'd,
And safe on the Hudson they drop us at last."
When the captain had finish'd, the Frenchman arose,
And smoothing his whiskers, and squaring his toes,
With a bend of his back, and a swing of his head
Thus expressing his wish, with a flourish, he said:
"Wherever pomatums are most in demand
That route has my vote, be it water or land:
Wherever I travel, through sun-shine or glooms,
May fortune direct me to powders and plumes!--
So, gentlemen, choose, I beseech you, that road
Where ladies prefer to be dress'd in the mode."
"Hold, varlet, be still"--said the Yankee attorney,
"Are you to decide on the route of our journey?
These run-about fellows, I cannot but hate 'em,
With their rings, and their ruffles, and rolls of pomatum:
But, gentlemen, (if I may venture to speak
In the stile I was wont when I dabbled in Greek,
When I blew on my trumpet, and call'd up my pack,
Who thought I was holy because I was black;
Or, if you allow me a moral to draw
From some words that were frequent with Doctor Magraw);--
"We all have in view to arrive at one town,
"Yet each one would find out a way of his own;
"What a pity it is that we cannot agree
"To march all together to Zion"--said he--
But, since I'm convinc'd that it cannot be so,
(For his journey resembles our journey below)
Like the sects in religion, I heartily pray
That each, as he pleases, may have his own way,
Let Snip, and the captain, adventure by land,
The sailor by sea--he can reef, steer, and hand;
Let the Frenchman set out in a gaudy balloon,
(He'll either be there, or be dead, very soon,)
For my own part, I'm fond of the Burlington boat,
But still, if you're willing, I'll put it to vote:
The hint was sufficient--he put it to vote,
And fate bade us go with the Burlington boat.
[H] Commanders of Philadelphia and New-York packets.--_Ib._
[I] Indian Queen.--_Freneau's note, 1788 edition._
IX. _The Passage to_ BURLINGTON
The morning was fair, and the wind was at west,
The flood coming in, and the ladies were drest;
At the sign of the Billet we all were to meet,
And Snip was the first that appear'd in the street;
He strutted along with a mighty brisk air,
While Sam and Snipinda walked slow in the rear.
Dress'd, booted, and button'd, and "cutting a shine"
The captain came next, with his loaded carbine;
Then handed on board the milliner's maid:
The barber and ballad-man longer delay'd
For one had his ballads to sing and to play,
And the other some beards to take off by the way:
At last they arriv'd, and the sailor along,
(But he was besotted--his dram had been strong--)
The lawyer, Ezekiel, was last to appear,
With a cane in his hand and a quill at his ear.
But, just as we all were prepar'd to embark,
The wind came a-head, and the weather look'd dark:
So, whilst they were busy in hoisting the sails
And trimming close aft' to encounter the gales,
Our seaman advis'd them to take in a reef
As the vessel was light--but the skipper was deaf:
"His boat was his own"--and he knew to a hair
The "worth of her freight," and the "sail she could bear."
Then a storm coming on, we stow'd away snug,
Some link'd with a lady, and some with a jug:
Snipinda and Sam were inclining to sleep,
And the lawyer harangu'd on the risques of the deep.
O'Bluster was busy in looking for squalls,
And Cynthia discours'd upon dances and balls,
And while the poor ballad-man gave us a song
The Frenchman complain'd that his stomach felt wrong.
Arriving, at length at the end of this stage,
We quitted our cabbin (or rather our cage)
To the sign of the Anchor we then were directed,
Where captain O'Keef a fine turkey dissected;
And Bryan O'Bluster made love to egg-nog,
And pester'd the ladies to taste of his grog:
Without it (said Bryan) I never can dine,
'Tis better, by far, than your balderdash wine,
It braces the nerves and it strengthens the brain,
A world--and no grog--is a prison of pain,
And Man, the most wretched of all that are found
To creep in the dust, or to move on the ground!
It is, of all physic, the best I have seen
To keep out the cold, and to cut up the spleen--
Here, madam--miss Cynthia--'tis good--you'll confess--
Now taste--and you'll wish you had been in my mess--
With grog I'm as great as a king on his throne;
The worst of all countries is--where there is none,
New Holland, New Zealand--those islands accurs'd--
Here's health to the man that invented it first.
X. VEXATIONS _and_ DISASTERS
Coop'd up in a waggon, the curtains let down,
At three in the morning we drove out of town:
A morning more dark I ne'er saw in my life,
And the fog you might almost have cut with a knife,
It was a fit season for murders and rapes,
For drunken adventures and narrow escapes:--
So, with something to think of, but little to say,
The driver drove on, looking out for the way,
'Till we came to the brow of a horrible hill,
Six miles on our road, when the cattle stood still--
"Are you sure you have took the right road?"--queried Snip;
"I am"--said the driver--and crack'd with his whip.
Then away ran the horses, but took the wrong road,
And away went the waggon, with all its full load;
Down, deep in a valley, roll'd over and over,
Fell the flying-machine, with its curtains and cover,
Where shatter'd and shiver'd--no glimpse yet of day,
A mass of destruction, together we lay!
Then howlings were heard, that would frighten a stone,
And screeching, and screaming, and many a groan,
The bruising of heads, and the breaking of shins,
Contrition of heart, and confession of sins.
First rose from his ruins tall captain O'Keef,
And call'd to Ezekiel, and begg'd for his brief:[J]
A writ he demanded, as soon as 'twas day,
And ask'd his advice, if a suit would not lay?
Then felt for his sword, but chanc'd on a cane,
And rush'd at the stageman, to cleave him in twain.
As fortune would have it, the stageman had fled,
And Snip the whole vengeance receiv'd on his head;
The staff had been whirl'd with so deadly a sweep
Poor Will in a moment was all in a heap:
There was room to surmise that his senses were hurt,
For, in spite of our bruises, he made us some sport:
His head, he conceited, was made of new cheese;
And ask'd, if the sexton would give up his fees?--
Then, rolling away on the side of the hill,
With his head in a horse-pond, he lay very still:
At last he bawl'd out--"I'm sick at my heart!
Come hither, companions, and see me depart!
Snipinda, Snipinda!--alas, I must leave her--
And all, for the sake of this villainous weaver,
Who never would give me a moment of rest
'Till I left my dear shop-board, and thus am distrest!
But a time will arrive (if I deem not amiss)
When Slender, the weaver, will suffer for this--
May his breeches, be always too big for his wear,
Or so narrow and scant as to torture his rear;
May his waistcoat be ever too long or too short,
And the skirts of his tunic not both of a sort;--
And, when from this sorrowful jaunt you return,
Tell Doctor Sangrado 'tis needless to mourn:
Ah! tell him I firmly believ'd I was going
Where people no longer are wed-ding and wooing,
Where white linen stockings will ever be clean,
And sky-men are clad in the best of nankeen;
Where with old Continental our debts we can pay,
And a suit of best broad-cloth will last but a day;
Where with pretty brass thimbles the streets are all pav'd,
And a remnant--if not a whole piece--shall be sav'd,
Where cloth may be cabbag'd--and that without fear--
And journeymen work--thirteen months to the year!"
Snipinda was mov'd at so dismal a yell,
And groping about to find where he fell,
Exclaim'd, "I have got a sad bruise on one hip,
But matters, I fear, are much worse with poor Snip."
"Yes, yes"--answer'd Snip--"I'm preparing to go--
Be speedy, Snipinda, my pulse is so low!"
Then she went where he lay, and took hold of his head,
And whisper'd the captain, "how much he has bled!"
(For she thought, as he lay with his nose in the puddle,
That the water was blood, that had flow'd from his noddle.)
"Ah! where is the doctor, to give him a pill;
And where is the Lawyer, to write his last-will?
Ezekiel! Ezekiel! attend to his words;
If I am his widow, I must have my thirds!
But can you"--and here she reclin'd on his breast--
"And can you resolve to forsake me distrest,
Is it thus you would quit me, my joy and my love,
And leave me alone for the shop-boards above:
Is it thus you consign me to trouble and woe?--
When you are departed, ah! where shall I go?
I shall then be a widow--forsaken and sad--
And where shall I find such another sweet lad?
Who then will afford me a mint-water dram,
Gallant me to meeting--and who will flog Sam?"
By this time the story was currently spread,
And most were convinc'd that the taylor was dead,--
"The taylor is dead beyond all relief!
The taylor is dead," cry'd captain O'Keef:
"To fetch up a fashion, or trump up a whim,
Not a knight of the thimble was equal to him!"
"The taylor is dead"--(the lawyer exclaim'd)
God speed him!--'tis better to die than be maim'd:
If life is a race, as the learned pretend,
God help him! his racing is soon at an end:
His anchor is cast, and his canvas is furl'd;
A creature he was, so attach'd to the world,
So eager for money--(I say it with grief)
He never consider'd the 'fall of the leaf.'
He is come (we may say) to the end of his tether
Where the maid and her master shall lay down together.--
For the place where he's gone may we also prepare,
Where the Mind, when admitted, shall rest from her care,
And fiddles--the finest that ever were seen,
Shall play, for his comfort, a brisk Bonny Jean.
"The taylor is dead" (said the company round)
"The taylor is dead"--the dark forests resound.--
"He is dead!"--blubber'd Sam, with a counterfeit sigh--
When the sailor bawl'd out--"By my soul it's a lie!
The fellow has only a mind for some fun,
His blood is not cold, and his race is not run.
His head, it is true, may have had a small shock:
I'll bind it--'twill only be strapping a block:
Here, hand me a neck-cloth, a napkin, a clout!
Now--heave up his noddle, and strap it about!
Success to the skull that can bear a good jirk--
They only have damag'd his ginger-bread work."
The matters turn'd out as he said and he swore,
And the taylor threw open his peepers once more.
[J] A Lawyer's compend, in which he notes down the heads of
arguments in Law-suits.--_Freneau's note, 1795 edition._
XI. CONCLUSION _of the Journey_
When the morning appear'd, it is horrid to tell
What mischiefs the most of our crew had befel:
A bundle lay here, and a budget lay there;
The Frenchman was fretting and pulling his hair,
The horses were feeding about on the hill,
And Snip, with his head on a hassock lay still,
The driver beseech'd us the fault to excuse,
The night had been dark--and "he lost both his shoes"--
Then he rais'd up his waggon, rejoicing to find
That, by leaving the top and the curtains behind,
We still might proceed--for the body was sound,
And the wheels, upon searching, uninjur'd all 'round.
But dull and dishearten'd we travell'd along,
Our waggon dismantled, our harness all wrong:
The lawyer was vext that we went a snail's pace,
And Cynthia was sure she had lost half her lace;
While Bryan O'Bluster, who Snip had restor'd,
Asserted, that Snip was the Jonas on board,
And often declar'd, in his moments of glee,
"He would give him a souse, if he had him at sea."
At length, we arriv'd, with the marks of our fall,
And halted to dine at the town of Road-Hall:
Honest David has always a dish of the best,
But Snipinda declar'd there was nothing well drest--
"And Snip (she exclaim'd) I would ask him to eat,
But I know that he never could relish roast-meat:
I think it were better to get him some Tea,
He always was fond of slop dinners, like me,
But then he could never endure your Bohea--
La! madam, is this the best tea that you keep?
By the taste and the smell, you have purchas'd it cheap!
No Hyson or Congo to give a sick stranger!
Poor man! I've no doubt but his life is in danger!
"No doctor like Neptune for people like him,
(Quoth O'Bluster)--his illness is merely a whim:
If I had him at sea, with the rest of our crew,
He should dance to the tune of a bowl of Burgoo!"
"From all that appears (said captain O'Keef)
I judge he might venture to taste the roast beef,
Nay--I think I can guess, from the cast of his eye,
He longs to have hold of the gooseberry pye!"
"Why captain (she cry'd) would you kill the poor sinner?
If he cannot have tea, he shall go without dinner!"
At length to the Ferry we safely arrive,
Each thanking his genius he still was alive:
Poor Cynthia complain'd of abundance of harms,
The black on her face and the blue on her arms:
Snipinda exclaim'd that she wanted a patch,
For Snip, in his ravings, had give her a scratch:
The corpse of the captain was merely a wreck,
And the sailor complain'd of a kink in his neck,
He had a contusion, beside, on his thigh;
And the ballad-man talk'd of a bruise on his eye,
Just adding, "how much he was vext at the heart
That no one regarded the song-singing art:
Yet the town was in love with his music (he said)
But never consider'd he liv'd by the trade;
That affronts and neglect were forever his lot,
And the lovers of music respected him--not;
He had sung for the nymphs, and had sung for the swains,
But they were unwilling to purchase his strains,
When he put up his ballads and call'd for his pay,
The shepherds slunk off, and the nymphs ran away."
So, we said what we could to encourage poor Bob,
And pitied his fortune,--to live by the mob:
Advis'd him to cobble, cut throats, or dig ditches
If he wish'd to advance to perferment and riches;
That the time had arriv'd, when a sycophant race
Of poets are only promoted to place--
He should scorn them alike, if attach'd to a crown,
Singing lies to a court, or disguis'd in the gown;
That a poet of genius (all history shews)
Ne'er wanted a puppy, to bark at his muse:
And, though their productions were never once read,
Yet Bavius and Mevius must also be fed.
Then the skipper came in, with a terrible noise,
Exclaiming, "The wherry is ready, my boys:
The sails are unfurl'd, and the clock has struck eight;
Away to the wharf, for no longer I wait!"
Now all were embark'd, and the boat under sail,
With a dark cloudy sky and a stiff blowing gale:
In plying to windward we delug'd our decks--
O'Bluster discours'd of disasters and wrecks--
Snip offer'd the skipper five dollars, and more,
And a pair of new trowsers, to run us on shore;
"And, if I was there (said the faint-hearted swain)
No money should tempt me to travel again!
I had rather, by far, I had broken both legs,
Been rotting in prison, or pelted with eggs!
Now comrades and captains, I bid you good night,
And you, Mr. Slender, our journey will write;
A journey like this will attention attract,
Related in metre, and known to be fact."--
Snipinda was sorry she ever left home--
Ezekiel confess'd it was madness to roam;--
Toupee was alarm'd at the break of the seas,
And you, Robert Slender, were not at your ease;
Yet couldn't help laughing at captain O'Keef,
Who shunn'd little Cynthia, and cast up his beef:
"And, Bruin (she said) I am sick at my heart,
Come hither, I pray you--and see me depart:
What wretches e'er travell'd so rugged a route;
Alas! I am sorry that e'er we set out!"
And Sam, while he own'd what a thief he had been,
O'Bluster made love to a bottle of gin--
Bob's ballads and poems lay scatter'd and torn
Himself in the dumps and his visage forlorn;--
Snip lay with his head by the side of a pot,
In doubt if his soul was departing or not,
Complaining, and spewing, and cursing his luck--
Then look'd at Snipinda--and call'd her his duck.
At last to relieve us, when thought of the least,
The wind came about to the south of southeast,
The barque that was buried in billows before
Now flew like a gull by the Long-Island shore,
And gaining the port where we wish'd to arrive,
Was safe in the bason--precisely at five.
[360] First published in pamphlet form by Bailey, April, 1787, under the
title, "A Journey from Philadelphia to New-York by way of Burlington and
South-Amboy. By Robert Slender, Stocking Weaver." The advertisement in
the _Freeman's Journal_ of April 25 declares that "Some truth in the
occasion and a good deal of fancy in the colouring mark the character of
the above performance. The style is smooth and easy and the pleasurable
air that is diffused over the whole piece will certainly render the
whole poem acceptable to such as choose to read it." The poem was
republished in the editions of 1788 and 1795, the text of the latter of
which I have used. It was again republished in a twenty-four page
pamphlet by Thomas Neversink, Philadelphia, Dec. 20, 1809, under the
title "A Laughable Poem; or Robert Slender's Journey from Philadelphia
to New York." The earlier versions, of which the 1788 text was a
reprint, had the poem divided into four cantos. In the 1795 edition the
subdivision into sections was made. Freneau thoroughly revised the poem
for the 1795 edition, making very many changes, all for the better. He
cut out nearly all of the indelicate allusions and expressions of the
earlier edition, including the coarse but highly picturesque dialogue
between the skipper and the captain, and it has seemed best to me not to
resurrect them. The 1809 edition was reprinted with little change from
the 1795 version.
[361] The 1788 version here adds this couplet:
"The _Babes in the wood_ was his favourite song,
Or _Barbara Allan_, or _Johnny Armstrong_."
THE HERMIT OF SABA[362]
Hermit, First Mariner, Second Mariner, Third Mariner
SCENE, _The Island of Saba_[A]
[A] One of the windward Islands in the W. Indies. It is small,
and appears like an immense cone, or sugar loaf, rising
out of the surrounding ocean.--The inhabitants are of
Dutch origin, and are equally strangers to the luxury
and tyranny of the Sugar Islands.--Lat. 17 deg. 30' N.
Lon. 63 deg. 12' W.--_Freneau's note._
_Hermit_
Though many years on these tall cliffs residing
I recollect not such a dreadful quarrel
Between the seas and water-vexing tempests
As now torments my ears, and pains my eyes--
Clouds, low suspended, seem to embrace the foam
Of yonder angry ocean--bursting thunders,
With their pale sheets of lightning, are as busy
As though they meant to cleave this mass of nature,
Proving at once the world's mortality--
But am I safe on this sea-girded island,
Or can these shores, thus beaten, bear the shock
Of such a bold assault--?
When universal ruin shall approach,
Will the grand scene be more astonishing
When thou, sky-pointing Saba,
Shalt tremble on thy base most fearfully!--
Night comes!--I'll to my cavern in the mountain,
Far from the torrent's roar and bursting billow;
That cavern, where I oft have found repose
Since on this barren isle, a shipwrecked stranger,
I made my sole escape--Ha! what are these!
A barque half buried in the spouting surge
Comes rushing towards the isle, impelled by winds
That scorn all motives of compassion.
Hark! now she strikes the iron pointed reef
Foundering; the horrid surge that breaks upon her
Has sealed their doom, and hope itself forsakes them
Man is too weak to combat with the power
Of these mad elements, that conquer all,
Ending the day light of our misery!--
Yes, yes--I'll to my haunt, for scenes like these
Pain the shocked soul and damp all resolution;--
Or, shall I to the shore, while day remains,
And search among the shell-incrusted coral,
Lest if by some great chance or miracle
Some wretch survives upon the ragged rocks,
Who knowing not of human kind residing
On this sequestered, unfrequented isle,
Tired in contending with the angry billows
And beaten by the surge the whole night through
For want of such relief, may die ere morning--
Perdition! three I see upon the rocks
Clinging, to keep off death, while the rude billow
Swells o'er their heads, insultingly victorious:
Now from the reef upborne I see them struggle,
Heaven grant, successfully!--they labour on,
Now headlong to the shore, now back they go
Despairing to the main!--now, now they land
Safe in that calm recess, a narrow bay
To them the heaven from impending ruin--
So what are you?--
_First Mariner_
If thou art an inhabitant of the isle,
Lend your kind aid to three half perished wretches
Of threescore souls, the only three remaining--
And if thou knowest of any sheltered spot
Where from these horrid blasts and water spouts
We may retire to pass the long dull night:
Or if thou knowest of any standing pool
Or running stream, or earth-supported spring,
O tell us! and, as nothing more remains,
Our gratitude must be thy sole reward.
_Hermit_
Among the hills, on their declivities
Full many a sylvan haunt I have espied
Ere now, in wandering when the heaven was bright;
But springs or running streams abound not here
The skies alone supply the hollowed rock
From whence I drain my annual full supply:
Yet to my cavern you shall all resort
To taste a hermit's hospitality--
If you have strength, ascend this winding path
And amongst these rugged rocks, still following me,
We soon shall reach a safe retreat, removed
Alike from noisy seas, and mountain torrents.
_Second Mariner_
Lo! here the tall palmettoe, and the cedar,
The lime tree, and sweet scented shrubs abundant
With mingling branches, form a blest abode;
Here, bleating lambs crowd to the evening fold
And goats and kids, that wander o'er the hills,
Vext by the storm, herd to the social hermit;
In neighbouring groves the juicy lemon swells,
The golden orange charms the admiring eye,
And the rich cocoa yields her milky stream.
_Hermit_
Here, strangers, here repose your wearied limbs
While some dead boughs I bring from yonder thicket,
To wake the friendly blaze.--To drain the dams
Of these impatient kids, be next my care:
The cocoa's milky flesh, dried pulse and roots
Shall be your fare to night; and when to-morrow
Dispells the gloom, and this tornado ceases,
We'll search along the shores, and find where lie
The bodies of your dear and lost companions,
That so we may commit them to the dust,
And thus obliterate from our remembrance
The horrid havock that this storm occasioned.
_Third Mariner_
O good old man, how do I honour thee!
My future days, my services are your's;
For you, will I be earlier than the sun
To bring you sticks to light the morning fire;
For you, will I attempt these dangerous cliffs
And climb on high to pluck the blushing plum;
For you will I from yonder rocky height
Drain chrystal waters, to delight your taste:
But now be kind; I wish to hear you tell
What chance or fortune brought you to these shores:
Whether alone on these rough craggs you dwell
Where wandering mist is gathered into showers,
Or whether town or village decks the plain;
Or is there sheltered port, where swelling sails
Lodge lofty ships, from hurricanes secure,
Fenced in by reefs, or locked by neighbouring hills.
_Hermit_
No town or village owns this scanty soil,
Nor round its coast one safe recess is seen,
Where lofty ship, or barque of meaner freight
Might rest secure, untroubled by the winds,
Which still pursue the restless surge that pours,
And spits its venom, on these ragged shores;
Nor in these woody wilds, till you were wrecked,
Except myself, did Christian man reside,
Wandering from Europe to these Indian isles
So late discovered on the world's green end.--
All lies as Nature formed it, rough throughout,
And chance has planted here this garden wild,
For such as I, who wandering from the world;
Cities, and men, and civilized domains,
The farther distant, find the bliss more pure.
_Third Mariner_
In such a sad retreat, and all alone!--
To hold no converse but with senseless trees,
To have no friendship but with wandering goats,
And worthless reptiles that infest the ground--
Can man be happy in so dull a scene?
_Hermit_
To the steep summit of this slighted isle
I often climb at early dawn of day,
And o'er the vast expanse I throw my view,
Not idly thence the busy scene surveying--
Vast fleets I sometimes see, each kept at bay,
Or joining both in angry conversation,
Their object avarice half, and half ambition--
What is it all to me? what are they seeking
That can give more than a sufficiency?--
That object I have here which they pursue,
Grasping it, miser-like, in my embraces--
The stream distilling from the shaded cliff,
And fruits mature from trees by Nature planted,
And contemplation, heaven-born contemplation!
These are my riches! I am wealthier far
Than Spain's proud fleets, that load the groaning ocean--
Wait you in yonder cave--I will return--
My herd of goats is wandering in the wild,
And I must house them, ere the close of day. (_Exit_)
_First Mariner_
Who can this hermit be--what doth he here?
In such a dismal cell who would inhabit
Thus lonely, who has crowds and cities seen--
Is he some savage offspring of the isle,
The mountain goat his food, his god the sun;
Some wretch produced from mingled heat and moisture.
Full brother to the hungry pelican;
His friend, some monster of the adjacent wood;
His wife, some sorceress, red haired hag from hell;
His children, serpents, scorpions, centipedes--
_Third Mariner_
It was but now, (he spoke before he thought) he told me,
That he is richer than the fleets of Spain
That burden the wide bosom of the ocean;
And then he seemed so pleased and satisfied,
Boasting himself the happiest of mankind.
_Second Mariner_
Where should this wealth be hid--his cave shows none:
A prayer book and a cross, a string of beads,
A bed of moss, a cap, an earthen jug,
And some few goat skins, furnish out his cave:
But still this humble guise of poverty
Vast sums of splendid riches may conceal:
The flooring of his den is a loose sand--
Searching a fathom deep may shew strange things,
While we, so long pursuing, hit on fortune.--
Perhaps this hermit is some bloody pirate,
Who having plundered friends and foes, alike,
Has brought his booty here, to bury it.
_First Mariner_
Lo! there he comes, driving his goats before him:
He means to fence them from the tempest's rage
Under the shelter of those tufted cedars:
It does, indeed, appear most possible,
That in this cavern rests his plundered wealth:
When sleep has locked his senses in repose
We'll seize him on his couch, and binding him,
Cast him from yonder jutting promontory
That hangs a hundred fathoms o'er the deep--
Thus, shall his fate prevent discovery.
_Second Mariner_
Your project pleases me--it is most wrong
That such a savage should enjoy such hoards
Of useful wealth, he has not heart to use:--
He builds no ships, employs no mariners;
But, like a miser, hides the ill-gotten store,
And had he died before we wandered hither
His gold had perished, and none been the wiser.
_Third Mariner_
While you observe his motions, fellow sufferers,
Of twisted bark I'll make a sett of thongs
Wherewith to bind him at the midnight hour,
Lest waking, he should struggle to be free
And slip our hands before we gain the summit
From whence we mean to plunge his tawny carcase:--
There, there he comes--"Now, hermit, now befriend us,
"For cruel, merciless hunger gnaws our vitals,
"And every mischief that can man dishearten
"Is ripe to drive us into desperation!"
_Hermit_
Have patience, till from yonder arched grotto
I bring my bowls of milk, and seasoned roots,
And fruits I plucked before the day was high:
Now, friends, enjoy my hospitality:
All's at your service, wretched shipwrecked men;
And when you've satisfied the rage of hunger
Repose on these soft skins; your sea-beat limbs
Demand the aid of kind refreshing sleep:
I'll to my evening prayers, as I am wont,
And early dreams;--for travelling o'er the hills,
And pelted by the storm the whole day past,
My knees grow feeble, and I wish for rest. (_Exit_)
_Second Mariner_
Yes, yes--first pray, and then repose in peace,
Hermit of Saba, ne'er to wake again!
Or should you wake, it must be in convulsions,
Tossed from the peak of yonder precipice,
Transfixt on pointed rocks, most bloodily.
_Third Mariner_
Now, now's the time: he sleeps: I hear him snore--
This hidden gold has so possessed my brain,
That I, at all events, must handle it:
Yet should the hermit 'wake while thus engaged,
Sad mischief might ensue: his nervous arm
(More than a match for our exhausted vigour)
Might exercise most horrible revenge!
Long practising among these rugged mountains,
Pursuing goats, bounding from rock to rock,
And cleaving trees to feed his evening fire,
His nerves and blood are all activity:
And then he is of so robust a fabrick
That we should be mere children in his hands,
Whirling us from the precipice at pleasure,
(Thus turning on ourselves our own designs)
Or catching up some fragment of a rock
Grind into atoms our pale, quivering limbs;
Taking full vengeance on ingratitude.
_First Mariner_
Fast bound in chains of sleep, I first assail him;
This knotty club shall give the unerring blow;
You follow on, and boldly second me!
Thus--comrades--thus!--that stroke has crushed his brain!
He groans! he dies?--now bear him to the summit
Of yon' tall cliff, and having thence dislodged him,
Uninterrupted we shall dig his riches,
Heirs to the wealth and plenty of his cave.
_Second Mariner_ (_conscience struck_)
'Tis done, 'tis done--the hermit is no more:--
Say nothing of this deed, ye hills, ye trees,
But let eternal silence brood upon it.
O, base, base, base!!--why was I made a man,
And not some prowling monster of the forest,
The worst vile work of Nature's journeymen!
Ye lunar shadows! no resemblance yield
From craggy pointed rock, or leafy bush,
That may remind me of this murdered hermit.
_Third Mariner_
Deep have I fathomed in his cave, but find
No glimpse of gold--we surely did mistake him:
His treasures were not of that glittering kind;
Dryed fruits, and one good book; his goats, his kids,
These were, indeed, his riches--
Now, hermit, now I feel remorse within me:
While here we stay thy shadow will torment us,
From every haunted rock, or bush, projecting;
And when from hence we go, that too shall follow,
Crying--Perdition on these fiends from Europe,
Whose bloody malice, or whose thirst for gold,
Fresh from the slaughter-house of innocence
Unpeoples isles, and lays the world in ruin!
[362] This poem was doubtless a product of Freneau's earlier Muse, as
were also the poems "The Indian Burying Ground," "The Indian Student,"
"The Man of Ninety," and "Alcina's Enchanted Island" which follow. They
were, however, first printed in the edition of 1788 and there is no
other hint as to their date. I have followed in all cases except the
last the 1809 text.
THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND[363]
In spite of all the learned have said,
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
Not so the ancients of these lands--
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.[A]
[A] "The North American Indians bury their dead in a sitting
posture; decorating the corpse with wampum, the images
of birds, quadrupeds, &c: And (if that of a warrior)
with bows, arrows, tomhawks, and other military
weapons."--_Freneau's note._
His imaged birds, and painted bowl,
And venison, for a journey dressed,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.
His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the old ideas gone.
Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit--
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.
Here still a lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a ruder race.
Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far-projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires)
The children of the forest played!
There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.
By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews;
In habit for the chase arrayed,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade![364]
And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And Reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.
[363] In the 1788 edition this has the title "Lines Occasioned by a
Visit to an old Indian Burying Ground."
[364] Campbell borrowed this line for his poem "O'Connor's Child."
Stanza IV of the poem begins as follows:
"Bright as the bow that spans the storm
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
A son of light--a lovely form
He comes and makes her glad;
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassel'd horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!"
THE INDIAN STUDENT
Or, Force of Nature[365]
From Susquehanna's farthest springs
Where savage tribes pursue their game,
(His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
A shepherd of the forest came.
Not long before, a wandering priest
Expressed his wish, with visage sad--
"Ah, why (he cried) in Satan's waste,
"Ah, why detain so fine a lad?
"In white-man's land there stands a town
"Where learning may be purchased low--
"Exchange his blanket for a gown,
"And let the lad to college go."--
From long debate the council rose,
And viewing Shalum's tricks with joy
To Cambridge Hall,[A] o'er wastes of snows,
They sent the copper-coloured boy.
[A] Harvard College, at Cambridge in Massachusetts.--_Freneau's
note, edition 1788._
One generous chief a bow supplied,
This gave a shaft, and that a skin;
The feathers, in vermillion dyed,
Himself did from a turkey win:
Thus dressed so gay, he took his way
O'er barren hills, alone, alone!
His guide a star, he wandered far,
His pillow every night a stone.
At last he came, with foot so lame,
Where learned men talk heathen Greek,
And Hebrew lore is gabbled o'er,
To please the Muses,--twice a week.
Awhile he writ, awhile he read,
Awhile he conned their grammar rules--
(An Indian savage so well bred
Great credit promised to the schools.)
Some thought he would in law excel,
Some said in physic he would shine;
And one that knew him, passing well,
Beheld, in him, a sound Divine.
But those of more discerning eye
Even then could other prospects show,
And saw him lay his Virgil by
To wander with his dearer bow.
The tedious hours of study spent,
The heavy-moulded lecture done,
He to the woods a hunting went,
Through lonely wastes he walked, he run.
No mystic wonders fired his mind;
He sought to gain no learned degree,
But only sense enough to find
The squirrel in the hollow tree.
The shady bank, the purling stream,
The woody wild his heart possessed,
The dewy lawn, his morning dream
In fancy's gayest colours dressed.
"And why (he cried) did I forsake
"My native wood for gloomy walls;
"The silver stream, the limpid lake
"For musty books and college halls.
"A little could my wants supply--
"Can wealth and honour give me more;
"Or, will the sylvan god deny
"The humble treat he gave before?
"Let seraphs gain the bright abode,
"And heaven's sublimest mansions see--
"I only bow to Nature's God--
"The land of shades will do for me.
"These dreadful secrets of the sky
"Alarm my soul with chilling fear--
"Do planets in their orbits fly,
"And is the earth, indeed, a sphere?
"Let planets still their course pursue,
"And comets to the centre run--
"In Him my faithful friend I view,
"The image of my God--the Sun.
"Where Nature's ancient forests grow,
"And mingled laurel never fades,
"My heart is fixed;--and I must go
"To die among my native shades."
He spoke, and to the western springs,
(His gown discharged, his money spent,
His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
The shepherd of the forest went.[366]
[365] The 1788 version bore under the title the motto:
"_Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes;
Flumina amem, sylvasque inglorius._"
VIRG. Georg. II. V. 483.
[366] The 1788 version has this additional stanza:
"Returning to this rural reign
The Indians welcom'd him with joy;
The council took him home again,
And bless'd the copper-colour'd boy."
THE MAN OF NINETY
"To yonder boughs that spread so wide,
Beneath whose shade soft waters glide,
Once more I take the well known way;
With feeble step and tottering knee
I sigh to reach my white-oak tree,
Where rosy health was wont to play.
If to the shades, consuming slow,
The shadow of myself, I go,
When I am gone, wilt thou remain!--
From dust you rose, and grew like me;
I man became, and you a tree,
Both natives of one grassy plain.
How much alike; yet not the same!--
You could no kind protector claim;
Alone you stood, to chance resigned:
When winter came, with blustering sky,
You feared its blasts--and so did I,
And for warm suns in secret pined.
When vernal suns began to glow
You felt returning vigour flow;
Which once a year new leaves supplied;
Like you, fine days I wished to see,
And May was a sweet month to me,
But when November came--I sighed!
If through your bark some ruffian arm
A mark impressed, you took the alarm,
And tears awhile I saw descend;
Till Nature's kind maternal aid
A plaister on your bruises laid,
And bade your trickling sorrows end.
Like you, I feared the lightning's stroke,
Whose flame dissolves the strength of oak,
And ends at once this mortal dream;--
You saw, with grief, the soil decay
That from your roots was torn away;
You sighed--and cursed the stream.
With borrowed earth, and busy spade,
Around your roots new life I laid,
While joy revived in every vein;
(The care of man shall life impart)--
Though Nature owns the aid of art,
No art, immortal, makes their reign.
How much alike our fortune--say--
Yet, why must I so soon decay
When thou hast scarcely reached thy prime--
Erect and tall, you joyous stand;
The staff of age has found my hand,
That guides me to the grave of time.
Could I, fair tree, like you, resign,
And banish all those fears of mine,
Grey hairs would be no cause of grief;
Your blossoms die, but you remain,
Your fruit lies scattered o'er the plain--
Learn wisdom from the falling leaf.
As you survive, by heaven's decree,
Let withered flowers be thrown on me
Sad compensation for my doom,
While winter greens and withering pines
And cedars dark, and barren vines,
Point out the lonely tomb.
The enlivening sun, that burns so bright,
Ne'er had a noon without a night,
So Life and Death agree;
The joys of man by years are broke"--
'Twas thus the man of ninety spoke,
Then rose, and left his tree.
ALCINA'S ENCHANTED ISLAND[367]
In These fair fields unfading flowers abound,
Here purple roses cloathe the enchanted ground;
Here, to the sun expand the lillies pale
Fann'd by the sweet breath of the western gale:
Here, fearless hares through dark recesses stray,
And troops of leverets take the woodland way,
Here stately stags, with branching horns, appear,
And rove unsought for, unassail'd by fear:
Unknown the snare, the huntsman's fatal dart
That wings the death of torture to the heart,
In social bands they trace their sylvan reign,
Chew the rich cud, or graze along the plain.
In these gay shades the nimble deer delight,
While herds of goats ascend the rocky height,
Browse on the shrubs that shade the vale below,
And crop the plants, that there profusely grow.
[367] Published in the 1788 edition under the title "Ariosto's
Description of the Gardens in Alcina's Inchanted Island. From the
Italian." Text from the edition of 1795.
HORACE, LIB. I. ODE 15[368]
Nereus prophesies the destruction of Troy[369]
As 'cross the deep to Priam's shore
The Trojan prince bright Helen bore,
Old Nereus hushed each noisy breeze
And calmed the tumults of the seas.
Then, musing on the traitor's doom,
Thus he foretold the woes to come;
"Ah why remove, mistaken swain,
"The prize that Greece shall seize[370] again!
"With omens sad, you sail along;
"And Europe shall resent the wrong,
"Conspire to seize your bride away,
"And Priam's town in ashes lay.
"Alas! what toils and deaths combined!
"What hosts of men and horses joined!--
"Bold Pallas now prepares her shield,
"And arms her chariot for the field.
"Can you with heavenly forms engage,
"A goddess kindling into rage;
"Who ne'er have dared a mortal foe
"And wars, alone, of Venus, know.
"In vain you dress your flowing hair,
"And songs, to aid the harp, prepare;
"The harp, that sung to female ears,
"Shall fail when Mars and Greece appears.
"In vain will you bewail your bride,
"And meanly in her chamber hide,
"In hopes to shun, when lingering there,
"The massy dart, and Cretan spear.
"In vain will you, with quickening pace,
"Avoid fierce Ajax in the chace;
"For late those locks, that please the eye,
"In dust and death must scattered lie.
"Do you not see Ulysses, too,
"The sage that brings your nation low:
"And Nestor from the land of Pyle--
"Chiefs skilled in arms and martial toil.
"Dost thou not see bold Teucer here,
"And him--no tardy chariotteer;
"Who both pursue with eager force,
"And both controul the thundering horse.
"Thou, to thy grief, shalt Merion know,
"And Tydeus' son shall prove thy foe,
"Who wastes your realms with sword and fire;
"Tydides, greater than his sire.
"Like timorous deer, prepared to fly
"When hungry wolves are passing by,
"No more the herbs their steps detain,
"They quit their pastures, and the plain:
"So you from his triumphant arms
"Will fly, with all your female charms;
"Can deeds, like these, your valour prove,
"Was this your promise to your love?
"Achilles' wrath shall but delay
"Your ruin to a later day--
"The Trojan matrons then may mourn,
"And Troy by Grecian vengeance burn."
[368] First found in the 1788 edition; text from the 1809 edition.
[369] The 1788 edition had the following line after the title: "_Pastor
quum traheret per freta navibus_, etc."
[370] "Fetch."--_Ed. 1788._
A SUBSCRIPTION PRAYER[371]
For defraying the burial expences of an Old Soldier
Ah! Give him a tomb, for a tomb is his due,
A shilling, great man, is a trifle to You:
If you give him a tomb, that his name may survive,
May Fortune attend you, and help you to thrive:
May you always have something to praise and approve,
And the pleasure to dream of the girl that you love.
Prepar'd for the worst, but enjoying the best,
With a girl and a bottle he feather'd his nest:
Half sick of the world, in the wane of his life,
To hasten his exit, he took him a wife,
But, finding his fair one a damnable elf,
He grounded his arms--and took leave of himself.
[371] Entitled in 1788, "Patrick Mulhoni. A Subscription Prayer. _Date
obolum Belisario._" Text from the 1795 edition.
EPISTLE TO THE PATRIOTIC FARMER[372]
Thus, while new laws the stubborn States reclaim,
And most for pensions, some for honours aim,
You, who first aimed a shaft at George's crown,
And marked the way to conquest and renown,
While from the vain, the lofty, and the proud,
Retiring to your groves, you shun the crowd,--
Can toils, like yours, in cold oblivion end,
Columbia's patriot, and her earliest friend?
Blest, doubly blest, from public scenes retired,
Where public welfare all your bosom fired;
Your life's best days in studious labours past
Your deeds of virtue make your bliss at last;
When all things fail, the soul must rest on these!--
May heaven restore you to your favourite trees,
And calm content, best lot to man assigned,
Be heaven's reward to your exalted mind.
When her base projects you beheld, with pain,
And early doomed an end to Britain's reign.
When rising nobly in a generous cause
(Sworn foe to tyrants and imported laws)
Thou Dickinson! the patriot and the sage,
How much we owed to your convincing page:[A]
That page--the check of tyrants and of knaves,
Gave birth to heroes who had else been slaves,
Who, taught by you, denied a monarch's sway;
And if they brought him low--you planned the way.
Though in this glare of pomp you take no part
Still must your conduct warm each generous heart:
What, though you shun the patriot vain and loud,
While hosts neglect, that once to merit bowed,
Shun those gay scenes, were recent laurels grow,
The mad Procession, and the painted show;
In days to come, when pomp and pride resign,
Who would not change his proudest wreathes for thine,
In fame's fair fields such well-earned honours share,
And Dickinson confess unrivalled there! [1788]
[A] The Farmer's Letters, and others of his truly valuable
writings.--_Freneau's note._
[372] John Dickinson (1732-1808), a lawyer in Philadelphia, and a member
of the Colonial Congress of 1765 and of the Continental Congress of
1774, first came into wide prominence in 1767 through the publication of
his series of papers entitled "Letters from a Pennsylvania Farmer to the
Inhabitants of the British Colonies." From this time until his death he
was a vigorous and voluminous publicist. His influence upon his times
was very great. The text of the poem is from the 1809 edition.
PALEMON TO LAVINIA[373]
[Written 1788]
"Torn from your arms by rude relentless hands,
No tears recall our lost Alcander home,
Who, far removed by fierce piratic bands,
Finds in a foreign soil[A] an early tomb:
[A] Algiers, the piratical city on the coast of
Barbary.--_Freneau's note._
Well may you grieve!--his race so early done,
No years he reached, to urge some task sublime;--
No conquests made, no brilliant action won,
No verse to bear him through the gulph of time.
Amidst these shades and heart depressing glooms,
What comfort shall we give--what can we say;
In her distress shall we discourse on tombs,
Or tell Lavinia, 'tis a cloudy day?
The pensive priest accosts her with a sigh:
With movement slow, in sable robes he came--
But why so sad, philosopher, ah, why,
Since from the tomb alone all bliss we claim?
By pining care and wakeful sorrow worn,
While silent griefs her downcast heart engage,
She saw me go, and saw me thrice return
To pen my musings on some vacant page.
To learning's store, to Galen's science bred,
I saw Orestes rove through all the plain:
His pensive step no friendly genius led
To find one plant that might relieve your pain!
Say, do I wake?--or are your woes a dream!
Depart, dread vision!--waft me far away:
Seek me no more by this sky painted stream
That glides, unconscious, to the Indian bay.
Alcander!--ah!--what tears for thee must flow--
What doom awaits the wretch that tortured thee!
May never flower in his cursed garden blow,
May never fruit enrich his hated tree:
May that fine spark, which Nature lent to man,
Reason, be thou extinguished in his brain;
Sudden his doom, contracted be his span,
Ne'er to exist, or spring from dust again.
May no kind genius save his step from harms:
Where'er he sails, may tempests rend the sea;
May never maiden yield to him her charms,
Nor prattling infant hang upon his knee!
Retire, retire, forget the inhuman shore:
Dark is the sun, when woes like these dismay;
Resign your groves, and view with joy no more
The fragrant orange, and the floweret gay."
[373] First published in the 1795 edition. Text from the edition
of 1809.
A NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS[374]
Though past events are hourly read,
The various labours of the dead,
In vain their story we recall,
The rise of empires, or the fall;
Our modern men, a busy crew,
Must, in their turn, have something new.
By moralists we have been told
That "Time himself in time grows old;
"The seasons change, the moons decay,
"The sun shines weaker every day,
"Justice is from the world withdrawn,
"Virtue and friendship almost gone,
"Religion fails (the clergy shew)
"And man, alas, must vanish too."
Let others such opinions hold,
(Since grumbling has been always old;)
All Nature must decay, 'tis true,
But Nature shall her face renew,
Her travels in a circle make,
Freeze but to thaw, sleep but to wake.
Die but to live, and live to die,
In summer smile, in autumn sigh,
Resume the garb that once she wore,
Repeat the words she said before,
Bow down with age, or, fresh and gay,
Change, only to prevent decay.
As up and down, with weary feet,
I travel each fatiguing street,
Meeting the frowns of party men,
Foes to the freedom of the pen,
And to your doors our sheets convey--
I sometimes think I hear you say,
"Ah, were it not for what he brings,
(This messenger of many things)
We should be in a sorry plight;
The wars of Europe out of sight,
No paragraphs of home affairs
To tell us how the fabric wears
Which Freedom built on Virtue's plan,
And Virtue only can maintain."
But something further you pretend,--
From want of money, heaven defend!
Leave that to those who sleep in sheds,
Or on the pavement make their beds,
Who clean the streets, or carry news,
Repair old coats, or cobble shoes--
Of every ill with which we're curs'd
This want of money is the worst:
This was the curse that fell on Cain,
The vengeance for a brother slain:
For this he quit his native sod,
Retreated to the land of Nod,
And, in the torture of despair,
Turn'd poet, pimp, or newsman there--
Divines have labour'd in the dark
To find the meaning of his mark:
How many idle things they wrote--
'Twas nothing but a ragged coat.
Should money, now, be scarce with you,
With me, alas, 'tis nothing new!
We news-men always are in need,
(So Beer and Bacchus have decreed)
And still your bounty shall implore
Till--printing presses are no more!--
Did we not conjure up our strain
The year might come and go again,
Seasons advance, and moons decay,
And life itself make haste away,
And news-men only vex their brains
To have their labour for their pains--
Such usage I may find, 'tis true,
But then it would be--something new!
[374] I have not been able to find the paper which first used these New
Year's verses. The 1788 edition gave them the title "New Year's Verses
for 1788. [Supposed to be written by the Printer's lad, who supplies the
customers with his weekly paper.]" Text from the edition of 1795.
ON THE PROSPECT OF A REVOLUTION IN FRANCE[375]
_"Now, at the feast they plan the fall of Troy;
"The stern debate ATRIDES hears with joy"._
--_Hom. Odys._
Borne on the wings of time another year
Sprung from the past, begins its proud career:
From that bright spark which first illumed these lands,
See Europe kindling, as the blaze expands,
Each gloomy tyrant, sworn to chain the mind,
Presumes no more to trample on mankind:
Even potent Louis trembles on his throne,
The generous prince who made our cause his own,
More equal rights his injured subjects claim,
No more a country's strength--that country's shame;
Fame starts astonished at such prizes won,
And rashness wonders how the work was done.
Flushed with new life, and brightening at the view,
Genius, triumphant, moulds the world anew;
To these far climes in swift succession moves
Each art that Reason owns and sense approves.
What though his age is bounded to a span
Time sheds a conscious dignity on man,
Some happier breath his rising passion swells,
Some kinder genius his bold arm impels,
Dull superstition from the world retires,
Disheartened zealots haste to quench their fires;
One equal rule o'er twelve[A] vast States extends,
Europe and Asia join to be our friends,
Our active flag in every clime displayed
Counts stars on colours that shall never fade;
A far famed chief o'er this vast whole presides
Whose motto Honor is--whom Virtue guides
His walks forsaken in Virginia's groves
Applauding thousands bow where'er He moves,
Who laid the basis of this Empire sure
Where public faith should public peace secure.
Still may she rise, exalted in her aims,
And boast to every age her patriot names,
To distant climes extend her gentle sway,
While choice--not force--bids every heart obey:
Ne'er may she fail when Liberty implores,
Nor want true valour to defend her shores,
'Till Europe, humbled, greets our western wave,
And owns an equal--whom she wished a slave.
[A] At this time, Rhode-Island was not a member of the general
Confederation of the American States. [1788]--_Freneau's
note._
[375] This appeared first in the _Daily Advertiser_ of New York, March
7, 1790. It is the first of Freneau's series of poems on the French
Revolution and its message. Text from the edition of 1809.
TO A DOG[376]
Occasioned by putting him on shore at the Island of Sapola,
for theft
Since Nature taught you, Tray, to be a thief,
What blame have you, for working at your trade?
What if you stole a handsome round of beef;
Theft, in your code of laws, no crime was made.
The ten commandments you had never read,
Nor did it ever enter in your head:
But art and Nature, careful to conceal,
Disclos'd not even the Eighth--_Thou shalt not steal_.
Then to the green wood, caitiff, haste away:
There take your chance to live--for Truth must say,
We have no right, for theft, to hang up Tray.
[376] First published in the _National Gazette_, Nov. 3, 1791. Sapola
Island is one of the sea-islands of McIntosh County, Georgia, forty-two
miles southwest of Savannah. The somewhat unusual proceeding of putting
a worthless dog on shore, instead of the more common expedient of
killing him at once, is only another evidence of the poet's kindly
heart. Text from the edition of 1809.
TO LYDIA[377]
"_Tu procul a patria, ah dura! inculta deserta,
Me sine, sola videbis----_
VIRG. ECLOG.
Thus, safe arrived, she greets the strand,
And leaves her pilot for the land;
But Lydia, why to deserts roam,
And thus forsake your floating home!
To what fond care shall I resign
The bosom, that must ne'er be mine:
With lips, that glow beyond all art,
Oh! how shall I consent to part!--
Long may you live, secure from woes,
Late dying, meet a calm repose,
And flowers, that in profusion grow,
Bloom round your steps, where'er you go.
On you all eyes delight to gaze,
All tongues are lavish in your praise;
With you no beauty can compare,
Nor Georgia boast one flower so fair.
Could I, fair girl, transmit this page,
A present, to some future age,
You should through every poem shine,
You, be adored in every line:
From Jersey coasts too loth to sail,
Sighing, she left her native vale;
Borne on a stream that met the main,
Homeward she looked, and looked again.
The gales that blew from off the land
Most wantonly her bosom fanned,
And, while around that heaven they strove,
Each whispering zephyr owned his love.
As o'er the seas, with you I strayed,
The hostile winds our course delayed,
But, proud to waft a charge so fair,
To me were kind--and held you there.
I could not grieve, when you complained
That adverse gales our barque detained
Where foaming seas to mountains grow,
From gulphs of death, concealed below.
When travelling o'er that lonely wave
To me your feverish hand you gave,
And sighing, bade me tell you, true,
What lands again would rise to view!
When night came on, with blustering gale,
You feared the tempest would prevail,
And anxious asked, if I was sure
That on those depths we sailed secure?
Delighted with a face so fair,
I half forgot my weight of care,
The dangerous shoal, that seaward runs,
Encircled moons, and shrouded suns.
With timorous heart and tearful eyes,
You saw the deep Atlantic rise,
Saw wintry clouds their storms prepare,
And wept, to find no safety there.
Throughout the long December's night,
(While still your lamp was burning bright)
To dawn of day from evening's close
My pensive girl found no repose.
Then now, at length arrived from sea,
Consent, fair nymph, to stay with me--
The barque--still faithful to her freight,
Shall still on your direction wait.
Such charms as your's all hearts engage!
Sweet subject of my glowing page,
Consent, before my Argo roves
To sun-burnt isles and savage groves.
When sultry suns around us glare,
Your poet, still, with fondest care,
To cast a shade, some folds will spread
Of his coarse topsails o'er your head.
When round the barque the billowy wave
And howling winds, tempestuous, rave,
By caution ruled, the helm shall guide
Safely, that Argo o'er the tide.
Whene'er some female fears prevail,
At your request we'll reef the sail,
Disarm the gales that rudely blow,
And bring the loftiest canvas low.
When rising to harass the main
Old Boreas drives his blustering train,
Still shall they see, as they pursue,
Each tender care employed for you.
To all your questions--every sigh!
I still will make a kind reply;
Give all you ask, each whim allow,
And change my style to _thee_ and _thou_.
If verse can life to beauty give,
For ages I can make you live;
Beyond the stars, triumphant, rise,
While Cynthia's tomb neglected lies:
Upon that face of mortal clay
I will such lively colours lay,
That years to come shall join to seek
All beauty from your modest cheek.
Then, Lydia, why our bark forsake;
The road to western deserts take?
That lip--on which hung half my bliss,
Some savage, now, will bend to kiss;
Some rustic soon, with fierce attack,
May force his arms about that neck;
And you, perhaps, will weeping come
To seek--in vain--your floating home!
[377] There is a discrepancy in the dates given to this poem. It
was published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Sept. 3, 1788, with the
preliminary remarks: "The following copy of verses came accidentally
into my hands. I am told that it was written by Capt. Freneau and
addressed to a young Quaker lady who went passenger in his vessel to
Georgia to reside in the western parts of that State. From the New York
Daily Advertiser." It was reprinted in the 1795 edition, and in the
edition of 1809, where it has the note: "Miss Lydia Morris, a young
quaker lady, on her landing from the sloop Industry, at Savannah, in
Georgia, December 30th, 1806." I have followed the 1809 text.
TO CYNTHIA[378]
Through Jersey[379] groves, a wandering stream
That still its wonted music keeps,
Inspires no more my evening dream,
Where Cynthia, in retirement, sleeps.
Sweet murmuring stream! how blest art thou
To kiss the bank where she resides,
Where Nature decks the beechen bough
That trembles o'er your shallow tides.
The cypress-tree on Hermit's height,
Where Love his soft addresses paid
By Luna's pale reflected light--
No longer charms me to its shade!
To me, alas! so far removed,
What raptures, once, that scenery gave,
Ere wandering yet from all I loved,
I sought a deeper, drearier wave.
Your absent charms my thoughts employ:
I sigh to think how sweet you sung,
And half adore the painted toy
That near my careless heart you hung.
Now, fettered fast in icy fields,
In vain we loose the sleeping sail;
The frozen wave no longer yields,
And useless blows the favouring gale.
Yet, still in hopes of vernal showers,
And breezes, moist with morning dew,
I pass the lingering, lazy hours,
Reflecting on the spring--and you.
[378] This poem appeared in the _Freeman's Journal_, Jan. 29, 1789,
under the title: "Stanzas written at Baltimore in Maryland, Jan. 1789,
by Capt. P. Freneau." It was republished in the _Daily Advertiser_, Jan.
5, 1790, under the title "To Harriot." It was used in the editions of
1795 and 1809. The text follows the latter edition.
[379] "Monmouth's."--_Ed. 1789._ "Morven's vale."--_Ed. 1790._
AMANDA'S COMPLAINT[380]
"In shades we live, in shades we die,
Cool zephyrs breathe for our repose;
In shallow streams we love to play,
But, cruel you, that praise deny
Which you might give, and nothing lose,
And then pursue your destined way.
Ungrateful man! when anchoring here,
On shore you came to beg relief;
I shewed you where the fig trees grow,
And wandering with you, free from fear,
To hear the story of your grief
I pointed where the cisterns are,
And would have shewn, if streams did flow!
The Men that spurned your ragged crew,
So long exposed to Neptune's rage--
I told them what your sufferings were:
Told them that landsmen never knew
The trade that hastens frozen age,
The life that brings the brow of care.
A lamb, the loveliest of the flock,
To your disheartened crew I gave,
Life to sustain on yonder deep--
Sighing, I cast one sorrowing look
When on the margin of the main
You slew the loveliest of my sheep.
Along your native northern shores,
From cape to cape, where'er you stray,
Of all the nymphs that catch the eye,
They scarce can be excelled by our's--
Not in more fragrant shades they play;--
The summer suns come not so nigh.
Confess your fault, mistaken swain,
And own, at least, our equal charms--
Have you no flowers of ruddy hue,
That please your fancy on the plain?--
Would you not guard those flowers from harm,
If Nature's self each picture drew!
Vain are your sighs--in vain your tears,
Your barque must still at anchor lay,
And you remain a slave to care;
A thousand doubts, a thousand fears,
'Till what you said, you shall unsay,
Bermudian damsels are not fair!
[380] First published in the _New York Daily Advertiser_, Sept. 7, 1790,
under the title, "Written at Cape Hatteras," and dated June, 1789. The
last line of this version reads, "Hatteras maidens are not fair." It was
republished in the _National Gazette_, March 19, 1792, under the title
"Tormentina's Complaint," and dated "Castle Island, Bermuda, Jan. 20,
1789." In the 1809 edition, the text of which I have followed, it was
grouped with the Amanda poems.
HATTERAS[381]
In fathoms five the anchor gone;
While here we furl the sail,
No longer vainly labouring on
Against the western gale:
While here thy bare and barren cliffs,
O Hatteras, I survey,
And shallow grounds and broken reefs--
What shall console my stay!
The dangerous shoal, that breaks the wave
In columns to the sky;
The tempests black, that hourly rave,
Portend all danger nigh:
Sad are my dreams on ocean's verge!
The Atlantic round me flows,
Upon whose ancient angry surge
No traveller finds repose!
The Pilot comes!--from yonder sands
He shoves his barque, so frail,
And hurrying on, with busy hands,
Employs both oar and sail.
Beneath this rude unsettled sky
Condemn'd to pass his years,
No other shores delight his eye,
No foe alarms his fears.
In depths of woods his hut he builds,
Devoted to repose,
And, blooming, in the barren wilds
His little garden grows:
His wedded nymph, of sallow hue,
No mingled colours grace--
For her he toils--to her is true,
The captive of her face.
Kind Nature here, to make him blest,
No quiet harbour plann'd;
And poverty--his constant guest,
Restrains the pirate band:
His hopes are all in yonder flock,
Or some few hives of bees,
Except, when bound for Ocracock,[A]
Some gliding barque he sees:
[A] All vessels from the northward that pass within Hatteras
Shoals, bound for Newbern and other places on Palmico
Sound, commonly in favourable weather take a Hatteras
pilot to conduct them over the dangerous bar of Ocracock,
eleven leagues north southwest of the cape.--_Freneau's
note._
His Catharine then he quits with grief,
And spreads his tottering sails,
While, waving high her handkerchief,
Her commodore she hails:
She grieves, and fears to see no more
The sail that now forsakes,
From Hatteras' sands to banks of Core
Such tedious journies takes!
Fond nymph! your sighs are heav'd in vain;
Restrain those idle fears:
Can you--that should relieve his pain--
Thus kill him with your tears!
Can absence, thus, beget regard,
Or does it only seem?
He comes to meet a wandering bard
That steers for Ashley's stream.
Though disappointed in his views,
Not joyless will we part;
Nor shall the god of mirth refuse
The Balsam of the Heart:
No niggard key shall lock up Joy--
I'll give him half my store
Will he but half his skill employ
To guard us from your shore.
Should eastern gales once more awake,
No safety will be here:--
Alack! I see the billows break,
Wild tempests hovering near:
Before the bellowing seas begin
Their conflict with the land,
Go, pilot, go--your Catharine join,
That waits on yonder sand.
[381] Text from the edition of 1795. The poem seems to have appeared
first in the _Freeman's Journal_ of Dec. 9, 1789, with the title "The
Pilot of Hatteras, by Capt. Philip Freneau." Affixed was the note: "This
celebrated genius, the Peter Pindar of America, is now a master of a
packet which runs between New York, Philadelphia, and Charleston. His
tuneful numbers during the war did much to soften the disagreeable
sensations which a state of warfare so generally occasions." The poem
was reprinted in the _National Gazette_ of Jan. 16, 1792, with the note,
"Written off the Cape, July, 1789, on a voyage to South Carolina, being
delayed sixteen days with strong gales ahead." The poem was omitted from
the edition of 1809.
ST. CATHARINE'S[A][382]
[A] An island on the sea-coast of Georgia.--_Freneau's note._
He that would wish to rove a while
In forests green and gay,
From Charleston bar to Catharine's isle
Might sigh to find the way!
What scenes on every side appear,
What pleasure strikes the mind,
From Folly's train, thus wandering far,
To leave the world behind.
The music of these savage groves
In simple accents swells,
And freely here, their sylvan loves
The feather'd nation tells;
The panting deer through mingled shades
Of oaks forever green
The vegetable world invades,
That skirts the watery scene.
Thou sailor, now exploring far
The broad Atlantic wave,
Crowd all your canvas, gallant tar,
Since Neptune never gave
On barren seas so fine a view
As here allures the eye,
Gay, verdant scenes that Nature drew
In colours from the sky.
Ye western winds! awhile delay
To swell the expecting sail--
Who would not here, a hermit, stay
In yonder fragrant vale,
Could he engage what few can find,
That coy, unwilling guest
(All avarice banish'd from the mind)
Contentment, in the breast!
[382] Text from the edition of 1795. The poem seems to have appeared
first in the _National Gazette_ of Feb. 16, 1792, under the title,
"Lines written at St. Catharine's Island on the coast of Georgia,
November, 1789." The poem is not found in the 1809 edition.
TO MR. CHURCHMAN[383]
On the rejection of his Petition to the Congress of the United
States, to enable him to make a voyage to BAFFIN'S BAY, to
ascertain the truth of his Variation Chart
Churchman! methinks your scheme is rather wild
Of travelling to the pole
Where icy billows roll,
And pork and pease
Are said to freeze
Even at the instant they are boil'd.
Rejected, now, your humble, ardent prayer
For cash, to speed your way
To Baffin's frozen bay,
'Tis your own fault if you repine!
You should have mention'd some rich golden mine--
Not Variation Charts, that claim no care.
Avarice, alone, would sooner bid you go
Than all the inducements Art can shew:
The men, whom you petition for some dollars,
Tho' willing to be thought prodigious scholars,
Yet care as much for variation charts
As king of spades, and knave of hearts.
Churchman! 'tis best to quit this vain pursuit
This Variation is a common thing!
Rather attach yourself to Caesar's wing--
You'll find it better--better, sir, by half,
To sooth Pomposo's ear--or make him laugh:
So shall you, mounted in a coach and six,
Ride envoy to the country of the Creeks--
So shall you visit Europe's gaudy courts,
And see the polish'd world, at public charge;
Return--and spend your life in sports,
Be air'd in coach, and sail'd in barge:--
Pursue this track, thou man of curious soul,
Nor, like a whale, go puffing to the pole.
[383] This poem is found only in the 1795 edition. The Journal of the
House of Representatives, 1st Congress, 1st Session, April 20, 1789,
notes the investigations of John Churchman in regard to the magnetic
needle and the determination of longitude by his method and grants to
Churchman the right of exclusive use of his invention. Unfavorable
report on his petition for aid to enable him to make a voyage to
Baffin's Bay to pursue his investigations of the causes of the variation
of the magnetic needle.
THE PROCESSION TO SYLVANIA[384]
In Life's dull round, how often folks are cross'd,
Their projects spoil'd, their sayings misapplied;
Some friends in woods and some in oceans lost,
Some doom'd to walk on foot, while others ride.
But, now, let preachers moralize in verse,
While I to yonder caravan attend
That all prepar'd, like some slow moving herse
Begins its journey to an Indian land;
Bound for Sylvania!--sad, disheartening town,
When thou art nam'd how many a nymph will sigh,
Sigh, lest her sweet-heart should return a clown
With grizly homespun coat, long beard, and pumpkin pye.
This caravan with wondrous geer is stow'd,
All sorts of moveables--straw beds, and cradles,
Old records, salted fish, make up their load,
With kegs of brandy, frying pans, and ladles.
A pensive Printer in a one-horse chair
(Dragg'd slowly on by sullen sleepy steed,
With some ill-fated squires) brings up the rear,
Contriving future news for folks to read.
To guard the whole, a trusty knight appears,
With chosen men, to keep the wolves at bay:
They march--and lo! Belinda all in tears
That bears must hug instead of ladies gay.
[384] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, Dec. 30, 1789, with this
introduction: "The seat of government in South Carolina is removed by
act of Assembly from Charleston to Columbia, a dismal place in the
centre of that state consisting of only four houses. This removal is by
many in Carolina considered as premature and amongst other
animadversions has occasioned the two following poetic pieces which from
several circumstances we conclude to have been written by Mr. Freneau."
The title of the poem was originally "The Procession to Columbia." It
was published only in the 1795 edition.
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS[385]
From his obscure abode,
On many a tiresome road
The pilgrim, musing, took his way:
Through dark and dismal groves
Where the sad turtle loves
To pass the night, and kill the day.
In an obscure retreat,
I saw the pilgrim greet,
A barren soil and dreary town;--
Thy streets be-gloomed with trees
With pain the traveller sees,
Sylvania, barren of renown.--
What can console him there?--
Not even a house of prayer
With glittering spire is seen to rise--
No nymphs in gaudy trim
Will there be seen by him;--
No music, sermons, balls, or pigeon pies.
Dull, melancholy streams,
Dutch politics and schemes,
Owls screeching in the empty street--
Wolves howling at the doors--
Bears breaking into stores;
These make the picture of the town--complete.
[385] In the _Daily Advertiser_ of Dec. 30, 1789, this bore the title,
"A View of Columbia," and the opening line was "From Charleston's gay
abode." In the 1795 edition the title was changed to "Lysander's
Retreat." Text from the edition of 1809.
SANGRADO'S EXPEDITION TO SYLVANIA[386]
Tir'd of his journey o'er a sandy waste,
Sangrado to Sylvania[387] came at last:
A bear-skin coat was round his carcase roll'd,
Shivering with northern winds,[388] that blew so cold:
Dark was the night--much for his shins he fear'd,
For not one lamp in all the town appear'd,
Twelve was the hour--the citizens, in bed,
Slept sound--of bears and wolves no more in dread;
No city-guards, no watchmen hove in sight,
No chyming bell sung out the time of night;
But foggy blasts their wintry music blew
Through shabby trees that round the court-house[389] grew;
At length, alighting at one scurvy dome,
He knock'd--and hop'd the people were at home.--
Ho!--(cry'd the man within) ho! who are you?--
What! heigh!--from Cambria?[390]--have you nothing new?--
_Sangrado_
Nothing at all--the times are shameful bad;
Money at ten per cent--hard to be had:
With apples and potatoes, our dear cousins
The northern men, are pouring in by dozens:
The French, 'tis said, will soon discharge their king--
This, friend, is all I know--and all I bring--
_Citizen_
What! not some oysters, gather'd near the coast,
Such as in days of old we lov'd to roast?
_Sangrado_
No, not an oyster--faith, you're in a dream,
To think I'd load my little nag with them:
We both are weary; let me in, I pray,
Even though you turn us out at break of day.
_Citizen_
'Tis midnight now--return from whence you come--
High time all honest people were at home.
_Sangrado_
Brother, me thinks my toes are somewhat cold--
Unbar your door--if one may be so bold:
Wet to the skin, and travelling all the day,
I want some rest--open the door, I say!
_Citizen_
Open the door, forsooth! the man is mad:
Lodging is not so easy to be had;
It is an article we do not trade in,
Nor shall my bed by all the world be laid in.
Our very hay-loft is as full as can be--
Push off, my friend, and try your luck at Granby.
[386] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, Feb. 5, 1790, under the title
"A Columbian Dialogue from the Charleston Gazette, supposed to have been
written by Capt. Freneau." Text from the 1795 edition.
[387] "Columbia."--_Ed. 1790._
[388] "Shivering with Hobaw winds."--_Ib._
[389] "The State house."--_Ib._
[390] "Charleston."--_Ib._
THE DISTREST THEATRE[A][391]
[A] Harmony Hall, at Charleston, now demolished.--_Freneau's
note._
Health to the Muse!--and fill the glass,
Heaven grant her soon some better place,
Than earthen floor and fabric mean,
Where disappointment shades the scene:
There as I came, by rumour led,
I sighed and almost wished her dead;
Her visage stained with many a tear,
No Hallam and no Henry here!
But what could all their art attain?--
When pointed laws the stage restrain
The prudent Muse obedience pays
To sleepy squires, that damn all plays.
Like thieves they hang beyond the town,
They shove her off--to please the gown;--
Though Rome and Athens owned it true,
The stage might mend our morals too.
See, Mopsus all the evening sits
O'er bottled beer, that drowns his wits;
Were Plays allowed, he might at least
Blush--and no longer act the beast.
See, Marcia, now from guardian free,
Retailing scandal with her tea;--
Might she not come, nor danger fear
From Hamlet's sigh, or Juliet's tear.
The world but acts the player's part[B]--
(So says the motto of their art)--
That world in vice great lengths is gone
That fears to see its picture drawn.
[B] _Totus Mundus agit Histrionem.--Freneau's note._
Mere vulgar actors cannot please;
The streets supply enough of these;
And what can wit or beauty gain
When sleepy dullness joins their train?
A State betrays a homely taste,
By which the stage is thus disgraced,
Where, drest in all the flowers of speech,
Dame virtue might her precepts teach.
Let but a dancing bear arrive,
A pig, that counts you four, or five--
And Cato, with his moral strain
May strive to mend the world in vain.
[391] Published in the _National Gazette_, Nov. 21, 1791, with the
following explanation: "The amusements of the Theatre were some time
since prohibited within the limits of the City of Charleston by an act
of the Legislature of the State of South Carolina. In obedience to this
act all subsequent dramatic exhibitions were removed to an obscure
building in the City of liberties called Harmony Hall. The following
stanzas owe their origin to the above edict." Text from the 1809
edition.
TO MEMMIUS[392]
Whoe'er at Court would hope to cut a dash,
He must go loaded with some useful trash,
Something, sage Dullness, to prolong your reign;
All fancy--stuff--all ornament is vain!
Happy the man who plans, by force of steam
To drive his boat twelve knots against the stream;
Still happier he, who, born to build a bridge,
Schemes mighty matters on some river's edge:--
Such to the world the noblest light impart,
The first in genius, and the first in art!
Hence, then, ye bards, from our wise court refrain;
Wiseacres have forestall'd the present reign:
"No empty scribblings we endure at court"
(Cries Publius, poring o'er a dull Report;)
"Nothing but useful projects we require,
(Cries a new-fangled, self-important 'squire)
"Even Churchman, with his chart, will just but do,
"Who to the pole will now all art pursue:
"For foreign courts have fail'd our men of song,
"And trust me, bards, the Muses went along;
"Since that bright morn they stept on board their brig,
"No Muses here--no Muses are with pig;
"Nor 'till their barque shall heave in sight, once more,
"Shall one true Muse grow pregnant on this shore!"
Now, had not wayward Fortune fix'd me fast,
Firm to a point, that never shall be pass'd;
Did I the smiles of Fortune still pursue,
And, Memmius, wish to rise in fame, like you,
Were this my scheme, I'd quit at once the sail,
And haste to court with compasses and scale,
Quit all the hopes the finer arts bestow,
The flowers of fancy, and--no fruits that grow;
Indulge that powerful something in the scull
That makes us wealthy while it keeps us dull,
To the best place ensures a certain claim,
The road to fortune, and the road to fame.
[392] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795
edition. The reference to steamboats alludes to Fitch, who at that time
was experimenting with steam navigation. In 1790 he completed his fourth
boat, which during the summer made regular trips from Philadelphia to
Burlington, at the rate of eight miles per hour.
END OF VOLUME II