THE PARTING GLASS[51]

[Written at an Inn. By Hezekiah Salem.]

The man that joins in life's career

And hopes to find some comfort here;

To rise above this earthly mass,

The only way's to drink his Glass.

But, still, on this uncertain stage,

Where hopes and fears the soul engage;

And while, amid the joyous band,

Unheeded flows the measured sand,

Forget not as the moments pass,

That Time shall bring the parting glass!

In spite of all the mirth I've heard,

This is the glass I always feared;

The glass that would the rest destroy,

The farewell cup, the close of joy!

With You, whom Reason taught to think,

I could, for ages, sit and drink:

But with the fool, the sot, the ass,

I haste to take the parting glass.

The luckless wight, that still delays

His draught of joys to future days,

Delays too long--for then, alas!

Old age steps up, and--breaks the glass!

The nymph, who boasts no borrowed charms,

Whose sprightly wit my fancy warms;

What tho' she tends this country inn,

And mixes wine, and deals out gin?

With such a kind, obliging lass

I sigh, to take the parting glass.

With him, who always talks of gain,

(Dull Momus, of the plodding train)--

The wretch, who thrives by others' woes,

And carries grief where'er he goes:--

With people of this knavish class

The first is still my parting glass.

With those that drink before they dine--

With him that apes the grunting swine,

Who fills his page with low abuse,

And strives to act the gabbling goose

Turned out by fate to feed on grass--

Boy, give me quick, the parting glass.

The man, whose friendship is sincere,

Who knows no guilt, and feels no fear:--

It would require a heart of brass

With him to take the parting glass!

With him, who quaffs his pot of ale;

Who holds to all an even scale;

Who hates a knave, in each disguise,

And fears him not--whate'er his size--

With him, well pleased my days to pass,

May heaven forbid the Parting Glass!

[51] Published in the _National Gazette_, May 10, 1790. Text from the

1809 edition.

A WARNING TO AMERICA[52]

Removed from Europe's feuds, a hateful scene

(Thank heaven, such wastes of ocean roll between)

Where tyrant kings in bloody schemes combine,

And each forbodes in tears, Man is no longer mine!

Glad we recall the Day that bade us first

Spurn at their power, and shun their wars accurst;

Pitted and gaffed no more for England's glory

Nor made the tag-rag-bobtail of their story.

Something still wrong in every system lurks,

Something imperfect haunts all human works--

Wars must be hatched, unthinking men to fleece,

Or we, this day, had been in perfect peace,

With double bolts our Janus' temple shut,

Nor terror reigned through each back-woods-man's hut,

No rattling drums assailed the peasant's ear

Nor Indian yells disturbed our sad frontier,

Nor gallant chiefs, 'gainst Indian hosts combined

Scaped from the trap--to leave their tails behind.

Peace to all feuds!--and come the happier day

When Reason's sun shall light us on our way;

When erring man shall all his Rights retrieve,

No despots rule him, and no priests deceive,

Till then, Columbia!--watch each stretch of power,

Nor sleep too soundly at the midnight hour,

By flattery won, and lulled by soothing strains,

Silenus took his nap--and waked in chains--

In a soft dream of smooth delusion led

Unthinking Gallia bowed her drooping head

To tyrants' yokes--and met such bruises there,

As now must take three ages to repair.

Then keep the paths of dear bought freedom clear,

Nor slavish systems grant admittance here.

[1792]

[52] Written for July 4th, 1792, and published in the _National Gazette_

under the title "Independence." Text from the edition of 1809.

THE DISH OF TEA[53]

Let some in beer place their delight,

O'er bottled porter waste the night,

Or sip the rosy wine:

A dish of Tea more pleases me,

Yields softer joys, provokes less noise,

And breeds no base design.

From China's groves, this present brought,

Enlivens every power of thought,

Riggs many a ship for sea:

Old maids it warms, young widows charms;

And ladies' men, not one in ten

But courts them for their Tea.

When throbbing pains assail my head,

And dullness o'er my brain is spread,

(The muse no longer kind)

A single sip dispels the hyp:

To chace the gloom, fresh spirits come,

The flood-tide of the mind.

When worn with toil, or vext with care,

Let Susan but this draught prepare,

And I forget my pain.

This magic bowl revives the soul;

With gentlest sway, bids care be gay;

Nor mounts, to cloud the brain.

If learned men the truth would speak

They prize it far beyond their Greek,

More fond attention pay;

No Hebrew root so well can suit;

More quickly taught, less dearly bought,

Yet studied twice a day.

This leaf, from distant regions sprung,

Puts life into the female tongue,

And aids the cause of love.

Such power has Tea o'er bond and free;

Which priests admire, delights the 'squire,

And Galen's sons approve.

[53] Published in the _National Gazette_, July 7, 1792. Text from the

1809 edition.

ON THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY[54]

A Day ever Memorable to Regenerated France

Bright Day,[55] that did to France restore

What priests and kings had seiz'd away,

That bade her generous sons disdain

The fetters that their fathers wore,

The titled slave, a tyrant's sway,

That ne'er shall curse her soil again!

Bright day! a partner in thy joy,

Columbia hails the rising sun,

She feels her toils, her blood repaid,

When fiercely frantic to destroy,

(Proud of the laurels he had won)

The Briton, here, unsheath'd his blade.

By traitors driven to ruin's brink

Fair Freedom dreads united knaves,

The world must fall if she must bleed;--

And yet, by heaven! I'm proud to think

The world was ne'er subdued by slaves--

Nor shall the hireling herd succeed.

Boy! fill the generous goblet high;

Success to France, shall be the toast:

The fall of kings the fates foredoom,

The crown decays, its' splendours die;

And they, who were a nation's boast,

Sink, and expire in endless gloom.

Thou, stranger, from a distant shore,[A]

Where fetter'd men their rights avow,

Why on this joyous day so sad?

Louis insults with chains no more,--

Then why thus wear a clouded brow,

When every manly heart is glad?

[A] Addressed to the Aristocrats from Hispaniola.--_Freneau's

note._

Some passing days and rolling years

May see the wrath of kings display'd,

Their wars to prop the tarnish'd crown;

But orphans' groans, and widows' tears,

And justice lifts her shining blade

To bring the tottering bauble down.

[1792]

[54] This was published in the _National Gazette_, July 14, 1792,

introduced as follows:

"ODES ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.

"_HE who does not read in the book of the Odes, is like a man

standing with his face flat against a wall: he can neither

move forward, nor stir an inch backward._--Hau Kiou Choaan."

This was Ode I of the series. It was republished only in the edition of

1795, the text of which I have followed.

[55] On July 14, 1789, the French people made their first armed stand

against monarchial institutions, attacking and destroying the Bastile.

TO CRISPIN O'CONNER

A BACK-WOODSMAN[56]

[Supposed to be written by Hezekiah Salem]

Wise was your plan when twenty years ago

From Patrick's isle you first resolved to stray,

Where lords and knights, as thick as rushes grow,

And vulgar folks are in each other's way;

Where mother-country acts the step-dame's part,

Cuts off, by aid of hemp, each petty sinner,

And twice or thrice in every score of years

Hatches sad wars to make her brood the thinner.

How few aspire to quit the ungrateful soil

That starves the plant it had the strength to bear:

How many stay, to grieve, and fret, and toil,

And view the plenty that they must not share.

This you beheld, and westward set your nose,

Like some bold prow, that ploughs the Atlantic foam,

And left less venturous weights, like famished crows,--

To feed on hog-peas, hips, and haws, at home.

Safe landed here, not long the coast detained

Your wary steps:--but wandering on, you found

Far in the west, a paltry spot of land,

That no man envied, and that no man owned.

A woody hill, beside a dismal bog--

This was your choice; nor were you much to blame:

And here, responsive to the croaking frog,

You grubbed, and stubbed, and feared no landlord's claim.

An axe, an adze, a hammer, and a saw;

These were the tools, that built your humble shed:

A cock, a hen, a mastiff, and a cow:

These were your subjects, to this desert led.

Now times are changed--and labour's nervous hand

Bids harvests rise where briars and bushes grew;

The dismal bog, by lengthy sluices drained,

Supports no more hoarse captain Bull Frog's crew.--

Prosper your toil!--but, friend, had you remained

In lands, where starred and gartered nobles shine,

When you had, thus, to sixty years attained,

What different fate, 'Squire Crispin, had been thine!

Nine pence a day, coarse fare, a bed of boards,

The midnight loom, high rents, and excised beer;

Slave to dull squires, kings' brats, and huffish lords,

(Thanks be to Heaven) not yet in fashion here!

[56] Published in the _National Gazette_, July 18, 1792, as Ode II in

"Odes on Various Subjects." Text from the 1809 edition.

CRISPIN'S ANSWER

Much pleased am I, that you approve

Freedom's blest cause that brought me here:

Ireland I loved--but there they strove

To make me bend to King and Peer.

I could not bow to noble knaves,

Who Equal Rights to men deny:

Scornful, I left a land of slaves,

And hither came, my axe to ply:

The axe has well repaid my toil--

No king, no priest, I yet espy

To tythe my hogs, to tax my soil,

And suck my whiskey bottle dry.

In foreign lands what snares are laid!

There royal rights all right defeat;

They taxed my sun, they taxed my shade,

They taxed the offal that I eat.

They taxed my hat, they taxed my shoes,

Fresh taxes still on taxes grew;

They would have taxed my very nose,

Had I not fled, dear friends, to you.

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[57]

Since the day I attempted to print a gazette,

This Shylock Ap-Shenkin does nothing but fret:

Now preaching and screeching, then nibbling and scribbling,

Remarking and barking, and whining and pining, and still in a pet,

From morning 'till night, with my humble gazette.

Instead of whole columns our page to abuse,

Your readers would rather be treated with News:

While wars are a-brewing, and kingdoms undoing,

While monarchs are falling, and princesses squalling,

While France is reforming, and Irishmen storming--

In a glare of such splendour, what folly to fret

At so humble a thing as a poet's Gazette!

No favours I ask'd from your friends in the East:

On your wretched soup-meagre I left them to feast;

So many base lies you have sent them in print,

That scarcely a man at our paper will squint:--

And now you begin (with a grunt and a grin,

With the bray of an ass, and a visage of brass,

With a quill in your hand and a Lie in your mouth)

To play the same trick on the men of the South!

One Printer for Congress (some think) is enough,

To flatter, and lie, to palaver, and puff,

To preach up in favour of monarchs and titles,

And garters, and ribbands, to prey on our vitals:

Who knows but Pomposo will give it in fee,

Or make mister Shenkin the Grand Patentee!!!

Then take to your scrapers, ye Republican Papers,

No rogue shall go snacks--and the News-Paper Tax

Shall be puff'd to the skies, as a measure most wise--

So, a spaniel, when master is angry, and kicks it,

Sneaks up to his shoe, and submissively licks it.

[57] Text from the edition of 1795. First published in the _National

Gazette_, July 28, 1792, as number three of the Odes. In this, its

earliest version, the opening line was "Since the day we attempted the

Nation's Gazette." Before the title was the following: "Note well--the

following is to be sung or said as occasion may require." Not reprinted

in 1809.

TO MY BOOK[58]

Seven years are now elaps'd, dear rambling volume,

Since, to all knavish wights a foe,

I sent you forth to vex and gall 'em,

Or drive them to the shades below:

With spirit, still, of Democratic proof,

And still despising Shylock's canker'd hoof:

What doom the fates intend, is hard to say,

Whether to live to some far-distant day,

Or sickening in your prime,

In this bard-baiting clime,

Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away.

"Virtue, order, and religion,

"Haste, and seek some other region;

"Your plan is laid, to hunt them down,

"Destroy the mitre, rend the gown,

"And that vile hag, Philosophy, restore"--

Did ever volume plan so much before?

For seven years past, a host of busy foes

Have buzz'd about your nose,

White, black, and grey, by night and day;

Garbling, lying, singing, sighing:

These eastern gales a cloud of insects bring

That fluttering, snivelling, whimpering--on the wing--

And, wafted still as discord's demon guides,

Flock round the flame, that yet shall singe their hides.

Well!--let the fates decree whate'er they please:

Whether you're doom'd to drink oblivion's cup,

Or Praise-God Barebones eats you up,

This I can say, you've spread your wings afar,

Hostile to garter, ribbon, crown, and star;

Still on the people's, still on Freedom's side,

With full determin'd aim, to baffle every claim

Of well-born wights, that aim to mount and ride.

[58] First published in the _National Gazette_, August 4, 1792, as Ode

IV in the series, "Odes on Various Subjects." It bore the title "To the

National Gazette." The opening stanza was as follows:

"Nine months are now elaps'd, dear rambling paper,

Since first on this world's stage you cut your caper

With spirit still of democratic proof,

And still despising _Whaacum's_ canker'd hoof--

What doom the fates decree, is hard to say,

Whether to live to some far distant day,

Or sickening in your prime

In this news-taxing clime,

Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away.

AIR.

_Virtue_, _Order_, and _Religion_,*

Haste and seek some other region," etc.

The poem was revised for the edition of 1795, so as to refer to the

edition of 1788, issued seven years before the edition of 1795. It was

not published in 1809.

"*'The National Gazette is--the vehicle of party spleen and

opposition to the great principles of order, virtue, and

religion.' Gaz. U. States."

STANZAS[59]

To the memory of two young persons (twin brothers), ROBERT SEVIER and

WILLIAM SEVIER, who were killed by the Savages on Cumberland River, in

North-Carolina, in attempting to assist a new settler, who was then

passing the river with a numerous family

In the same hour two lovely youths were born,

Nature, with care, had moulded either clay:

In the same hour, from this world's limits torn,

The murderous Indian seiz'd their lives away.

Distress to aid, impell'd each generous breast;

With nervous arm they brav'd the adverse tide,

In friendship's cause encounter'd death's embrace,

Blameless they liv'd, in honour's path they died.

But ah! what art shall dry a father's tears!

Who shall relieve, or what beguile his pain!

Clouds shade his sun, and griefs advance with years--

Nature gave joys, to take those joys again.

Thou, that shall come to these sequester'd streams,

When times to come their story shall relate;

Let the fond heart, that native worth esteems,

Revere their virtues, and bemoan their fate.

[59] Published in the _National Gazette_, July 28, 1792, with a note

explaining that the brothers were killed "on the 15th day of January

last."

TO A PERSECUTED PHILOSOPHER[60]

As Aristippus once, with weary feet,

Pursued his way through polish'd Athens' street,

Minding no business but his own;

Out rush'd a set of whelps

With sun-burnt scalps,

(Black, red, and brown,)

That nipt his heels, and nibbled at his gown.

While, with his staff, he kept them all at bay

Some yelp'd aloud, some howl'd in dismal strain,

Some wish'd the sage to bark again:--

Even little Shylock seem'd to say,

"Answer us, sir, in your best way:--

"We are, 'tis true, a snarling crew,

"But with our jaws have gain'd applause,

"And--sir--can worry such as you."

The sage beheld their spite with steady eye,

And only stopp'd to make this short reply:

"Hark ye, my dogs, I have not learn'd to yelp,

"Nor waste my breath on every lousy whelp;

"Much less, to write, or stain my wholesome page

"In answering puppies--bursting with their rage:

"Hence to your straw!--such contest I disdain:

"Learn this, ('tis not amiss)

"For Men I keep a pen,

"For dogs, a cane!"

[60] First printed in the _National Gazette_, August 29, 1792, under the

title, "An Old Heathen Story. Adapted to Modern Times." Republished only

in the 1795 edition.

TO AN ANGRY ZEALOT[61]

[In Answer to Sundry Virulent Charges]

If of Religion I have made a sport,

Then why not cite me to the Bishop's Court?

Fair to the world let every page be set,

And prove your charge from all I've said and writ:--

What if this heart no narrow notions bind,

Its pure good-will extends to all mankind:

Suppose I ask no portion from your feast,

Nor heaven-ward ride behind your parish priest,

Because I wear not Shylock's Sunday face

Must I, for that, be loaded with disgrace?

The time has been,--the time, I fear, is now,

When holy phrenzy would erect her brow,

Round some poor wight with painted devils meet,

And worse than Smithfield blaze through every street;

But wholesome laws prevent such horrid scenes,

No more afraid of deacons and of deans,

In this new world our joyful Psalm we sing

That Even a Bishop is a Harmless Thing!

[61] Text from the edition of 1795. First published in the _National

Gazette_, Sept. 26, 1792, with the following introduction: "It is

asserted in Mr. Russel's (Boston) _Columbian Centinel_ of Sept. 12 (and

copied into Mr. Fenno's _Gazette of the United States_ of last Saturday)

that 'the Clergy of this country are constantly vilified, and _religion_

ridiculed through the medium of the _National Gazette_.' The author of

the assertion is requested to produce one or more passages from the

National Gazette to support his charge, otherwise, we shall conclude it

only _a dirty attempt to prevent the circulation of the National Gazette

in the Eastern States_:--But further," here follows the poem. Not

printed in edition of 1809.

THE PYRAMID OF THE FIFTEEN AMERICAN STATES[62]

*

* *

* * *

* * * *

* * * * *

Barbara Pyramidum sileat miracula Memphis;[a]

Heu, male servili marmora structa manu!

Libera jam, ruptis, Atlantias ora, catenis,

Jactat opus Phario marmore nobilius:

Namque Columbiadæ, facti monumenta parantes,

Vulgarem spernunt sumere materiam;

Magnanimi coelum scandunt, perituraque saxa

Quod vincat, celsa de Jovis arce petunt

Audax inde cohors stellis _E Pluribus Unum_

Ardua Pyramidos tollit ad astra caput.

Ergo, Tempus edax, quamvis durissima sævo

Saxa domas morsu, nil ibi juris habes:

Dumque polo solitis cognata nitoribus ardent

Sidera fulgebit Pyramis illa suis!

[a] The Latin verses were written by Mr. John Carey, formerly of

Philadelphia.--_Freneau's note._

[IN IMITATION OF THE PRECEDING LINES]

No more let barbarous Memphis boast

Huge structures reared by servile hands--

A nation on the Atlantic coast

Fettered no more in foreign bands,

A nobler Pyramid displays

Than Egypt's tyranny could raise.

Columbia's sons, to extend the fame

Of their exploits to future years,

No marble from the quarry claim,

But, soaring to the starry spheres,

Materials seek in Jove's blue sky

To endure when brass and marble die!

Arrived among the shining host,

Fearless, the proud invaders spoil

From countless gems, in æther lost,

These Stars, to crown their mighty toil:

To heaven a Pyramid they rear

And point the summit with a star.

Old wasteful Time! though still you gain

Dominion o'er the brazen tower,

On This your teeth will gnaw in vain,

Finding its strength beyond their power:

While kindred stars in æther glow,

This Pyramid will shine below!

[1792]

[62] Published in the _National Gazette_, Dec. 15, 1792. The Latin

verses had been contributed several weeks before with the request that

some reader of the paper furnish a translation. Text from the 1809

edition.

ON THE DEMOLITION OF THE FRENCH MONARCHY[63]

From Bourbon's brow the crown remov'd,

Low in the dust is laid;

And, parted now from all she lov'd,

Maria's[A] beauties fade:

[A] Maria Antoinette, late queen of France.--_Freneau's note._

What shall relieve her sad distress,

What power recall that former state

When drinking deep her seas of bliss,

She smil'd and look'd so sweet!--

With aching heart and haggard eye

She views the palace,[B] towering high,

Where, once, were pass'd her brightest days,

And nations stood, in wild amaze,

Louis! to see you eat.

[B] Thuilleries--within view of which the royal family of

France were at this time imprisoned.--1792.--_Ib._

This gaudy vision to restore

Shall fate its laws repeal,

And cruel despots rise once more

To plan a new Bastille!

Shall, from their sheathes, ten thousand blades[C]

In glittering vengeance start

To mow down slaves, and slice off heads,

Taking a monarch's part?--

Ah no!--the heavens this hope refuse;

Despots! they send you no such news--

Nor Conde, fierce, nor Frederick, stout,

Nor Catharine brings this work about,

Nor Brunswick's warlike art:

[C] Alluding to Mr. Edmund Burke's rant upon this subject.--_Ib._

The poet here refers to the well-known passage in Burke's

_Reflections on the Revolution in France_, published October,

1790, in which after describing the queen of France as he had

seen her in 1774 and the "prostrate homage" which her nation

had paid to her at that time, he dwells upon the contrast of

1789: "Oh, what a revolution! and what a heart must I have,

to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall!

Little did I dream when she added titles of veneration to

those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she

should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against

disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I

should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a

nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour and of

cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped

from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened

her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of

sophisters, oeconomists, and calculators has succeeded; and

the glory of Europe is extinguished forever."

Nor He,[D] that once, with fire and sword,

This western world alarm'd:

Throughout our clime whose thunders roar'd,

Whose legions round us swarm'd--

Once more his tyrant arm invades

A race[E] that dare be free:

His Myrmidons, with murdering blades,

In one base cause agree!--

Ill fate attend on every scheme

That tends to darken Reason's beam:

And, rising with gigantic might

In Virtue's cause, I see unite

Worlds, under Freedom's Tree!

[D] George III.--_Freneau's note._

[E] The French Republicans.--_Ib._

Valour, at length, by Fortune led,

The Rights of Man restores;

And Gallia, now from bondage freed,

Her rising sun adores:

On Equal Rights, her fabric plann'd,

Storms idly round it rave,

No longer breathes in Gallic land

A monarch, or a slave!

At distance far, and self-remov'd

From all he own'd and all he lov'd,

See!--turn'd his back on Freedom's blaze,

In foreign lands the Emigrant strays,

Or finds an early grave!

Enroll'd with these--and close immur'd,

The gallant chief[F] is found,

That, once, admiring crowds ador'd,

Through either world renown'd,

Here, bold in arms, and firm in heart,

He help'd to gain our cause,

Yet could not from a tyrant part,

But, turn'd to embrace his laws!--

Ah! hadst thou stay'd in fair Auvergne,[G]

And Truth from Paine vouchsaf'd to learn;

There, happy, honour'd, and retir'd,

Both hemispheres had still admir'd,

Still crown'd you with applause.

[F] La Fayette; at this time in the Prussian prison of

Spandau.--_Freneau's note._

[G] The province of France, where the Marquis's family estate

lay.--_Ib._

See!--doom'd to fare on famish'd steeds,

The rude Hungarians fly;

Brunswick, with drooping courage leads

Death's meagre family:

In dismal groups, o'er hosts of dead,

Their madness they bemoan,

No friendly hand to give them bread,

No Thionville their own!

The Gaul, enrag'd as they retire,

Hurls at their heads his blaze of fire--

What hosts of Frederick's reeking crew

Dying, have bid the world adieu,

To dogs their flesh been thrown!

Escap'd from death, a mangled train

In scatter'd bands retreat:

Where, bounding on Silesia's plain,

The Despot[H] holds his seat;

With feeble step, I see them go

The heavy news to tell

Where Oder's lazy waters flow,

Or glides the swift Moselle;

Where Rhine his various journey moves

Through marshy lands and ruin'd groves,

Or, where the vast Danubian flood

(So often stain'd by Austrian blood)

Foams with the autumnal swell.

[H] The Monarch of Prussia.--_Freneau's note._

But shall they not some tidings bear

Of Freedom's sacred flame,

And shall not groaning millions hear

The long abandon'd name?--

Through ages past, their spirits broke,

I see them spurn old laws,

Indignant, burst the Austrian yoke,

And clip the Eagle's[I] claws:

From shore to shore, from sea to sea

They join, to set the wretched free,

And, driving from the servile court

Each titled slave--they help support

The Democratic Cause!

[I] The imperial standard of Germany.--_Ib._

O France! the world to thee must owe

A debt they ne'er can pay:

The Rights of Man you bid them know,

And kindle Reason's Day!

Columbia, in your friendship blest,

Your gallant deeds shall hail--

On the same ground our fortunes rest,

Must flourish, or must fail:

But--should all Europe's slaves combine

Against a cause so fair as thine,

And Asia aid a league so base--

Defeat would all their aims disgrace,

And Liberty Prevail!

PHILADELPHIA, December 19, 1792.

[63] First published in the _National Gazette_, December 19, 1792, under

the title "Present View of France and Her combined Enemies," and

reproduced in the editions of 1795 and 1809. Text from the former

edition.

ON THE FRENCH REPUBLICANS[64]

These gallant men that some so much despise

Did not, like mushrooms, spring up in a night:

By them instructed, France again shall rise,

And every Frenchman learn his native right.

American! when in your country's cause

You march'd, and dar'd the English lion's jaws,

Crush'd Hessian slaves, and made their hosts retreat,

Say, were you not Republican--complete?

Forever banish'd, now, be prince and king,

To Nations and to Laws our reverence due:

And let not language to my memory bring,

A word that might recall the infernal crew,

Monarch!--henceforth I blot it from my page,

Monarchs and slaves too long disgrace this age;

But thou, Republican, that some disclaim,

Shalt save a world, and damn a tyrant's fame.

Friends to Republics, cross the Atlantic brine,

Low in the dust see regal splendour laid:

Hopeless forever, sleeps the Bourbon line

Long practis'd adepts in the murdering trade!

With patriot care the nation's will expressing

Republicans shall prove all Europe's blessing,

Pull from his height each blustering Noble down

And chace all modern Tarquins from the throne.

[64] I have found this only in the 1795 version.

ON THE PORTRAITS

Of Louis and Antoinette, in the Senate Chamber[65]

Discharg'd by France, no more the royal pair

Claim from a nation's love a nation's care:

Their splendid race no more a palace holds,--

While Louis frets, Antonietta scolds;

Folly's sad victims, fortune's bitter sport,

They take their stand among the "common sort,"

Doom'd through the world, in sad reverse, to roam,

Perhaps--without a shelter or a home!

To shew our pity for their short-liv'd reign

What shall we do, or how express our pain?

Since for their persons no relief is found

But cruel mobs degrade them to the ground,

To shew how deeply we regret their fall

We hang their portraits in our Senate Hall!

[65] Published Dec. 22, 1792, in the _National Gazette_ and republished

only in the 1795 edition. "These large and elegantly framed _pictures_

[of the King and Queen of France] arrived at Philadelphia in the ship

Queen of France, being presents from the king. They were set up in the

large committee-room of the senate, at the south-east corner of Sixth

and Chestnut streets--thence went to Washington city, and were burned,

I believe, by the British under General Ross."--_Watson's Annals of

Philadelphia._

TO A REPUBLICAN

With Mr. Paine's Rights of Man[66]

Thus briefly sketch'd the sacred Rights of Man,

How inconsistent with the Royal Plan!

Which for itself exclusive honour craves,

Where some are masters born, and millions slaves.

With what contempt must every eye look down

On that base, childish bauble call'd a crown,

The gilded bait, that lures the crowd, to come,

Bow down their necks, and meet a slavish doom;

The source of half the miseries men endure,

The quack that kills them, while it seems to cure.

Rous'd by the Reason of his manly page,

Once more shall Paine a listening world engage:

From Reason's source, a bold reform he brings,

In raising up mankind, he pulls down kings,

Who, source of discord, patrons of all wrong,

On blood and murder have been fed too long:

Hid from the world, and tutor'd to be base,

The curse, the scourge, the ruin of our race,

Theirs was the task, a dull designing few,

To shackle beings that they scarcely knew,

Who made this globe the residence of slaves,

And built their thrones on systems form'd by knaves--

Advance, bright years, to work their final fall,

And haste the period that shall crush them all.

Who, that has read and scann'd the historic page

But glows, at every line, with kindling rage,

To see by them the rights of men aspers'd,

Freedom restrain'd, and Nature's law revers'd,

Men, rank'd with beasts, by monarchs will'd away,

And bound young fools, or madmen to obey:

Now driven to wars, and now oppress'd at home,

Compell'd in crowds o'er distant seas to roam,

From India's climes the plundered prize to bring

To glad the strumpet, or to glut the king.

Columbia, hail! immortal be thy reign:

Without a king, we till the smiling plain;

Without a king, we trace the unbounded sea,

And traffic round the globe, through each degree;

Each foreign clime our honour'd flag reveres,

Which asks no monarch, to support the Stars:

Without a king, the Laws maintain their sway,

While honour bids each generous heart obey.

Be ours the task the ambitious to restrain,

And this great lesson teach--that kings are vain;

That warring realms to certain ruin haste,

That kings subsist by war, and wars are waste:

So shall our nation, form'd on Virtue's plan,

Remain the guardian of the Rights of Man,

A vast Republic, fam'd through every clime,

Without a king, to see the end of time.

[66] Text from the 1795 edition.

ODE TO LIBERTY[67]

Thou Liberty! celestial light

So long conceal'd from Gallic lands,

Goddess, in ancient days ador'd

By Gallia's conquering bands:

Thou Liberty! whom savage kings

Have plac'd among forbidden things,

Tho' still averse that man be free,

Secret, they bow to Liberty--

O, to my accents lend an ear,

Blest object of each tyrant's fear,

While I to modern days recall

The Lyric muse of ancient Gaul.

Ere yet my willing voice obeys

The transports of the heart,

The goddess to my view displays

A temple rear'd in ancient days,

Fit subject for the muse's art.

Now, round the world I cast my eye,

With pain, its ruins I descry:

This temple once to Freedom rais'd

Thermopylae! in thy fam'd strait--

I see it to the dust debas'd,

And servile chains, its fate!

In those fair climes, where freedom reign'd,

Two thousand years degrade the Grecian name,

I see them still enslav'd, enchain'd;

But France from Rome and Athens caught the flame--

A temple now to heaven they raise

Where nations bound in ties of peace

With olive-boughs shall throng to praise

The gallant Gaul, that bade all discord cease.

Before this Pantheon, fair and tall,

The piles of darker ages fall,

And freemen here no longer trace

The monuments of man's disgrace:

Before its porch, at Freedom's tree

Exalt the Cap of Liberty,

The cap[A] that once Helvetia knew

(The terror of the tyrant crew)

And on our country's altar trace

The features of each honour'd face--

The men that strove for equal laws,

Or perish'd, martyrs in their cause.

[A] Which owes its origin to William Tell, the famous deliverer

of Switzerland.--_Freneau's note._

Ye gallant chiefs, above all praise,

Ye Brutuses of ancient days!

Tho' fortune long has strove to blast,

Your virtues are repaid at last.

Your heavenly feasts awhile forbear

And deign to make my song your care;

My lyre a bolder note attains,

And rivals old Tyrtoeus' strains;

The ambient air returns the sound,

And kindles rapture all around.

With thee begins the lofty theme,

Eternal Nature--power supreme,

Who planted Freedom in the mind,

The first great right of all mankind:

Too long presumptuous folly dar'd

To veil our race from thy regard;

Tyrants on ignorance form'd their plan,

And made their crimes, the crimes of man,

Let victory but befriend our cause

And reason deign to dictate laws;

And once mankind their rights reclaim

And honour pay to thy great name.--

But O! what cries our joys molest,

What discord drowns sweet music's feast!

What demon, from perdition, leads

Night, fire and thunder o'er our heads!

In northern realms, prepar'd for fight,

A thousand savage clans unite.--

To avenge a faithless Helen's doom

All Europe's slaves, determin'd, come

Freedom's fair fabric to destroy

And wrap in flames our modern Troy!

These these are they--the murdering bands,

Whose blood, of old, distain'd our lands,

By our forefathers chac'd and slain,

The monuments of death remain:

Hungarians, wet with human blood,

Ye Saxons fierce, so oft subdued

By ancient Gauls on Gallic plains,

Dread, dread the race that still remains:

Return, and seek your dark abodes,

Your dens and caves in northern woods,

Nor stay to tell each kindred ghost

What thousands from your tribes are lost.

A friend[B] from hell, of murderous brood,

Stain'd with a hapless husband's blood,

Unites with Danube[C] and the Spree,[C]

Who arm to make the French their prey:

To check their hosts and chill with fear,

Frenchmen, advance to your frontier.

There dig the Eternal Tomb of kings,

Or Poland's fate each monster brings,

Mows millions down, your cause defeats,

And Ismael's horrid scene[D] repeats.

[B] Catharine the 2d, present Empress of Russia, who deposed

her husband, Peter the 3d, and deprived him of life in

July, 1762, while in prison.--_Freneau's note._

[C] Two great rivers of Germany; here metaphorically designating

the Austrian and Prussian powers.--_Ib._

[D] The Turkish fortress of Ismael, in 1786, stormed by the

Russian army. After carrying it by assault, upwards of

30,000 persons, men, women, and children were slaughtered

by the Russian barbarians, in less than three hours.--_Ib._

Ye nations brave, so long rever'd,

Whom Rome, in all her glory, fear'd;

Whose stubborn souls no tyrant broke

To bow the neck to Cæsar's yoke--

Scythians! whom Romans never chain'd;

Germans! that unsubdued remain'd,

Ah! see your sons, a sordid race,

With despots leagu'd, to their disgrace

Aid the base cause that you abhor,

And hurl on France the storm of war.

Our bold attempts shake modern Rome,

She bids her kindred despots come;

From Italy her forces draws

To waste their blood in Tarquin's cause:

A hundred hords of foes advance,

Embodying on the verge of France;

'Mongst these, to guide the flame of war,

I see Porsenna's[E] just a score,

While from the soil, by thousands, spring

Scevola's[F] to destroy each king.

[E] An ancient king of Etruria who took Tarquin's part against

the Romans.--_Freneau's note._

[F] Scevola, who attempted the life of Porsenna in his own camp,

but failed.--_Ib._

O Rome! what glory you consign

To those who court your ancient fame!

Frenchmen, like Romans, now shall shine,

And copying them, their ancient honours claim.

O France, my native clime, my country dear,

While youth remains, may I behold you free,

Each tyrant crush'd, no threatening despot near

To endanger Liberty!

By you unfetter'd be all human kind,

No slaves on earth be known

And man be blest, in friendship join'd,

From Tyber to the Amazon!

[67] The Philadelphia _General Advertiser_ of May 21, 1793, reports in

full the "Republican dinner" given Genet, May 18, at which about one

hundred citizens were present, chiefly "French, French-Americans,

officers of the Frigate l'Embuscade, etc." The following is from this

report:

"After the third toast [The United States], an elegant ode, suited to

the occasion, and composed by Citizen PICHON, a young Frenchman of

promising abilities, was read by Citizen DUPONCEAU, and universally

applauded. The society, on motion, ordered that Citizen FRENEAU should

be requested to translate it into English verse, and that the original

and translation should be published. The society also unanimously voted

that Citizen PICHON should be recommended to the notice of the

Minister."

The French version of the Ode appeared in the _Advertiser_ on May 27;

the translation was printed May 31. Both ode and translation were

published in the edition of 1795, the text of which I have followed. It

was not republished in 1809. Following is the French text as it appeared

in the _Advertiser_:

ODE A LA LIBERTE.

By Citizen PICHON, read at the late dinner given to Citizen GENET, by

the French of this City.

O toi, dont l'auguste lumiere

Si long tems avait fui nos yeux!

Toi, jadis l'idole premiere

De mes invincibles ayeux,

LIBERTE, qu'un tyran sauvage,

A l'instant meme qu'il t'outrage

Honore par des voeux secrets;

A mes accens prete l'oreille,

Aujourdhui ma muse reveille

L'antique lutte des vieux Français.

Avant que ma voix obeisse

Au transport que saisit mes sens,

Montre moi deesse propice

Un temple digne de mes chants!

Mon oeil a parcouru la terre

J'y trouve a peine la pouissiere

D'un dome a ton nom consacré,

Un tyran siege aux Thermopyles

Et sous les chaines les plus viles

Le capitole est encombré.

Vingt siecles de honte et de chaines

Ont pese sur ces lieux divins;

C'est nous qui de Rome et de l'Athenes

Resusciterons les destins.

Francais, soyons seuls notre exemple

Qu'a ma voix on eleve un temple

Ou tous les peuples a jamais

Depouillant des haines sauvages

Viennent de palmes et d'homages

Couronner les heros Français.

Devant ce Pantheon sublime

Brisez ces palais infamans

De nos opprobres et du crime

Honteux et cruels monumens.

Au pied de ses nobles portiques

Plantez ces bonnets Helvetiques

Devenus la terreur des rois;

Et sur l'autel de la patrie

Gravez l'honorable effigie

Des martirs sacrés de nos droits.

Vous m'entendez, manes augustes

De Thrasibule et de Brutus!

Les Destins trop long tems injustes

Couronnent enfin vos vertus--

Paraissez, ombres adorées

Venez de vos fetes sacrées

Remplir les sublimes concerts

Deja ma lyre transportée

Rivale des chants de Tyrtée

De ses sons etonne les airs.

C'est par toi que l'hymne commence

Maitre supreme, etre eternal!

Toi qui sis de l'independance

Le premier besoin du mortel.

Long tems l'ignorance et l'audace

Couvrirent ton auguste face,

Du masque impur de leurs forfaits

Un seul combat, une victoire

Venge nos droits et rend ta gloire

Plus eclatante que jamais.

Mais quels cris viennent de nos fetes

Troubler les chants majestueux?

Quel demon porte sur nos tetes

La nuit, le tonnerre, et les feux?

Verrons nous des hordes sauvages

Inonder encore nos rivages,

Des terrens du Septentrion;

Et pour venger une autre Helene

Tout la force Europeene

Investit une autre Ilion.

C'etoient ces bandes homicides

Dont le sang versé tant de fois

De mes ancetres intrepides

Atteste encore les exploits--

Fiers _Saxons_, Hongres Sanguinaires

Esclaves jadis de mes peres

Craignez leurs braves descendans

Rentrez en vos cavernes sombres

Ou craignez d'avertir leurs ombres

Des revoltes de vos enfans:

Une Tisiphone egarée

Teinte encore du sang d'un epoux

Avec le Danube et la Sprée

S'unit et s'arme contre nous

A ces despotes sanguinaires:

Francais, volez sur vos frontieres

Creuser un eternel tombeau;

Ou craignez pour votre patrie,

Et l'opprobe de Warsovie

Et les horreurs d'Ismailow!

Et vous qu'au sort de ses conquetes

Rome craignit pour ses remparts

Peuples dont les augustes tetes

S'indignant du joug des Cesars,

Scythes aux fers inaccessibles,

Fiers Germains, Teutons invincibles,

Voyez vos laches descendans

D'une main vile et sanguinaire

Sur les bienfaiteurs de la terre

Lancer la foudre des tyrans.

Ainsi, par des faits heroiques

Rome allarmant tous ses voisins

Vit tous les peuples Italiques

Vendre leurs bras a ses Tarquins.

Sur ses frontieres investies

Avec cent hordes ennemies

La France voit vingt Porsennas

Contre tant de liberticides

Nos phalanges tyrannicides

Vomiront mille Scevolas.

O Rome! tu leguas ta gloire

Aux peuples faits pour l'imiter!

C'est nous Français que la victoire

Au meme faite veut porter.

O France, O ma chere patrie!

Puisse-je au printems de ma vie

Te voir les despotes soumis

Et que par toi l'univers libre

De l'Amazone jusqu'au Tibre

N'offre que des peuples amis!

ODE[68]

God save the Rights of Man!

Give us a heart to scan

Blessings so dear:

Let them be spread around

Wherever man is found,

And with the welcome sound

Ravish his ear.

Let us with France agree,

And bid the world be free,

While tyrants fall!

Let the rude savage host

Of their vast numbers boast--

Freedom's almighty trust

Laughs at them all!

Though hosts of slaves conspire

To quench fair Gallia's fire,

Still shall they fail:

Though traitors round her rise,

Leagu'd with her enemies,

To war each patriot flies,

And will prevail.

No more is valour's flame

Devoted to a name,

Taught to adore--

Soldiers of Liberty

Disdain to bow the knee,

But teach Equality

To every shore.

The world at last will join

To aid thy grand design,

Dear Liberty!

To Russia's frozen lands

The generous flame expands:

On Afric's burning sands

Shall man be free!

In this our western world

Be Freedom's flag unfurl'd

Through all its shores!

May no destructive blast

Our heaven of joy o'ercast,

May Freedom's fabric last

While time endures.

If e'er her cause require!--

Should tyrants e'er aspire

To aim their stroke,

May no proud despot daunt--

Should he his standard plant,

Freedom will never want

Her hearts of oak!

[68] This ode was sung at the Civic Feast given to Genet in Philadelphia

by the French and Citizens, June 1, 1793. The affair is described in

detail in Bache's _Aurora_ of June 4th. After three of the toasts the

artillery fired salutes with two twelve pounders, fifteen rounds each.

Freneau's ode was sung after the seventh toast, "with great effect." As

to the date of composition of the ode I can find no reliable evidence.

Conway, in his life of Paine, mentions that it was sung in 1791 at the

November Festival of the London Revolution Society. It was published in

the edition of 1795, but was not reproduced in 1809.

ON THE DEATH[69]

Of a Republican Printer

[By his Partner and Successor]

Like Sybil's leaves, abroad he spread

His sheets, to awe the aspiring crew:

Stock-jobbers fainted while they read;

Each hidden scheme display'd to view--

Who could such doctrines spread abroad

So long, and not be clapper-claw'd!

Content with slow uncertain gains,

With heart and hand prepar'd he stood

To send his works to distant plains,

And hills beyond the Ohio-flood--

And, since he had no time to lose,

Preach'd whiggish lectures with his news.

Now death, with cold unsparing hand,

(At whose decree even Capets fall)

From life's poor glass has shook his sand,

And sent him, fainting, to the wall--

Because he gave you some sad wipes,

O Mammon! seize not thou his types.

What shall be done, in such a case?--

Shall I, because my partner fails,

Call in his bull-dogs from the chace

To loll their tongues and drop their tails--

No, faith--the title-hunting crew

No longer fly than we pursue.

[69] Published in the _National Gazette_, July 6, 1793, under the title

"Reflections on the Death of a Country Printer." Republished in the

edition of 1795, which the text follows, and not inserted in the 1809

edition.

ON THE ANNIVERSARY[70]

Of the Storming of the Bastille, at Paris, July 14th, 1789

The chiefs that bow to Capet's reign,

In mourning, now, their weeds display;

But we, that scorn a monarch's chain,

Combine to celebrate the Day

To Freedom's birth that put the seal,

And laid in dust the proud Bastille.

To Gallia's rich and splendid crown,

This mighty Day gave such a blow

As Time's recording hand shall own

No former age had power to do:

No single gem some Brutus stole,

But instant ruin seiz'd the whole.

Now tyrants rise, once more to bind

In royal chains a nation freed--

Vain hope! for they, to death consign'd,

Shall soon, like perjur'd Louis, bleed:

O'er every king, o'er every queen

Fate hangs the sword, and guillotine.

"Plung'd in a gulf of deep distress

France turns her back--(so traitors say)

Kings, priests, and nobles, round her press,

Resolv'd to seize their destin'd prey:

Thus Europe swears (in arms combin'd)

To Poland's doom is France consign'd."

Yet those, who now are thought so low

From conquests that were basely gain'd,

Shall rise tremendous from the blow

And free Two Worlds, that still are chain'd,

Restrict the Briton to his isle,

And Freedom plant in every soil.

Ye sons of this degenerate clime,

Haste, arm the barque, expand the sail;

Assist to speed that golden time

When Freedom rules, and monarchs fail;

All left to France--new powers may join,

And help to crush the cause divine.

Ah! while I write, dear France Allied,

My ardent wish I scarce restrain,

To throw these Sybil leaves aside,

And fly to join you on the main:

Unfurl the topsail for the chace

And help to crush the tyrant race!

[70] Printed in the _National Gazette_, July 17, 1793, and republished

in the edition of 1795. Omitted from the edition of 1809.

THOUGHTS ON THE EUROPEAN WAR SYSTEM[71]

By H. Salem

The People in Europe are much to be praised,

That in fighting they choose to be passing their days;

If their wars were abolished, there's room to suppose

Our Printers would growl, for the want of New-News.

May our tidings of warfare be ever from thence,

Nor that page be supplied at Columbia's expence!

No kings shall rise here, at the nod of a court,

Ambition, or Pride, with men's lives for to sport.

In such a display of the taste of the times--

The murder of millions--their quarrels and crimes,

A horrible system of ruin we scan,

A history, truly descriptive of man:

A Being, that Nature designed to be blest--

With abundance around him--yet rarely at rest,

A Being, that lives but a moment in years,

Yet wasting his life in contention and wars;

A Being, sent hither all good to bestow,

Yet filling the world with oppression and woe!

But, consider, ye sages, (and pray be resigned)

What ills would attend a reform of mankind--

Were wars at an end, and no nation made thinner,

My neighbour, the gun-smith, would go without dinner;

The Printers, themselves, for employment would fail,

And soldiers, by thousands, be starving in jail.

[71] Published in the 1795 and 1809 editions, the latter of which I have

followed.

A MATRIMONIAL DIALOGUE[72]

Humbly Inscribed to My Lord Snake

One Sabbath-day morning said Sampson to Sue

"I have thought and have thought that a Title will do;

Believe me, my dear, it is sweeter that syrup

To taste of a title, as cooked up in Europe;

"Your ladyship" here and "your ladyship" there,

"Sir knight," and "your grace," and "his worship the mayor!"

But here, we are nothing but vulgar all over,

And the wife of a cobbler scarce thinks you above her:

What a country is this, where Madam and Miss

Is the highest address from each vulgar-born cur,

And I--even I--am but Mister and Sir!

Your Equal-Right gentry I ne'er could abide

That all are born equal, by Me is denied:

And Barlow and Paine shall preach it in vain;

Look even at brutes, and you'll see it confest

That some are intended to manage the rest;

Yon' dog of the manger, how stately he struts!

You may swear him well-born, from the size of his guts;

Not a better-born whelp ever snapped at his foes,

All he wants is a Glass to be stuck on his Nose:

And then, my dear Sue, between me and you,

He would look like the gemman whose name I forget,

Who lives in a castle and never pays debt."

"My dear (answered Susan) 'tis said, in reproach,

That you climb like a bear when you get in a coach:

Now, your nobles that spring from the nobles of old,

Your earls, and your knights, and your barons, so bold,

From Nature inherit so handsome an air

They are noblemen born, at first glance we may swear:

But you, that have cobbled, and I, that have spun,

'Tis wrong for our noddles on Titles to run:

Moreover, you know, that to make a fine show,

Your people of note, of arms get a coat;

A boot or a shoe would but sneakingly do,

And would certainly prove our nobility New."

"No matter (said Sampson) a coach shall be bought:

Though the low-born may chatter, I care not a groat;

Around it a group of devices shall shine,

And mottoes, and emblems--to prove it is mine;

Fair liberty's Cap, and a Star, and a Strap;

A Dagger, that somewhat resembles an Awl,

A pumpkin-faced Goddess supporting a Stall:

All these shall be there--how people will stare!

And Envy herself, that our Title would blast

May smile at the motto,--the First shall be Last."[A]

[A] Qui primus fuit nunc ultimus.--Motto on a certain

coach.--_Freneau's note._

[72] First published in the _National Gazette_, August 11, 1792, under

the title "A Curious Dialogue." In this earliest version it is noted

that the piece was "occasioned by emblematic devices on a certain

travelling coach." Text from the 1809 edition.

ON THE MEMORABLE[73]

Naval Engagement between the Republican Frigate _L'Ambuscade_

Captain Bompard, and the British Royal Frigate _Boston_, Captain

Courtney, off the coast of New-Jersey.--1792

Resolved for a chace,

All Frenchmen to face,

Bold Boston from Halifax sailed,

With a full flowing sheet,

The pride of the fleet,

Not a vessel she saw, but she hailed;

With Courtney, commander, who never did fear,

Nor returned from a fight with a "flea in his ear."

As they stered for the Hook,

Each swore by his book,

"No prayers should their vengeance retard;

"They would plunder and burn,

"They would never return

"Unattended by Captain Bompard!

"No Gaul can resist us, when once we arouse,

"We'll drown the monsieurs in the wash of our bows."

A sail now appeared,

When toward her they steered,

Each crown'd with his Liberty-Cap;

Under colours of France did they boldly advance,

And a small privateer did entrap--

The time may have been when their nation was brave,

But now, their best play is to cheat and deceive.

Arrived at the spot

Where they meant to dispute,

Thus Courtney sent word, in a heat:

"Since fighting's our trade,

"Their bold Ambuscade

"Must be sunk, or compelled to retreat:

"Tell Captain Bompard, if his stomach's for war,

"To advance from his port, and engage a bold tar."

Brave Captain Bompard

When this challenge he heard,

Though his sails were unbent from the yards,

His topmasts struck down,

And his men half in town;

Yet sent back his humble regards--

The challenge accepted; all hands warned on board,

Bent, their sails, swore revenge, and the frigate unmoored.

The Boston, at sea,

Being under their lee,

For windward manoeuvred in vain;

'Till night coming on,

Both laid by 'till dawn,

Then met on the watery plain,

The wind at north-east, and a beautiful day,

And the hearts of the Frenchmen in trim for the fray.

So, to it they went,

With determined intent

The fate of the day to decide

By the virtues of powder;

(No argument louder

Was e'er to a subject applied)

A Gaul with a Briton in battle contends,

Let them stand to their guns, and we'll see how it ends.

As the Frenchman sailed past,

Boston gave him a blast,

Glass bottles, case knives, and old nails,

A score of round shot,

And the devil knows what,

To cripple his masts and his sails.

The Boston supposed it the best of her play

To prevent him from chacing--if she ran away.

The Frenchman most cool,

(No hot-headed fool,)

Returned the broadside in a trice;

So hot was the blast,

He disabled one mast,

And gave them some rigging to splice,

Some holes for to plug, where the bullets had gone,

Some yards to replace, and some heads to put on.

Three glasses, and more,

Their cannons did roar,

Shot flying in horrible squads;

'Midst torrents of smoke,

The Republican spoke,

And frightened the Anglican gods!

Their frigate so mauled, they no longer defend her,

And, Courtney shot down--they bawled out to surrender!

"O la! what a blunder

"To provoke this French thunder!

"We think with the devil he deals--

"But since we dislike

"To surrender and strike,

"Let us try the success of our heels:

"We may save the king's frigate by running away,

"The Frenchman will have us--all hands--if we stay!"

So squaring their yards,

On all Captain Bompard's,

A volley of curses they shed--

Having got their Discharge,

They bore away large,

While the Frenchman pursued, as they fled.

But vain was his haste--while his sails he repaired,

He ended the fray in a chace--

The Gaul got the best of the fight, 'tis declared;

The Briton--the best of the race!

[73] Published in the _National Gazette_, Aug. 17, 1793. The frigate

_L'Ambuscade_, which had borne Citizen Genet from France to Charleston,

where he arrived April 8, 1792, and which was soon after stationed at

Philadelphia, caused much trouble to the federal government by making

American ports her basis for operations upon English shipping. She

captured several British ships, among them the _Grange_ and the _Little

Sarah_. Text from the 1809 edition.

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[74]

[In Reply to Big Looks and Menaces]

Because some pumpkin-shells and lobster claws,

Thrown o'er his garden walls by Crab-tree's duke,

Have chanc'd to light within your meagre jaws,

(A dose, at which all honest men would puke:)

Because some treasury-luncheons you have gnaw'd,

Like rats, that prey upon the public store:

Must you, for that, your crude stuff belch abroad,

And vomit lies on all that pass your door!

To knavery's tribe my verse still fatal found,

Alike to kings and coblers gives their due:

Spruce tho' you be, your heels may drum the ground,

And make rare pass-time for the sportive crew.

Why all these hints of menace, dark and sad,

What is my crime, that thus Ap-Shenkin raves?

No secret-service-money have I had

For waging two years' war with fools and knaves.

Abus'd at court, unwelcome to the Great--

This page of mine no well-born aspect wears:

On honest yeomen I repose its fate,

Clodhopper's dollar is as good as theirs.

Why wouldst thou then with ruffian hand destroy

A wight, that wastes his ink in Freedom's cause:

Who, to the last, his arrows will employ

To publish Freedom's rights, and guard her laws!

O thou! that hast a heart so flinty hard

Thus oft, too oft, a poet to rebuke,

From those that rhyme you ne'er shall meet regard;

Of Crab-tree's dutchy--you shall be no Duke.

[74] Called forth by Hamilton's letters in Fenno's _Gazette_, charging

Freneau with being a mere hired tool of Jefferson. Published in the 1795

edition, but omitted from the 1809 collection.

PESTILENCE[75]

Hot, dry winds forever blowing,

Dead men to the grave-yards going:

Constant hearses,

Funeral verses;

Oh! what plagues--there is no knowing!

Priests retreating from their pulpits!--

Some in hot, and some in cold fits

In bad temper,

Off they scamper,

Leaving us--unhappy culprits!

Doctors raving and disputing,

Death's pale army still recruiting--

What a pother

One with t'other!

Some a-writing, some a-shooting.

Nature's poisons here collected,

Water, earth, and air infected--

O, what pity,

Such a City,

Was in such a place erected!

[75] Published in the 1795 edition. In the index of the 1809 edition,

the text of which I have used, it bears the title "Pestilence: written

during the Prevalence of a yellow fever." It refers to the well-known

epidemic in Philadelphia during the late summer and early autumn of

1793.

ON DR. SANGRADO'S FLIGHT[76]

From Philadelphia, in the Time of the Yellow Fever--1793

On prancing steed, with spunge at nose,

From town behold Sangrado fly;

Camphor and Tar where'er he goes

Th' infected shafts of death defy--

Safe in an atmosphere of scents,

He leaves us to our own defence.

'Twas right to fly! for well, I ween,

In Stygian worlds, all scribes agree,

No blushing blossom e'er was seen,

Or running brook, or budding tree:

No splendid meats, no flowing bowls,

Smile on the meagre feast of souls:

No sprightly songs, to banish grief,

No balls, the Elysian beaus prepare,

And he that throve on rounds of beef,

On onion shells shall famish there--

Monarchs are there of little note,

And Cæsar wears a shabby coat.

Chloes on earth, of air and shape,

Whose eyes destroy'd poor love-lorn wights,

There lower their topsails to the cap,

Rig in their booms and furl their kites:--

Where Cupid's bow was never bent,

What lover asks a maid's consent?

All this, and more, Sangrado knew,

(In Lucian is the story told)

Took horse--clapped spurs--and off he flew,

Leaving his Sick to fret and scold;

Some soldiers, thus, to honour lost,

In day of battle quit their post.

[76] First published in the _National Gazette_, September 4, 1793, under

the title "Orlando's Flight." Text from the 1809 edition.

ELEGY[77]

On the Death of a Blacksmith

With the nerves of a Sampson, this son of the sledge,

By the anvil his livelihood got;

With the skill of old Vulcan could temper an edge;

And struck--while his iron was hot.

By forging he lived, yet never was tried,

Or condemned by the laws of the land;

But still it is certain, and can't be denied,

He often was burnt in the hand.

With the sons of St. Crispin no kindred he claimed,

With the last he had nothing to do;

He handled no awl, and yet in his time

Made many an excellent shoe.

He blew up no coals of sedition, but still

His bellows was always in blast;

And we will acknowledge (deny it who will)

That one Vice, and but one, he possessed.

No actor was he, or concerned with the stage,

No audience, to awe him, appeared;

Yet oft in his shop (like a crowd in a rage)

The voice of a hissing was heard.

Tho' steelling[78] was certainly part of his cares,

In thieving he never was found;

And, tho' he was constantly beating on bars,

No vessel he e'er ran aground.

Alas and alack! and what more can I say

Of Vulcan's unfortunate son?--

The priest and the sexton have borne him away,

And the sound of his hammer is done.

[77] Published in the _National Gazette_, September 18, 1793. Text from

the 1809 edition.

TO SYLVIUS[79]

On his Preparing to Leave the Town

Can love of fame the gentle muse inspire

Where he that hoards the most has all the praise;

Where avarice, and her tribe, each bosom fire,

All heap the enormous store for rainy days;

Proving by such perpetual round of toil

That man was born to grovel on the soil?

Expect not, in these times of rude renown

That verse, like your's, will have the chance to please:

No taste for plaintive elegy is known,

Nor lyric ode--none care for things like these--

Gold, only gold, this niggard age delights,

That honours none but money-catching wights.

Sink not beneath the mean abusive strain

Of puny wits, dull sycophants in song,

Who, post, or place, or one poor smile to gain,

Besiege Mambrino's door, and round him throng

Like insects creeping to the morning sun

To enjoy his heat--themselves possessing none.

All must applaud your choice, to quit a stage

Where knaves and fools in every scene abound;

Where modest worth no patron can engage--

But boisterous folly walks her noisy round;

Some narrow-hearted demi-god adores,

And Fortune's path with servile step explores.

[78] "Tho' steelling of axes was part of his cares."--_1795 Ed._

[79] Text from the 1809 edition. This was Freneau's valedictory on

leaving Philadelphia after the failure of the _National Gazette_.

THE BLESSINGS OF THE POPPY[80]

--_Opifer per Orbem dicor._

"In this the God, benevolent to man,

Lulls every woe, and deadens every pain."

When the first men to this world's climates came

Smit by the winter's rude inclement blast,

Unskilled to raise the wall, or wake the fire,

Badly, in narrow huts, their lives they passed.

Conscious of pains they knew not how to cure,

In vain they sighed, and sighing begged relief,

No druggist came, by art or reason taught

With strength of potent herbs, to calm their grief.

Fierce tortures to allay, some reverend sage

Preach'd Patience to the pangs, that could not hear;

For restless anguish doomed her victim still

To groan thro' life, and sigh from year to year,

At length from Jove, and heaven's etherial dome

Sky-walking Hermes came to view these plains:

He looked--and saw what fate or gods had done,

And gave the Poppy, to relieve all pains.

Then to the sons of grief his speech addressed,

"Through this dull flower is shed such potent dew,

"When pain distracts--drink this--and drown in sleep

"All ills, that Nature sent to torture you.

"From other worlds, by other beings trod,

"To these bleak climes this plundered plant I bore;

"Receive a gift, all worthy of a god,

"Since pain, when hushed to sleep,--is pain no more."

[80] Text from the 1809 edition.

QUINTILIAN TO LYCIDAS[81]

"While other lads their books forsake,

Or sigh to meet the hours of play:

You, Lycidas, no leisure take,

But still through learned volumes stray:--

With years so few, ah why so grave;

Why every hour to books a slave?

Hence, Lycidas, I pray, retire:

Go with your mates, and take your play--

Not him I prize, or much admire,

Who, curious, hangs on all I say:

The lad that's wise before his time,

Will be a coxcomb in his prime.

Stay not too close in learning's shop;--

'Till time a riper mind prepares,

The ball, the marble, and the top

Are books, that should divide your cares--

The lads that life's gay morn enjoy,

I'm pleased to see them act the boy.

I hate the pert, I hate the bold,

Who, proud of years but half a score,

With none but men would converse hold,

And things beyond their reach explore:

Like the famed Cretan, soaring high,

To melt their waxen wings and die."

[81] First published, as far as I can find, in the 1795 edition. Text

from the 1809 edition.

THE BAY ISLET[82]

In shallow streams, a league from town,

(Its baby Light-House tumbled down)

Extends a country, full in view,

Beheld by all, but known to few.

Surrounded by the briny waste

No haven here has Nature placed;

But those who wish to pace it o'er

Must land upon the open shore.

There as I sailed, to view the ground;

No blooming goddesses I found--

But yellow hags, ordained to prove

The death, and antidote of love.

Ten stately trees adorn the isle,

The house, a crazy, tottering pile,

Where once the doctor plied his trade

On feverish tars and rakes decayed.

Six hogs about the pastures feed

(Sweet mud-larks of the Georgia breed)

Who, while the hostess deals out drams,

Can oysters catch, and open clams.

Upon its surface, smooth and clean,

A world, in miniature, is seen;

Though scarce a journey for a snail

We meet with mountain, hill, and vale.

To those that guard this stormy place,

Two cities stare them in the face:

There, York its spiry summits rears,

And here Cummunipaw appears.

The tenant, now but ill at ease,

Derives no fuel from his trees:

And Jersey boats, though begged to land,

All leave him on the larboard hand.

Some monied man, grown sick of care,

To this neglected spot repair:

What Nature sketched, let art complete,

And own the loveliest Country Seat.

[82] First published, as far as I have been able to find, in the 1795

edition. Text from the 1809 edition.

JEFFERY, OR, THE SOLDIER'S PROGRESS[83]

Lured by some corporal's smooth address,

His scarlet coat and roguish face,

One Half A Joe on drum head laid,

A tavern treat--and reckoning paid;

See yonder simple lad consigned

To slavery of the meanest kind.

With only skill to drive a plough

A musquet he must handle now;

Must twirl it here and twirl it there,

Now on the ground, now in the air:

Its every motion by some rule

Of practice, taught in Frederick's school,[A]

Must be directed--nicely true--

Or he be beaten black--and blue.

[A] The Prussian manual exercise.--_Freneau's note._

A sergeant, raised from cleaning shoes,

May now this country lad abuse:--

On meagre fare grown poor and lean,

He treats him like a mere machine,

Directs his look, directs his step,

And kicks him into decent shape,

From aukward habits frees the clown,

Erects his head--or knocks him down.

Last Friday week to Battery-green

The sergeant came with this Machine--

One motion of the firelock missed--

The Tutor thumped him with his fist:

I saw him lift his hickory cane,

I heard poor Jeffery's head complain!--

Yet this--and more--he's forced to bear;

And thus goes on from year to year,

'Till desperate grown at such a lot,

He drinks--deserts--and so is shot!

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

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[84]

In shallow caves, with shrill voic'd conchs hung round,

And pumpkin-shells, responding all they hear,

A bard, call'd Shylock, catches every sound,

Governs their tone, pricks up his lengthy ear:

In putrid ink then dips his pen of lead

And scribbles down what learn'd Pomposo said.

Bard of the lengthy ode! whose knavish paw

Ne'er touch'd the helm, besprent with odious pitch!

'Twas better far, you knew, to practice Law,

Whine at the church, or in the court-house screech:

No soul had you to face the wintry blast,

Combat the storm, or climb the tottering mast.

Then why so wroth, thou bard of narrow soul,

If wavering Fortune bade me seek the brine:

I drank no nectar from your leaden bowl,

Nor from your poems filch'd a single line:

When I do that--then publish from your caves,

Who robs a beggar--is the worst of knaves!

[84] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition.

TO A WRITER OF PANEGYRIC[85]

Occasioned by certain fulsome Congratulatory Verses on the election of

a High Constable

Be advised by a friend, who advises but rarely,

Be cautious of praising 'till praise is earned fairly:

There was a sage Ancient this truth did bequeath,

"That merit is only determined by death."

Panegyric I'm sorry to see you engage in--

Old Nero, at first, was a Titus, or Trajan:

The Indians of Siam bow down to a Log,

And Egypt is said to have worshipped a Dog.[A]

[A] ANUBIS.--One of the tutelar deities of ancient

Egypt.--_Freneau's note._

If you will be throwing your jewels to swine,

No wonder they rend you--whenever they dine--

Pray, leave it to puppies to cry up their worth,

And to dunces, to honour the day of their birth.

Whoever the road to preferment would find,

With the eyes of a Dutchman must look at mankind;

From the basest of motives, cry cowards are brave,

And laugh in his sleeve--when he flatters a knave.

[85] I can find no earlier trace of this poem than the 1795 edition.

Text from the 1809 edition.

THE FOREST BEAU[86]

[A Picture from Reality]

When first to feel Love's fire Jack Straw begins,

He combs his hair, and cocks his hat with pins,

Views in some stream, his face, with fond regard,

Plucks from his upper lip the bristly beard,

With soap and sand his homely visage scours

(Rough from the joint attacks of sun and showers)

The sheepskin breeches decorate his thighs--

Next on his back the homespun coat he tries;

Round his broad breast he wraps the jerkin blue,

And sews a spacious soal on either shoe.

Thus, all prepared, the fond adoring swain

Cuts from his groves of pine a ponderous cane;

In thought a beau, a savage to the eye,

Forth, from his mighty bosom, heaves the sigh;

Tobacco is the present for his fair,

This he admires, and this best pleases her--

The bargain struck,--few cares his bosom move

How to maintain, or how to lodge his love;

Close at his hand the piny forest grows,

Thence for his hut a slender frame he hews,

With art, (not copied from Palladio's rules,)

A hammer and an axe, his only tools,

By Nature taught, a hasty hut he forms

Safe in the woods, to shelter from the storms;--

There sees the summer pass and winter come,

Nor envies Britain's king his loftier home.

[86] From the edition of 1809. First published, as far as I can

discover, in 1795.

EPISTLE[87]

To a Student of Dead Languages

I pity him, who, at no small expense,

Has studied sound instead of sense:

He, proud some antique gibberish to attain;

Of Hebrew, Greek, or Latin, vain,

Devours the husk, and leaves the grain.

In his own language Homer writ and read,

Nor spent his life in poring on the dead:

Why then your native language not pursue

In which all ancient sense (that's worth review)

Glows in translation, fresh and new?

He better plans, who things, not words, attends,

And turns his studious hours to active ends;

Who Art through every secret maze explores,

Invents, contrives--and Nature's hidden stores

From mirrours, to their object true,

Presents to man's obstructed view,

That dimly meets the light, and faintly soars:--

His strong capacious mind

By fetters unconfin'd

Of Latin lore and heathen Greek,

Takes Science in its way,

Pursues the kindling ray

'Till Reason's morn shall on him break!

[87] Unique, as far as I can find, in the 1795 edition.

TO A NOISY POLITICIAN[88]

Since Shylock's Book has walk'd the circles here,

What numerous blessings to our country flow!

Whales on our shores have run aground,

Sturgeons are in our rivers found;

Nay, ships have on the Delaware sail'd,

A sight most new!

Wheat has been sown, harvests have grown,

And Shylock held strange dialogues with Sue.

On coaches, now, gay coats of arms are wore

By some, who hardly had a coat before:

Silk gowns instead of homespun, now, are seen,

And, sir, 'tis true ('twixt me and you)

That some have grown prodigious fat,

That were prodigious lean!

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

THE SEXTON'S SERMON[89]

At the Burial of a Deist

A few short years, at most, will bound our span;

("Wretched and few," the Hebrew patriarch said)

Live while you may, be jovial while you can;

Too soon our debt to Nature, must be paid.

When Nature fails, the man exists no more,

And death is nothing but an empty name,

Spleen's odious offspring, in some gloomy hour;--

The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream.

You ask me, where those numerous hosts have fled

That once existed on this changeful ball?

If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,[A]

Where ere their birth they were, they now are all.

[A] Queris quo loco jaceant omnes mortui?

------------ Ubi non nata jacent.

_Seneca Trag.--Freneau's note._

Seek not for Paradise!--'tis not for you

Where, high in heaven, its sweetest blossoms blow;

Nor even, where gliding to the Persian main,

Your waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow,

What is this Death, ye thoughtless mourners, say?

Death is no more than never-ceasing change:

New forms arise, while other forms decay,

Yet, all is life throughout creation's range.

The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine,

The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow,

The Apalachian, and the Ararat,

Sooner or later, must to ruin go.

Hills sink to plains, and man returns to dust;

That dust supports a reptile or a flower;

Each changeful atom, by some other nursed,

Takes some new form, to perish in an hour.

When Nature bids thee from the world retire,

With joy thy lodging leave, a sated guest,

In sleep's blest state (our Dullman's fond desire)

Existing always--always to be blest.

Like insects busy in a summer's day,

We toil and squabble, to increase our pain:

Night comes at last, and weary of the fray,

To dust and silence all are sent again!

Beneath my hand what numerous crowds retire--

By the cold turf for ages, now, oppressed!

Millions have fallen--and millions must expire,

Doomed by the impartial Power to endless rest.

In vain with stars He decked yon' spangled skies,

And bade the mind to heaven's bright regions soar,

And brought so far to your admiring eyes

A glimpse of glories, that shall blaze no more!

What is there here, that man should wish to bear

A weight of years?--such rage to madness vext;

Wan, wasting, grief, and ever musing care,

Distressful pain, and poverty perplext?--

What is there here, but tombs and monuments--

Tyrants--who misery spread through every shore;

Wide wasting wars, the scourge of innocence;

Fevers and plagues, with all their noxious store?

Before we called this wrangling world our home,

In undisturbed abodes we sweetly slept:

But when dame Nature made that world our doom,

'Twas then our troubles came--and then we wept!

Though humbled now, disheartened, or distressed,

Yet, when returning to the peaceful ground,

With heroes, kings, and conquerors we shall rest;

Shall sleep as sweetly, and no doubt, as sound.

Ne'er shall we hope to see the day-light spring

Or from the up-lifted window lean to hear

(Fore-runner of the scarlet-mantled morn)

The early note of wakeful Chanticleer!

Oblivion there, expands her raven wing:--

We soon must go where all the dead are gone,

Trace the dull path, explore the gloomy road

To that dark country, where I see no dawn.

Then why these sobs, these useless floods of woe,

That vainly flow for the departed dead?

If doomed to wander on the coasts below,

What are to them these floods of grief you shed?

Since heaven in rapture doth their hours employ--

If empty sighs, or groans, could reach them there,

These funeral howls would damp their heaven of joy,

Would make them wretched, and renew their care.

The joys of wine, immortal as my theme,

To days of mirth the aspiring soul invite:

Life, void of this, a punishment I deem,

A Greenland winter, robbed of heat and light.

Ah! envy not, ye sages too precise,

The drop from life's gay tree, that kills our woe--

Noah himself, the wary and the wise,

A vineyard planted--and the vines did grow.

(Of social soul was he)--the grape he pressed,

And drank the juice, oblivious to his care:

Sorrow he banished from his place of rest,

And sighs, and sextons, had no business there.

Such bliss be our's through every changing scene:

The jovial face bespeaks the glowing heart;

If heaven be joy, wine is to heaven a-kin,

Since wine, on earth, can heavenly joys impart.

Mere glow-worms are we all--a moment shine!--

I, like the rest, in giddy circles run,

And grief shall say, when I this breath resign,

His glass is empty, and his sermon done!

[89] Freneau seems deliberately to have manufactured this poem for his

edition of 1795 from fragments of his discarded poems, the _House of

Night_ and the _Jamaica Funeral_. It is made up as follows: _Jamaica

Funeral_, stanzas 44-46; _House of Night_ 73, 132-134, 139; _Jamaica

Funeral_ 47; _House of Night_ 76, 77; an original stanza; _House of

Night_ 48, 34, 116, 30, 43; _Jamaica Funeral_ 34, 35, 40, 48-51. Many of

these stanzas are much changed. Text from the 1809 edition.

ON A LEGISLATIVE ACT[90]

Prohibiting the use of Spirituous Liquors to Prisoners in certain Jails

of the United States

Give to the wretched, drink that's strong,

(Said David's Son) but we, more wise,

With Cyder, from the hogshead, rough,

Molasses-Beer, and such dull stuff,

The miseries of the imprison'd host prolong.

"Shut up in jail from day to day

(Methinks I hear a Debtor say)

"Victims to public rage and private spite,

"All that we had to keep our spirits up

"Was glowing wine that fill'd the cheering cup,

"This banish'd care, and check'd the rising sigh

"Chac'd grief from every heart, gave joy to every eye.

"And will ye not this only comfort leave,

"Ye men that frame the public laws?--

"Parted from children, friends, and wives,

"How heavily the moments roll:

"What comfort have we of our lives

"If you deny this cordial of the soul?

"'Tis this that kills the tedious hour,

"Puts misery out of fortune's power.

"'Tis this that to the dial's hand lends wings,

"Gives to the beggar all the pride of kings,

"Sheds joy throughout our gloomy cage

"And bids us scorn the little tyrant's rage,

"They that are unconfin'd drink what they will--

"Who gave the right to limit men in jail?

"Because misfortune sent us here

"Must we for that be drench'd with 'table beer,'

"Or, in its stead, with Adam's ale?--

"Relent--relent! contrive some other plan;

"Wine is the dearest, choicest friend of man--

"They that are out of jail, of all degrees,

"Can spend their leisure as they please,

"We, that are in, must pass it as we can."

[90] Unique in the 1795 edition.

ADDRESSED[91]

To a Political Shrimp, or, Fly upon the Wheel

The man that doth an Elephant pursue

Whose capture gains a mighty price,

Amidst the chace, heeds not the barking crew,

Or lesser game of rats and mice.

On ocean's waste who chace the royal flag

Stop not to take the privateer;

Who mean to seize the steed, neglect the nag;

No squirrel-hunter kills a deer.

Reptile! your venom ever spits in vain--

To honour's coat no drop adheres:--

To court!--return to Britain's tyrant reign,

White-wash her king, and scowr her peers.

Some scheming knaves, that strut in courtly guise,

May vile abuse, through you, impart--

But they that on no Treasury lean, despise

Your venal pen--your canker'd heart.

[91] The only trace I can find of this poem is in the 1795 edition. From

the last stanza it is evident that it was aimed at Hamilton.

HERMIT'S VALLEY[92]

With eastern[93] winds and flowing sail

To these sequestered haunts we came,

Where verdant trees and chrystal streams

Adorn the sloping, winding vale;

Where, from the breezy grove we claim,

Our heaven on earth--poetic dreams.

These simple scenes have pleasures more

Than all the busy town can show--

More pleasure here Philanthus took,

And more he prized this lonely shore,

His pen, his pencil, and his book,

Than all the groves Madeira bore:

Here still is seen a hermit's cell,

Who, fond the haunts of men to fly,

Enjoyed his heaven beneath this shade:

In mouldering caves so blest to dwell,

He sought not from the flowers that die,

A verdure, that would never fade.

To crowded courts and would-be kings,

Where fawning knaves are most caressed,

Who would, though oft' invited, go--

When here so many charming things

By Nature to perfection dressed,

To please the man of fancy, grow?

The native of this happy spot

No cares of vain ambition haunt:

Pleased with the partner of his nest,

Life flows--and when the dream is out,

The earth, which once supplied each want,

Receives him--fainting--to her breast.

[92] The earliest trace I can find of this is in the 1795 edition. Text

from the 1809 edition. In the table of contents of the latter edition

the title is given, "Hermit's Valley, a rural scene on the Schuylkill."

[93] "Western."--_Ed. 1795._

TO MY BOOK[94]

Unhappy Volume!--doom'd by fate

To meet with unrelenting hate

From those who can their venom spit,

Yet condescend to steal your wit:

While Shylock with malicious spirit,

Allows you not a grain of merit,

While he an idle pomp assumes,

Let him return his borrowed plumes,

And you will find the insect creeping,

With not a feather worth the keeping.

[94] This appeared originally as a part of the "New Year's Verses" for

1783. See Volume II, page 199, supra. Text from the 1795 edition, which

is the "unhappy volume" alluded to.

THE REPUBLICAN GENIUS OF EUROPE[95]

Emperors and kings! in vain you strive

Your torments to conceal--

The age is come that shakes your thrones,

Tramples in dust despotic crowns,

And bids the sceptre fail.

In western worlds the flame began:

From thence to France it flew--

Through Europe, now, it takes its way,

Beams an insufferable day,

And lays all tyrants low.

Genius of France! pursue the chace

Till Reason's laws restore

Man to be Man, in every clime;--

That Being, active, great, sublime

Debas'd in dust no more.

In dreadful pomp he takes his way

O'er ruin'd crowns, demolish'd thrones--

Pale tyrants shrink before his blaze--

Round him terrific lightnings play--

With eyes of fire, he looks them through,

Crushes the vile despotic crew,

And Pride in ruin lays.

[95] Published in the _Jersey Chronicle_, May 23, 1795, from which the

text is taken. It forms the basis of the poem "On the Royal Coalition

Against Republican Liberty," in the 1815 edition, but the later form is

so greatly inferior that I have not hesitated to reproduce the earlier

version.

THE RIVAL SUITORS FOR AMERICA[96]

Like some fair girl in beauty's bloom,

To court her, see what suitors come!

An heiress, she, to large estate,

What rivals for her favours wait!

All haste to clasp her in their arms,

Each sees in her a thousand charms--

The Gems that on her bosom glow

Attract where love was cold--'till now.

Freed from a cruel parent's care,

This maid so wealthy and so fair

Of each that for possession sues

Can hardly tell which beau to choose.

Proud of his vast extended reign,

(His fancied empire o'er the main)

The Briton came, with haughty stride,

Preferr'd his suit--but was denied.