She thought his style, by much, too rude,

By ruffians she would not be woo'd;

From Man she wish'd to choose a mate,

But not in such a savage state.

A Dane, a Dutchman, and a Swede

All hop'd to enjoy the charming maid:

The Russian, bred in frost and snow,

Made love to her that said--no, no.

The Spaniard grave, with cloak and sword,

Some favour from the nymph implor'd--

Vain were his tears and coaxing art--

She could not bear a jealous heart.

The Turk himself, to engage her love,

From Asia's coasts began to move;

While faded lay his Tartar crown

He sigh'd to make this girl his own.

In vain they paid the fond address--

No Pope, no Sultan would she bless--

No monarch, tho' allur'd with art,

Could gain her wealth, or touch her heart.

The Frenchman comes--salutes the fair--

She likes his gallant, marshal air!--

With eager eye, around her waist

He clasp'd his arms, and her embrac'd:

Smit with his lofty, generous mien,

She admires the Gaul, as soon as seen,

Grants him her Commerce--yields her charms,

And takes a hero to her arms!

[96] Published in the _Jersey Chronicle_, May 30, 1795, with the above

text. The poem was greatly expanded and changed for the 1815 edition,

where it bore the title, "The Political Rival Suitors."

MR. JAY'S TREATY[97]

Disclosed by Stephens Thomson Mason

When the Senate assembled had shut up their door,

And had left us no clew their designs to explore,

The people were anxious, and whispered their care,

But their voice was too weak for the dignified ear.

Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down.

At length the Sanhedrim were ready to rise,

And the crowd were distending their ears and their eyes;

But the rabble had nothing to hear or to view,

Says the twenty, the secret's too sacred for you,

Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down.

But Stephens T. Mason, a man we revere,

With his name bid the infamous treaty appear,

'Twas the act of a freeman, who join'd with the Ten,

To save us from tyranny, rank us with men,

Altho' down, down, and like to be down.

He gave his assistance, enlighten'd our eyes,

And a cloud from all quarters begins to arise,

_Vox Dei, Vox Populi_, truly but one,

Shall tell dark designers--our will shall be done

Till you're down, down, twenty times down.

[97] Published in the _Jersey Chronicle_, September 12, 1795, from which

the text is taken. As far as I can find the poet never republished it.

Jay's treaty with England was laid before the Senate in June, 1795, and

after two weeks of fierce discussion was ratified by a very small

majority. The Senate, fearing popular criticism, forbade the publication

of the treaty, a course which caused such widespread indignation that

Mason on his own responsibility gave a perfect copy of the text to the

Philadelphia _Aurora_ for publication. The act was as much praised by

one party as it was condemned by the other.

PARODY[98]

On the attempt to force the British Treaty on the People of the

United States

Americans! behold the fruits,

The end of all your vain pursuits,

Whole years in blood and warfare spent

To save this injur'd continent.--

How must it mortify your pride

To take once more the British side;

How will your eyes contain their tears

When all the sad effect appears!

This Treaty in one page confines

The sad result of base designs;

The wretched purchase here behold

Of traitors--who their country sold.

Here, in their proper shape and mien

Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen.

And few, a chosen few, must know

The Mysteries that lurk below.

Go home, ye merchants, poor and lean,

And kiss the--_hand_--of Britain's queen.

I see you of your cargoes stript

Your vessels stolen, your seamen whipt,

I see them from their decks compell'd

To wander o'er the wat'ry field;--

In British ships, by force detain'd

I see the gallant sailor band

Engage the power that lent us aid

When Britain here her entry made--

I see them mix'd with George's sons,

I see them torn by gallic guns,

Disfigur'd, in the ocean cast

To find a resting place at last.

Philosophy! thou friend of man,

Teach me these strange events to scan;

Aid me to learn the secret cause

That alien seems from Nature's laws,

Why on this stage of human things

Man bows his neck to tyrant kings?

Say did the God, when life he gave,

Design his Image for a slave?--

Necessity, the tyrant's law,

All human race doth this way draw,

All prompted by the same desire

The vigorous youth, and aged sire--

Observe, the coward and the bold

Agree to have their freedom sold;

Physician, lawyer, and divine

All make oblation at this shrine.

Yet from this dismal state of things

In time a new creation springs;

From vile materials, fresh, shall rise

And fill the earth, and air, and skies;

In various forms appear again,

Popes, Presidents, and gentlemen:

So Jove pronounc'd among the Gods,

Olympus trembling as he nods!

[98] The poet never reprinted this poem from the _Jersey Chronicle_,

where it first appeared, April 23, 1796. Great dissatisfaction with

Jay's treaty with England is evident in almost every number of the

_Chronicle_. Freneau himself was the author of the series of papers

entitled "Features of Mr. Jay's Treaty."

ON THE INVASION OF ROME[99]

In 1796

Lo! to the gates of long forgotten Rome

Active as flame, the gallic legions come,

While pale with fear to their despotic wastes

On shorten'd wing the Austrian army hastes.

Where, consecrated to the pagan god

The silent vestal graced his dark abode,

Where Cæsars, once, in awful grandeur reign'd,

Or, Vandals ruin'd what of Rome remain'd,

Or where, excresence of a later age,

The mitred pontiff trod religion's stage,

There march the heroic bands that bring defeat,

Or bring reform on superstition's seat.

And may their march to honor's purpose tend,

May each new conquest all the past transcend,

Still may those hosts their first great plan pursue,

And honor, freedom, virtue keep in view.

Thus taught; and still propitious heaven their trust,

All past mis-rule shall crumble to the dust,

Nor will saint Peter, more, their cause regard,

Lost are his keys and every gate unbarr'd,

No sacred reliques from some saintly grave,

No saint Sebastian shall from ruin save:

All, all must yield; submissive to the dart

Of Gaul's firm legions led by Bonaparte,

Who, sent by heaven, to Rome's disastrous walls

Loud and more loud for his last victim calls;

While superstition's dark inveterate train

Turns pale, and sickens at their blasted reign,

And hosts reviving, round the standard throng,

Exult, and wonder how they slept so long.

[99] From the edition of 1815.

ON THE DEATH OF CATHARINE II[100]

Empress of all the Russias

Confusion to that iron sway

Which bids the brute, not man, obey,

And dooms him to Siberian soil,

Chains, whips, and vassalage, and toil.

This female wolf, whom wolves did nurse,

So long of polar worlds the curse,

This Catharine, skill'd in royal arts,

To the dark world at last departs.

In style, the second of her name,

She to the crown by treason came;

To Peter, drowsy, royal drone,

She gave a prison for a throne.

She would have sent her Tartar bands

To waste and ravage gallic lands,

She would have sent her legions o'er,

Columbia! to invade your shore!--

But, even in conquest, she foresaw

Destruction to despotic law;

She fear'd, in hordes returning home,

That liberty would with them come.

She fear'd the savage from the den

Would see and learn the rights of men;

And hence, in time, destruction bring

To hell's vicegerents--queen and king.

No thanks to her! she fear'd her beasts,

Enslaved by kings, enslaved by priests,

Even if all freedom they o'er ran,

Would learn the dignity of man;

And kept them home, and held them there,

Oppression's iron reign to bear;

And never meet a beam of light,

Involved in worse than Zembla's night.

Now she is dead, and Paul will rise

As fierce as she, but not as wise;

He may his barbarous millions send,

He may the fall of France intend;

But they who see with keener eye

Will see them faint, will see them fly;

With hostile step will see them come

To turn their backs, or meet their doom.

[100] From the edition of 1815. Catharine II died November 6, 1796.

PREFATORY LINES[101]

To a Periodical Publication

Wherever this volume[102] may chance to be read

For the feast of good humor a table I spread;

Here are dishes by dozens; whoever will eat

Will have no just cause to complain of the treat.

If the best of the market is not to be had

I'll help you to nothing that's seriously bad;[103]

To sense and to candor no place I refuse,

Pick here and pick there, and wherever you choose.[104]

If I give you a frolic I hope for no fray;

My style I adapt to the taste of the day,

The feast of amusement we draw from all climes,

The best we can give in a run of hard times.[105]

The guest, whom the pepper of satire may bite

Is wrong, very wrong, if he shows us his spite;[106]

Should a fit of resentment be-ruffle his mind,

Sit still, I would tell him, be calm and resign'd.[107]

In the service of freedom forever prepared,

We have done[108] our endeavor the goddess to guard;

This idol, whom reason should only adore,

And banish'd from Europe,[109] to dwell on our shore.

In a country like this, exalted by fame,

The trade of an author[110] importance may claim

Which monarchs would never permit them to find,

Whose views are to chain and be-darken the mind.

Ye sons of Columbia! our efforts befriend;

To you all the tyrants of Europe shall bend

Till reason at length shall illumine the ball[111]

And man from his state of debasement recall.

Republics of old, that are sunk in the dust,

Could once like our own, of their liberty boast;

Both virtue and wisdom in Athens appear'd,

Each eye saw their charms, and all bosoms revered.

But as virtue and morals fell into disgrace

Pride, splendor, and folly stept into their place;

Where virtues domestic no longer were known,

Simplicity lost, and frugality flown.

Where the virtues, that always a republic adorn,

Were held in contempt, or were laugh'd into scorn,

There, tyrants and slaves were the speedy effect

Of virtue dishonor'd or fall'n to neglect:[112]

Then tyrants and slaves, the worst plagues of this earth,

From the lapse of good manners[113] were hatch'd into birth;

And soon the base maxim all popular grew,

And allowed, that the many were made for the few.

From the fate of republics, or Athens, or Rome,

Tis time we should learn a sad lesson at home--

From their faults and their errors a warning receive,

And steer from the shoals where they both found a grave.

Columbians! forever may freedom remain,

And virtue forever that freedom maintain;

To these, all attracting, all views should submit

All labors of learning, all essays of wit.

Tis time a new system of things was embraced

To prevail on a planet so often debased;[114]

As here, with our freedom, that system began,

Here, at least keep it pure--for the honor of man.

[101] From the edition of 1815. This was Freneau's salutatory in the

first number of the _Time-Piece_, March 13, 1797. Here it bore the title

"Poetical Address" and differed in many respects from the final version.

I have indicated in the following notes only the most significant

revisions.

[102] "Our pages."--_Time-Piece._

[103] "We'll mend what is middling, and better the bad."--_Ib._

[104] "And give the due substance and sum of the NEWS."--_Ib._

[105]

"Embark'd on this ocean, and wishing no fray,

We'll strive for a chance with the prints of the day;

The news of all nations import from all climes,

And carefully copy _the cast of_ THE TIMES."--_Time-Piece._

[106] "In political squib or poetical wit."--_Ib._

[107] "He's equally free _to return it in kind_."--_Ib._

[108] "We'll join."--_Ib._

[109] "Britain."--_Ib._

[110] "_Of the_ PRESS."--_Ib._

[111] "'TIS THIS that will throw a new light on the ball."--_Ib._

[112] This stanza not in the _Time-Piece_ version.

[113] "The change of old manners."--_Ib._

[114] "To encircle a world that has long been debas'd."--_Ib._

ON THE WAR[115]

Projected with the Republic of France

The cause that rests on reason's ground,

Shall potent through the world be found,

Mankind must yield to that decree

Which humbles pride and tyranny.

O'er this wide globe what darkness broods,

What misery, murder, wars and feuds!--

Does man deserve the solar light

While he performs the deeds of night?

When to the gates of modern Rome

We see the gallic legions come,

Their triumphs should, in honor, be

To make them men, and make them free.

In these new wars new views we trace,

Not fetters for the human race,

And, France, where'er you dart your rays

Old superstition's reign decays.

But look again!--what myriads join

The vast reform to undermine!

What labor, bribes, and deep-laid schemes

To quench the sun, and reason's beams!

Shall these succeed? and will that sun

Continue, still, his race to run

O'er scenes that he must blush to see

Disorder, chains, and tyranny?

Must systems, still, of monstrous birth,

Enslave mankind, deform this earth?

No!--to the question answers fate,

These efforts come an age too late.

In such a system to combine,

Columbia, can the wish be thine!

Could such a thought assail your heart,

To take that base, ungrateful part.

From Britain's yoke so lately freed

Would she her hosts, her legions lead

To crush that power, which jointly gain'd

And once her sinking cause sustain'd?

From all true hearts be banish'd far

The thought of so profane a war--

A curse would on her arms attend

And all her well-earn'd honors end.

Fortune no more your toils would crown,

Your flag would fall before her frown;

No gallant men the foe would dare,

No Greenes no Washingtons appear;

No chiefs, that check'd the pride of kings

On Monmouth's plains--at Eutaw springs;

But blundering hordes, not brave or warm,

With broken heart, and nerveless arm,

Would sail, to attack your gallic foe,

Would strive in vain a cause t'o'erthrow

Which, sink or not, will live in fame,

While Europe can one patriot claim.

[115] From the edition of 1815. It appeared first in the _Time-Piece_,

March 29, 1797, under the title "To the Americans."

TO MYRTALIS[116]

On her Lightning Wires, or Conductors[A]

[A] See Brydone's Letters from Sicily to Becksford, alderman of

London. In one of these he seems, rather seriously, to argue,

that any one, by being armed with a conductor, in a thunder

squall, may probably be secure from danger of lightning.--It

is said the plan has been carried into practice in

Scotland.--_Freneau's Note._

How bold this project, to defy

The artillery of a summer sky:

Round you, unmoved, the lightning plays,

While others perish in the blaze.

The fluid fire, in deafening peals,

Along the warm conductor steals;

And thence directed to the ground,

It glances off without a wound!

Thus guarded, while the heavens are bowed,

You, fearless, see the passing cloud;

And Jove's red bolts unheeded fall,

Near You, who slight, or scorn them all.

The beaver on your sacred scull,

(Secure as Salamander's wool)

Assists to keep from your rigg'd head

The flash that strikes us, wretches, dead.

But while the sulphur of the skies,

Disarmed, from this fair lady flies;

Or while the warm electric fire

In flashes darts along her spire,

She, not so merciful or kind,

(Or we, not guarded to her mind)

By Cupid's darts, procures our fall,

By Cupid's arrows kills us all.

[116] Published in the _Time-Piece_, April 7, 1797. Text from the 1809

edition.

TO MR. BLANCHARD[117]

The celebrated Æronaut, on his ascent in a Balloon, from the

jail-yard in Philadelphia, 1793

By Science taught, on silken wings

Beyond our grovelling race you rise,

And, soaring from terrestial things,

Explore a passage to the skies--

O, could I thus exalted sail,

And rise, with you, beyond the Jail!

Ah! when you rose, impell'd by fear

Each bosom heav'd a thousand sighs;

To you each female lent a tear,

And held the 'kerchief to her eyes:

All hearts still follow'd, as you flew,

All eyes admir'd a sight so new.

Whoe'er shall thus presume to fly,

While downward with disdain they look

Shall own this journey, through the sky,

The dearest jaunt they ever took;

And choose, next time, without reproach,

A humbler seat in Inskeep's coach.

The birds, that cleave the expanse of air,

Admiring, view your globe full-blown,

And, chattering round the painted car,

Complain your flight out-does their own:

Beyond their track you proudly swim,

Nor fear the loss of life or limb.

How vast the height, how grand the scene

That your enraptured eye surveys,

When, towering in your gay machine,

You leave the astonish'd world to gaze,

And, wandering in the ætherial blue,

Our eyes, in vain, your course pursue.

The Orb of Day, how dazzling bright!

In paler radiance gleams the Moon,

And Terra, whence you took your flight,

Appears to you--a meer balloon:

Its noisy crew no longer heard,

Towns, cities, forests, disappear'd.

Yet, travelling through the azure road,

Soar not too high for human ken;

Reflect, our humble safe abode

Is all that Nature meant for men:

Take in your sails before you freeze,

And sink again among the trees.

[117] Published in the _Time-Piece and Literary Companion_, May 15,

1797, under the title "Stanzas Written Some Years Since on Mr.

Blanchard's Forty-fifth Ascension from the Jail-Yard in Philadelphia,

January 9, 1793." Text from the 1795 edition.

ON HEARING[118]

A Political Oration, Superficially Composed on an Important Subject

Sound without sense, and words devoid of force,

Through which no art could find a clue,

And mean and shackling was the whole discourse

That kept me, Tully, long from you.

Heads of harangues, to heads less general, split,

Seem'd like small laths, cleft from some heavy log;

I heard the inference, that no object hit--

All congelation, vapor, smoke, or fog.

And what avail'd the argument unsound

That nothing proved, or on the expecting mind

Forced no conviction--just as well might sound

To the deaf ear with sentiments abound.

Long did we wait for application time

To find what sense or reason might apply:--

It came--attended with the false sublime,

And thread-bare truths, no mortal could deny.

Repeated thoughts, and periods of a mile,

Remarks devoid of dignity or power,

Exploded notions, dress'd in brilliant style,

Exhausted patience, and consumed the hour.

Thus when of old some town some folks besieged,

Before the walls the invader sat him down,

While those who mann'd them, at their foes enraged,

Threw many a load of ancient lumber down;

And wore them out, with tumbling on their heads

Bricks, tiles, and paving-stones, huge logs of timber,

Pump-water, cold or boiling, shovels, spades,--

And more, by far, than you or I remember.

Ah, speaker! with artillery like your own

Hard will it be one Federal to awake,

Trust me, although you scold, and chafe, and frown,

You may besiege, but are not like to take

Their three wall'd town.

[118] From the 1815 edition. In the edition of 1809 it bore the title:

"The American Demosthenes. Occasioned by a very weak and insipid

discourse on a Fourth of July, indirectly reprobating the Democratic

Representative System." This version consisted of the first, second, and

last stanzas above, with the following after the second stanza:

"Grunts, and long groans, and periods of a mile,

Were on the sleepy audience tumbled down;--

'Twas thus from forts, contrived in antique style,

From Troy's high walls

(Where flew no balls)

The men who fought

With reason thought,

They had a right

From that safe height,

(By way of lessening their besiegers' number)

To tumble on their heads

Rocks, beams, or roofs of sheds,

Cows' horns, bricks, rubbish, chamber pots, or lumber."

MEGARA AND ALTAVOLA[119]

To a Female Satirist (an English Actress) on receiving from her No. 1.

of a very Satirical and Biting Attack[A]

"_In the rag, in the rag--whewgh!_--

"_O well-flown dart._"--

_Shakespeare's_ KING LEAR.

[A] Six copies only, of this little Poem were printed and

sent to the satirist--here the correspondence ended,

1797.--_Freneau's note._

A Satire is arrived this day,

And it must be repelled this night:

Ye Powers! assist us what to say,

For, from ourselves, we nothing write.

We could have laughed at all you said,

But when you writ--it struck us dead!--

Megara!--do forbear to write,

Or rage with less malignant spite.

Leave it to men to snap and snarl--

Be you the sweet engaging girl--

Great in your smiles--weak in your arm--

All vengeance, with no power to harm.

I'll borrow from a scribbling set

A Raven's feather, black as jet,

And with the vengeance of the pen

Create confusion in your Den.

This, from an impulse all unknown,

Shall temper down your heart of stone,

Turn storms of hail to showers of rain,

And bring your happy smiles again.

But still, unwilling to resent

What folly for a Satire meant,

Peruse a fable that may blast,

And your number one--make number last.

In ancient times, no matter when,

A lady, in some ancient reign

(Perhaps in Greece, perhaps in Rome,

Perhaps in countries nearer home.)

This lady, rather fond of Fun,

Had put a suit of armour on:

With bow and arrows, and her fan

She conquered many an honest man.

One day she met, in a desart waste

A wight unseemely to her taste;

His brow, she thought, had too much frown;

Thought she, "I'll fetch the fellow down."

And strait she bends her twanging bow,

And to his breast the arrows go!

They tore a passage through his vest,

But bounded from his solid chest.

Another dart she aimed, and missed,

Then boarded him, and bit his fist--

Her grinders left a trifling mark--

They were not grinders of a shark.

She scampered then, and, as she flew,

Another feeble arrow threw,

Which though intended for one spot,

It glanced aside, and touched him not.

Enraged, he threw his mantle off,

And said, She shall be plagued enough!

Then, swift as fate, her pace defied,

Out went her trot, and joined her side.--

Megara was in such a glow!--

When thus the ruffian hailed her, "Hoa!--

What, Madam, are your spirits low?--

Heave to!--you are my prisoner now!"--

Megara saw that all was gone!--

She saw, her teeth would now be drawn:

She saw her weapons were his prize,

She saw it, and with flowing eyes,

And with a feeble squeak or two,

She faintly bawled out, Who are you?

_Altavola_

"From whence I came, or what I am,

"Perhaps I may inform you, Ma'am:

"I come from lands of Pure Delight,

"Where female warriors do not Bite.

"You view me with an eye of scorn!--

"When I was old you were unborn:

"When I aspired on eagle's wings

"You were among unthought of things.

"And did you hope to escape my rage,

"You toy-shop on a strolling stage!

"You insect of a puny race,

"You baggage formed of gauze and lace!

"The proudest strength you can assume,

"Shakes not one feather from my plume.

"My lot is in the æther cast,

"I sail upon the northern blast;

"Am mostly seen when whirlwinds rise,

"And love the storm that rends the skies.

"When thunders roar and lightnings flash,

"Then is my time to cut a dash:

"The clouds of hell alarm me less

"Than you, some sad old fashioned dress.

"And, if to answer some great end,

"I to this wrangling world descend,

"With force unknown, and pinions strong,

"I travel quick and stay not long.

"My spear is like a weaver's beam,

"And pointed well at each extreme;

"It flies with a tremendous force,

"And rivals lightning in its course.

"Of all things that are seen or known,

"I hate a Calm--and say, Begone

"Stagnation from this rolling ball,

"Or slumbers in this Dreadful All!

"I rise upon the drift of snow--

"In polar frosts my spirits glow--

"In the torrid zone, I temperate keep,

"And wake!--when you, Megara, sleep.

"I come from ghosts, that dreary brood,

"Whose aspect would congeal your blood!

"A people on the infernal coast,

"Who know me well, and love me most.

"I courted there, and found her kind,

"A ghostess, suited to my mind;

"Her wedding gown was flounced with soot,

"And near her nose hung snuff and smut:

"She pointed to her father's gate,

"(A graveyard was his whole estate)

"The bars were weak, the boards were thin,

"She sung a psalm--and took me in.

"Of shadowy stuff my parents were,

"Composed of fogs, or framed of air:

"He sold his brimstone to the skies,

"While nitre kindled in Her eyes.

"They feasted on the vapours blue,

"Their glass of wine was evening dew;

"On Etna's top they made their bed,

"And there was I, their devil, bred.

"My prowess is almost adored,

"I blunt the edge of Orion's sword;

"I seize Aquarius by the throat,

"Nor care for Libra, or the Goat.

"My word is, when I meet my foes,

"Here's to the Lucky Wind that blows!

"And, instant, all is sighs and groans,

"And battered heads, and broken bones.

"I now reward you for your spite--

"I draw my weapon--see, how bright!

"My last exploit in war I crown,

"And thus--and thus--I throw you down!

"Ah, miscreant! why that scream of death?

"I only meant to--draw your teeth!--

"Oh no!--I scorn to take your life--

"Go, Madam,--be a prudent wife.

"But, lady, I would have you know

"You lose your arrows and your bow:

"They are indeed of slender make,

"And, in your hands might kill a rake:

"So, to prevent such fatal harms,

"I leave you destitute of arms--

"I now must go!"--he, laughing, said,

And vanished to the Stygian shade.

This contest with Megara done,

Thou dear, defeated Amazon!--

As happy, now, as man can be,

I hang my pen on yonder tree:

It only asks one day of rest,

It yields to every changing blast--

Yes--let it stay suspended there,

And strike My Colours--if you dare!

[119] I have found no trace of this outside of the 1809 edition.

THE REPUBLICAN FESTIVAL[120]

In Compliment to Colonel Munroe, on his return to America, 1797

As late at a feast that she gave to Munroe,

Her mark of attention to show,

Young liberty gave her libations to flow,

To honor where honor is due.

Return'd from the country that trampled on crowns

Where high in opinion he stood,

Dark malace attack'd him, with sneers, and with frowns,

But he met the applause of the good.

To the Knight of the Sceptre unwelcome he came

But freedom his merit confess'd--

He look'd at their malice, and saw it was fame,

And pity forgave them the rest.

Good humor, and pleasure, and friendship did join,

And reason the pleasure increased;

And the hero, who captured the British Burgoyne,

Presided and honor'd the feast.

On a broomstick from hell, with a quill in his hand,

Baal-Zephou came riding the air;

He look'd, and he saw that among the whole band

Not a single apostate was there.

Disappointed, he sigh'd, but still hover'd about

Till the toasts, with a vengeance, began--

He met the first four; when the next they gave out[A]

To his cavern he fled back again.

[A] Public censure, arm'd with the spear of Ithurial: may it

discover the demons of tyranny, wherever they lurk, and

pursue them to their native obscurity.--_Freneau's note._

In liberty's temple, the petulant cur

Could see not a man but he hates;

With a curse on her cause, and a sneer, and a spur

He fled from the frown of a Gates.

[120] From the edition of 1815. Monroe was United States Minister to

France from May, 1794, until August, 1796, when he was recalled for lack

of sympathy with the administration. He did not arrive in America until

the following year. He was loudly hailed by the Republican forces, and a

dinner was arranged for him in Philadelphia over which General Gates

presided and at which Jefferson, the Vice President, Dayton, the

Speaker, McKean, the Chief Justice, and many others conspicuous in the

government were present.

ODE[121]

For July the Fourth, 1799

Once more, our annual debt to pay,

We meet on this auspicious day

That will, through every coming age,

Columbia's patriot sons engage.

From this fair day we date the birth,

Of freedom's reign, restored to earth,

And millions learn, too long depraved,

How to be govern'd, not enslaved.[122]

Thou source of every true delight

Fair peace, extend thy sway,

While to thy temple we invite

All nations on this day.[123]

O dire effects of tyrant power!

How have ye darken'd every hour,

And made those hours embitter'd flow

That nature meant for joys below.

With sceptred pride, and brow of awe

Oppression gave the world her law,

And man, who should such law disdain,

Resign'd to her malignant reign.

Here on our quiet native coast

No more we dread the warring host

That once alarm'd, when Britain rose,

And made Columbia's sons her foes.

Parent of every cruel art

That stains the soul, that steels the heart,

Fierce war, with all thy bleeding band,

Molest no more this rising land.

May thy loud din be changed for peace,

All human woe and warfare cease,

And nations sheath the sword again

To find a long, pacific reign.[124]

Soon may all tyrants disappear

And man to man be less severe;

The ties of love more firmly bind,

Not fetters, that enchain mankind.

But virtue must her strength maintain,

Or short, too short, is freedom's reign,

And, if her precepts we despise,

Tyrants and kings again will rise.[125]

No more an angry, plundering race,

May man in every clime embrace,

And we on this remoter shore,

Exult in bloody wars no more.

On this returning annual day

May we to heaven our homage pay,

Happy, that here the time's began

That made mankind the friend of man!--

[121] From the edition of 1815. The title is manifestly wrong. The poem

was first printed in a small pamphlet with the following title page:

"Means | for the | Preservation | of | Public Liberty. | An | Oration |

delivered in the New Dutch Church, | on the | Fourth of July, 1797. |

Being the twenty-first | Anniversary of our Independence. | By G. J.

Warner. | [_Ten lines from Freneau_] | New York: | Printed at the Argus

Office, | for | Thomas Greenleaf and Naphtali Judah. | 1797."

At the end of the pamphlet is the poem with the title: "Ode | (Composed

for the Occasion, by P. Freneau.) | The Musick Performed | by the |

Uranian Musical Society."

[122] This stanza in 1797 was:

"Red war will soon be chang'd for peace,

All human woe for human bliss,

And nations that embrace again

Enjoy a long pacific reign."

[123] This stanza was the chorus to be repeated after every eight lines.

[124] This stanza is not in the original version.

ADDRESS[126]

To the Republicans of America

Say--shall we pause, and here conclude our page,

Or waft it onward to the coming age?--

Just as You say, whose efforts shook his throne,

And plucked the brightest gem from George's crown--

Who, armed in Freedom's cause with hearts of steel,

Have through these stormy times toiled for the common weal;

Nor quit that standard thousands have deserted,

By foreign arts, or gold, or titles re-converted.

If You, propitious to the press and pen,

Gave vigour to the cause that roused up men

When slavery's sons approached with Britain's fleet,

Still we demand your aid--for Britain hates you yet:

Not with the sword and gun she now contends

But wages silent war, and by corruption bends,

Foe to the system that enlightens man,

Here, thrones she would erect, and frustrate Freedom's plan.

Here, on this virgin earth, the soil unstained,

Where yet no tyrant has his purpose gained,

Keep bright that flame which every bosom fired

When Hessian hirelings from these lands retired,

When, worn and wasted, all that murdering crew

And British squadrons from the Hudson flew;

When, leagued with France, you darts of vengeance hurled,

And bade defiance to the despot world.

Ye heirs and owners of the future age

Who soon will shove old actors from the stage,

To you the care of liberty they trust

When Washington and Gates are laid in dust--

When Jefferson, with Greene, in long repose

Shall sleep, unconscious of your bliss or woes,

Seeming to say, Be wise, be free, my sons,

Nor let one tyrant trample on our bones.

[125] The chorus at this point was changed in the original edition to:

"O Virtue! source of pure delight,

Extend thy happy sway, etc."

[126] First published in the _Time-Piece_, September 13, 1797. Freneau

used this poem to end Volume I of his edition of 1809. I have followed

the latter version.

TO PETER PORCUPINE.[127]

From Penn's famous city what hosts have departed,

The streets and the houses are nearly deserted,

But still there remain

Two Vipers, that's plain,

Who soon, it is thought, yellow flag will display;

Old Porcupine preaching,

And Fenno beseeching

Some dung-cart to wheel him away.

Philadelphians, we're sorry you suffer by fevers,

Or suffer such scullions to be your deceivers;

Will. Pitt's noisy whelp

With his red foxy scalp

Whom the kennels of London spew'd out in a fright,

Has skulk'd over here

To snuffle and sneer,

Like a puppy to snap, or a bull dog to bite.

If cut from the gallows, or kick'd from the post,

Such fellows as these are of England the boast

But Columbia's disgrace!

Begone from that place

That was dignified once by a Franklin and Penn,

But infested by you

And your damnable crew

Will soon be deserted by all honest men.

[127] Published in the _Time-Piece_, September 13, 1797, and never again

reprinted by Freneau. The poem bore the following introduction:

"Among a despicable mess of scurrility in one of Porcupine's Gazettes of

last week, he mentions that 'he was plagued with the Time-Piece for

several months.'--It has also been a plague to some others of his

brethren, and will go on to be so, till they are hustled into their

native dog kennels.--At the commencement of the Time-Piece, by way of

soliciting an exchange of papers, the Editor transmitted one copy to

each printer of a newspaper in Philadelphia. The compliment was

immediately returned by them all except Porcupine. The Editor of the

Time-Piece was in no want of his dirty vehicle of ribaldry, for the

purposes of compilation. The paper, however, continued to be sent for a

few weeks, till finding the hoggishness of the fellow, in not consenting

to an exchange, the transmission was discontinued."

ON THE ATTEMPTED LAUNCH[128]

Of a Frigate, designed for war against a Sister Republic.--1798

Unless it be for mere defence

May shipwrights fail to launch you hence,

At best, the comrade of old Nick--

Some folks will smile to see you stick.

But now, suppose the matter done,

And her the element upon;

What cause have we mad wars to wage

Or join the quarrels of the age?

Remote from Europe's wrangling race,

Who show us no pacific face

Let's tread negociation's track

Before we venture to attack.

But to the seas if we must go,

'Tis clearly seen who is the foe,

Who hastens, at no distant date,

To repossess his lost estate.

I see them raise the storm of war,

To cloud the gay columbian star,

I see them, bloody, brave and base

Make us the object of their chase.

Their ships of such superior might

All we possess will put to flight,

Or bear them off, with all on board,

To make a meal for George the third.

One frigate, only, will not do--

She must retreat while they pursue,

To make her drink affliction's cup,

And, heaven preserve us, eat her up.

A navy of stupendous strength

'Tis plain, must be our lot at length,

To sweep the seas, to guard the shore,

And crush their haughtiest seventy four.

Those puny ships that now we frame,

(The way that England plays her game)

Will to their bull-dogs fall a prey

The hour we get them under weigh.--

[128] Text from the 1815 edition.

ON THE LAUNCHING OF THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION[129]

The builders had the ship prepared,

And near her stood a triple guard,

For fear of secret foes.

Some, tiptoe stood to see her start,

And would have said, with all their heart,

In raptures, there she goes!

The stubborn ship, do what they could,

Convinced them, she was made of wood

Though plann'd with art supreme;

All art, all force the ship defy'd--

Nor brilliant day, nor top of tide

Could urge her to the stream.

Some, with their airs aristocratic,

And some with honors diplomatic,

Advanced to see the show:

In vain the builder to her call'd--

In vain the shipwrights pull'd and haul'd--

She could not--would not go.

Each anti-federal, with a smile

Observed the yet unfloating pile

As if he meant to say,

Builder, no doubt, you know your trade,

A constitution you have made

But should her ways have better laid.

Well now to heave the ship afloat,

To move from this unlucky spot,

Take our advice, and give them soon,

What should have long ago been done,

Amendments--You Know What.

[129] Text from 1815 edition.

ON THE FREE USE OF THE LANCET[130]

In Yellow Fevers[A]

[A] A practice very prevalent at the time the above was

written.--_Freneau's note._

In former days your starch'd divines

From notes of twenty thousand lines

Held many a long dispute;

One argued this, one argued that,

And reverend wigs, as umpires sat,

All sophists to confute.

They dwelt on things beyond their ken

And teazed and puzzled simple men

To hold them in the dark;

But their long season now is past,

The churchman's horn has blown its blast,

Things take a different mark.

Physicians now to quiet pain

Stick lancet in the patient's vein

That burns with feverish heat:

The next contend, they're wholly wrong,

That life will leak away ere long

If thus the case they treat.

Meantime a practice gets about,

Perhaps to make some doctors pout:

Old Shelah, with her herbs and teas,

And scarce a shilling for her fees,

In many instances, at least,

When deaths and funerals increased,

Did more to dispossess the fever,

Did more from dying beds deliver

Than all the hippocratian host

Could by the lancet's virtue boast;

To which, I trow, full many a ghost

Will have a grudge forever.

[130] From the edition of 1815. The yellow fever epidemic of 1797

created more than usual consternation. It was supposed to be of a more

deadly type than that of 1793. The medical profession was divided as to

the treatment of the disease. "Two hostile schools sprang up. At the

head of one was William Currie. Benjamin Rush led the other. The Currie

men declared the fever was imported and contagious. The Rush school

maintained that it was not. Filthy streets, they held, and loathsome

alleys had much to do with the sickness, and they urged the use of

mercurial purges and the copious letting of blood_."--McMaster._

THE BOOK OF ODES[131]

ODE I

"He that readeth not in the Book of Odes is like a man

standing with his face against a wall; he can neither move a

step forward, nor survey any object."--_Hau Kiou Choaan._

Blest is the man who shuns the place

Where Demo's love to meet,

Who scorns to gnaw their bread and cheese,

And hates their small beer treat:

But in the glare of splendid halls

Doth place his whole delight,

And there by day eats force-meat balls,

And roasted hogs by night.

He, like some thrifty pumpkin vine,

Near Hartford that doth grow,

Shall creep, and spread, and twist, and twine,

And shade the weeds below.

Puff'd by all dunces far and near

He'll swell to station high,

While Democrats confus'd appear

As he rides rattling by.

Not so the man of vulgar birth,

And Democratic phiz;

Want, toil, and every plague on earth,

Shall certainly be his.

Poor as a snake, and ever vile

Shall his condition be,

Who to the men of royal style

Neglects to bend the knee.

He, with the herd of little note,

May starve on bread and cheese,

And soon shall be without a coat

Or sent to pay jail-fees.

ODE II[132]

TO THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION

"A ship carpenter being once asked, what sort of ships are the

_safest_, he answered, _those which are hauled up on dry land_."

Madam!--Stay where you are,

'Tis better, sure, by far

Than venturing on an element of danger,

Where heavy seas and stormy gales

May wreck your hulk and rend your sails,

Or Europe's black-guards treat you like a stranger,

When first you stuck upon your ways

(Where half New England came to gaze)

We antifederals thought it something odd

That where all art had been display'd,

And even the builder deem'd a little god,

He had your ways not better laid.

Omens, indeed, are now exploded,

But you have something dismal boded:

Say--must the navy-system go to rack,

And things advance at such a rate

That every wisely govern'd state

Will hold the author of the scheme a quack.

O frigate Constitution! stay on shore:

Why would you meet old Ocean's roar?

Was man design'd

To be confin'd

In those fire-spitting hells a navy nam'd,

Where Vice herself, abash'd, asham'd,

Turns from the horrid scene of blood and bones,

And mangled carcases of men; and grunts and groans.

Remaining on the stocks, in gloomy pride,

Without an anchor thou shalt safely ride;

No pumping there,

To make men swear,

Waves you'll despise,

Tho' fierce they rise

To heaven when storms and tempests blow:

Steady as fate, unmov'd will you appear

When other ships the foaming surges tear--

No fear of broaching to.

Nor useless need you be, if right we deem,

For harmless purposes you proper seem--

Scorn to be made a bloody, murdering den;

Let folks of sense

At less expense

Convert you into stores--to bring in rents;

Stow pumpkins there--or anything but Men.

ODE III[133]

TO DUNCAN DOOLITTLE

A "_half-starved_" Democrat

"Lodge where you must, drink small-beer where you can,

"But eat no roast pig, if no Federal man."

Duncan, with truth it may be said,

Your mouth was made for rye or barley bread;

What claim have you to halls of state,

Whose business is to stand and wait,

Subserviant to command?

What right have you to white-bread, superfine,

Who were by nature destin'd for "a _swine_"--

As said good Edmund Burke,

The drudge of Britain's dirty work,

Whose mighty pamphlets rous'd the royal band!

When passing by a splendid dome of pride

By speculation built (and built so vast

That there a standing army might reside)

Say, Duncan, stood you not aghast,

When gazing up (like fox that look'd for grapes)

You saw so many things in curious shapes,

Trees rang'd along the table,

And sugar-columns, far above the rabble,

With roses blooming in October,

And wisdom's figure--dull and sober.

Ah! how you smack'd your lips, and look'd so wishful

When pigs and poultry--many a lovely dish-full,

Imparted to your nose the savoury scent

For royal noses--not for Duncan's--meant.

For things like these you, caitiff, were not born--

A pewter spoon was for your chops intended;

Some shins of beef, and garlands made of thorn--

On things like these has Freedom's feast depended.

Though in the days of fight you musquet carried,

Or wandered up and down, a cannon-hauling,

Better you might in Jericho have tarried

And rebel-starving made your loyal calling.

Among our far-fam'd chieftains that are dead

(Like beer set by in mug without a lid,

And sure, a half-gill glass I'll put it all in)

I'll toast your health--yes, to the very brim

And to the little gaping world proclaim

You are a Hero fallen:

One of the wights who dar'd all death, or wound,

And warr'd for two and sixpence in the pound.

Of public virtue you're a rare example--

Go, mind your hoe, your pick-ax, or your spade;

A hut of six foot square shall be your "temple,"

And all your honour--strutting on parade.

But pray, beware of public good;

It will not always find you food,

And if your son should anything inherit,

Bequeath him not your public spirit,

But sixpence, to be train'd to sawing wood.

ODE IV[134]

TO PEST-ELI-HALI

A Democratic Printer on the Western Banks of the Hudson

No easy task that press assumes

Which takes the lead in Freedom's band,

And scatters in nocturnal glooms

The blaze of Reason through our land:

Each empty bellows would, no doubt,

Rise, and aspire to put it out.

Blamed though you are, pursue your way;

Night evermore precedes the sun;

Whate'er some angry king's-men say,

You play a game that must be won:

The bliss of man--is the great prize

That yet at stake with tyrants lies.

When first a mean, designing few

Their poisonous dregs by Herald spread;

An antidote, by such as you,

Was at the root of mischief laid;

With a simple herb from Reason's plains

You kept all right in Freedom's veins.

Now hostile views, and low design

Are busy to annoy your page,

Controul its strength, its fires confine,

And war with sense and reason wage:

They hope, with fogs to quench the sun,

They hope your useful race is run.

But though some narrow hearts contrive

To shove you from your mounted car;

Right pleasantly we see you drive,

And hardly heed their little war:

Like insects, creeping in the dirt,

They merely serve to make you sport.

Who looks at Kings, a court, a queen,

With childish pomp, and borrowed fame,

But wonders from what genius mean

Their chaos of confusion came--

Yet those on little things depend,

And every reptile is their friend.

ODE V[135]

TO PETER PORCUPINE

"That one may write--and write--and be a villain,

"At least, I'm sure it may be so in--Denmark."--_Hamlet._

"While with the loss of blood and spirits some faint,

"Others are seen to rise, triumphant,

"O'er slaughter'd thousands sent to Pluto's shores,

"Where Stygian water in dull torrent roars--

"What hosts, what myriads fell,

"By lancet and by calomell,

"All gone, in Philadelphia's epidemic,

"And sent the substance of mankind to mimic."

So said that Man divine

Bold Peter Porcupine,

Who through these climes his vast subscription spread,

And rais'd four thousand ghosts; and struck with dread,

All Democratic knaves,

Disorganizing slaves--

He with bold wit,

And spirit and spit,

From Nova Scotia to the woods of Maine,

True federalism did maintain;

And through those mighty thriving states,

Distributed his dainty, blackguard bits.

Ah--Peter!--Thou, poor lousy numps

Who loadest little horses' rumps,

And mak'st them trot and sweat,

On sandy road

Beneath the load

Of trash call'd _Peter Porcupine's Gazette_.

What have you done to claim Columbia's love

That she--like some base--

Should court a scoundrel from a foreign shore

And make him tool to--some apostate Jove,

Ah! now I see poor Carolina's horses,

With pedlar's pack,

Pil'd high on back,

Pursuing their mean, blackguard courses,

Through solitary groves and woods of pine

Transporting Goods, like thine,

--------Damned stuff!

Of which Columbia, sure, has had--enough--

There Pickens, Sumpter, Greene, for freedom fought,

And Liberty her wonders wrought.

What do I hear? And have we lent thee wings

To waft thy poison into Eutaw Springs?

Those, clearer than Castalia's waters, found,

For many a hero, dead, who might have claim'd

Life--but for brutish George,

Who, having robb'd and plunder'd half the east,

Came here to close his Vulture's feast.

Now, Peter! take advice from Doctor Rush;

And--convert to the system you would crush;

Pray, let him draw your blackguard blood;

(And calomell might, also, do some good.)

Four thousand drops exhausted from your veins

Will save the future exercise of canes:

And, tell him to be speedy with his lancet,

For 'tis a truth; and many dare advance it,

That howe'er in life well fed,

No Doctor bleeds a man--when dead.

ODE VI[136]

ADDRESS TO A LEARNED PIG

Of Particular Eminence, who, in a certain Great City, was

visited by Persons of the First Taste and Distinction

O thou, marked out by Fate from vulgar swine,

Among the learned of our age to shine,

On whom 'squires, ladies, parsons, come to gaze,

Bold, science-loving pig,

Who, without gown or wig

Can force your way through learning's thorny maze

--How many high learned wights in days of old

(Whom Fame has with the great enrolled)

Starved by their wits--were banished, hanged, or sold;

--While you, on better ages fallen, O lucky swine!

Can by your wit on pyes and sweetmeats dine--

When house and lands are gone and spent,

Then learning is most excellent--

(So says a proverb through the world well known)--

You, that were pigged to grovel in a stye,

Have left your swill for science high:--

Without a rival of your race,

You hold a most distinguished place--

All that the heart can wish flows in to you,

Who real happiness pursue,

And are well fed, on whate'er hog stye thrown.

Now, if one had the chance to choose one's state

On this world's stage, and not controuled by Fate,

Who would not wish to have his little brains

Lodged in the head of Learned Pig,

Rather than be a man, and toil, and sweat, and dig

With all the sense the human scull contains.

With Us, we all are wise, we all things know,

But every pig--inferior is to you--

The rest are fools and simpletons--and so--

What, next, will be the science You attain?

Science!--to You, that opens all her store?--

Already have you in your sapient brain

More than most aldermen--and gumption more

Than some, who capers cut on Congress floor.

May we not hope, in this improving age

Of human things--to see on Terra's stage

Hogs take the lead of men, and from their styes

To honours, riches, office, rise!

Adepts in Latin, Commerce, Physick, Law?--

From what is seen, such inference we draw--

ODE VII[137]

ON THE FEDERAL CITY

"Thus Cain of old, poor Abel slain,

"Departing from his native plain,

"In land of Nod, beneath the heaven's frowns,

"Built sky-topt towers and federal towns."

Enough of learned pigs,

Pigg'd for immense designs,

And shame our men of mighty wigs--

Enough of Peter Porcupines,

Whose quills, like pop-guns shooting at a fort,

Be sure have done the Demos mighty hurt,

A subject now of real weight inspires,

That soon will kindle every muse's fires,

No less than federal town,

Immortal in renown,

Which in her district--ten miles square

The center fills, like spider in her web

Catching all silly flies that venture near,

And fattening on the folly of the tribe.

When fates decreed,

Or nature said

"This spot is destin'd for a future town,"

Between them both they so contriv'd the matter

(Altho' perhaps not wholly wrong the latter)

That this should be a town of silent halls

And like Palmyra famous in the east,

Erect her columns huge and lofty walls--

Yet there in vain for men do travellers seek,

And hardly meet a townsman once a week!

Virginia's sons, as through this town they pass

Each cries, "Alas,

No sound of fiddle here,

All dull and drear,

No merry bells that jingle on the ear,

No glittering females, balls, or billiards dear--

No fighting cocks, no gallant steeds for racing:

Well-stap my vitals--is it not distressing?

No gallant ship with canvas swelling high

Engag'd in war or commerce passes by;

But corn-boats mean from Alleghany hills,

Or buck-wheat laden hulks from country mills!"

Amidst these huge hotels and regal domes

Frequent some townsman walks, as midst the tombs,

And cries, "The founders of this city blundered

In rearing up such piles for eighteen hundred:

Waiting for that must Congress absent stay?--

Ah! curse the Law's delay!

Rather than hold them there,

(Though, doubtless, it may sadly grieve her)

May Philadelphia twelve months every year

Be plagu'd and blooded for the yellow fever!"

ODE VIII[138]

ON THE CITY ENCROACHMENTS ON THE RIVER HUDSON

Where Hudson, once, in all his pride

In surges burst upon the shore

They plant amidst his flowing tide

Moles, to defy his loudest roar;

And lofty mansions grow where late

Half Europe might discharge her freight.

From northern lakes and wastes of snow

The river takes a distant rise,

Now marches swift, now marches slow,

And now adown some rapid flies

Till join'd the Mohawk, in their course

They travel with united force.

But cease, nor with too daring aim

Encroach upon this giant flood;

No rights reserved by nature, claim,

Nor on his ancient bed intrude:--

The river may in rage awake

And time restore him all you take.

The eastern stream, his sister, raves

To see such moles her peace molest

A London built upon her waves,

The weight of mountains on her breast:

With quicken'd flow she seeks the main

As on her bed new fabrics gain.

Bold streams! and may our verse demand

Is there not coast for many a mile,

And soils, as form'd by nature's hand

That border all Manhattan's isle:

Then why these mounds does avarice raise

And build the haunts of pale disease.

Yet in your aim to clip their wing

(It asks no wizard to descry,)

That time the woful day will bring

When Hudson's passion, swelling high,

May in a foam his wrongs repay

And sweep both house and wharf away.

ODE IX[139]

ON THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION

"And in those days men settled themselves on the waters, and

lived there, not because land was wanting, but that they

wished to be slaves to such as were great and mighty on the

land."--_Modern History._

Thus launch'd at length upon the main

And soon prepar'd the seas to roam,

In your capacious breast ere long

Will many an idler find a home

That sells his freedom for a song,

Quits fields and trees

For boisterous seas,

To tread his native soil no more,

And see--but not possess the shore.

Well! let them go--can there be loss

In those who Nature's bounty slight,

From rural vales and freedom's shades

To this dull cage who take their flight,

The axe, the hoe,

The plough forego,

The buxom milk-maid's simple treat,

The bliss of country life forget,

For tumult here

And toil severe,

A gun their pillow when they sleep,

And when they wake, are wak'd to weep.

Dick Brothers said, "The time will come,

"When war no more shall prowl the sea,

"Nor men for pride or plunder roam,

"And my millenium brings them home,

"How'eer dispers'd through each degree."

If Richard proves a prophet true,

Why may not we be quiet too,

And turn our bull-dogs into lambs,

Saw off the horns of battering rams

As well as Europe's sons?

Ye Quakers! see with pure delight,

The times approach when men of might,

And squadrons roving round the ball,

Shall fight each other not at all,

Or fight with wooden guns.

And yet that Being you address

Who shaped old Chaos into form,

May speak--and with a word suppress

The tryant and the storm.

ODE X[140]

TO SANTONE SAMUEL

The Millennial Prophet, on his System of Universal Pacification

With aspect wild, in ranting strain

You bring the brilliant period near,

When monarchy will close her reign

And wars and warriors disappear;

The lion and the lamb will stray,

And, social, walk the woodland way.

I fear, with superficial view

You contemplate dame nature's plan:--

She various forms of being drew,

And made the common tryant--man:

She form'd them all with wise design,

Distinguish'd each, and drew the line.

Observe the lion's visage bold

His iron tooth, his murderous claw,

His aspect cast in anger's mould;

The strength of steel is in his paw:

Could he be meant with lambs to stray

Or feed along the woodland way?

Since first his race on earth began

War was his trade and war will be:

And when he quits that ancient plan

With milder natures to agree,

He will be changed to something new

And have some other part to do.

One system see through all this frame,

Apparent discord still prevails;

The forest yields to active flame,

The ocean swells with stormy gales;

No season did the God decree

When leagued in friendship these should be.

And do you think that human kind

Can shun the all-pervading law--

That passion's slave we ever find--

Who discord from their nature draw:--

Ere discord can from man depart

He must assume a different heart.

Yet in the slow advance of things

A time may come our race may rise,

By reason's aid to stretch their wings,

And see the light with other eyes;

And when the ancient mist is pass'd;

To find their nature changed at last,

The sun himself, the powers ordain,

Should in no perfect circle stray;

He shuns the equatorial plane,

Prefers an odd serpentine way,

And lessens yearly, sophists prove,

His angle in the voids above.

When moving in his ancient line,

And no oblique ecliptic near,

With some new influence he may shine

But you and I will not be here

To see the lion shed his teeth

Or kings forget the trade of death.

ODE XI[141]

TO THE PHILADELPHIA DOCTORS

"And the Angel Michael disputed with the Devil about the body

of Moses."--_Ancient History._

"To bleed or not to bleed--that is the question!

Whether 'tis better in our beds to suffer

The slights and snufflings of outrageous doctors,

Or by the Lancet--quit them."

In ancient days divines, in dismal humour,

With disputation kept the presses going;

Wrangled about some wonderous mighty things

The difference "'twixt a shadow and a shade,"

And scribbled much of "way of man with maid."

At length, as fades the crown

Their bludgeons they lay down;

And you, wise doctors, take the wrangle up,

Each cursing all who will not drink his cup.

Ah, Philadelphians! still to knaves a prey,

Take your old philosophic way;

When from the native spring you seiz'd your draught,

Health bloom'd on every face, and all was gay--

Dejection was remote--and Nature laugh'd.

A question now, of mighty weight is put,

Whether, to bleed a man is best, or not,

When scarce three drops (or not one drop) remains

In the poor devil's veins!--

Well! you decide, who are in Galen read--

Take Boorhaave's, if you please--whatever system--

(Why are men such that doctors can enlist 'em?)

Whether your methods be the right or wrong,

And man's existence shorten or prolong,

We feverish fellows, must be--put to bed.

The secret has leak'd out--be cautious doctors

(The whole shall be disclos'd in room with lock'd doors)

Old women, with their simple herbs and teas

(And asking hardly two-pence for their fees)

Disarm this dreadful epidemic fever;

Make it as tame and innocent,

(Whether home-bred or from West Indies sent)

As Continental soldier, turn'd to Weaver.

ODE XII[142]

THE CROWS AND THE CARRION

A Medical Story

If Ephraim on his bed complains

Of feverish pulse and boiling veins,

And throbs and pulses in his brains,

Then round him flock a ghastly crew

Of doctors old and doctors new,

And doctors, some--the Lord knows who.

Hoping the men had learned their trade,

Poor Ephraim begs them for their aid,

And promises they shall be paid.

Each quotes some book, by way of sham,

Or reads some text from Sydenham,

Which some approve, and some condemn.

At once he hears a barbarous noise,

Like that from herds of butchers' boys,

That ever hope of life destroys.

He promises all bills to pay,

But they proceed in angry fray--

Poor Ephraim frets--and well he may.

Each looks at each with vengeful eyes,

As if contending for a prize

He wants his share--when Ephraim dies.

One talks of cure by Calomel;

But his wise brother, Sydrophel,

Swears, 'tis the readiest way to hell.

While one the lancet recommends,

Another for a blister sends,

And each his every cure defends.

Weary of all they have to say,

At last the patient faints away:

Poor Ephraim swoons--and well he may.

In Fancy's dreams, he thinks he roams

In realms where doctor Satan foams,

With Sydrophels and Curry-combs.

Revived at length, he begs release,

And whines, "Do let your quarrels cease,

Do, doctors, let me die in peace.

"Oh! had I sent for doctress Nan,

Or anything but cruel man,

To put me on my legs again:

"She, with her cooling tamarind tea,

At least would not have murdered me--

Come! if you love me, do agree.

"She would have held my dizzy head--

She would have something to me read--

Or would have somewhat cheering said.

"Good heavens! you cannot all be right--

O do not scratch!--O do not bite!--

Good doctors, do not, do not fight!"--

Here they began a louder fray--

Oh! Ephraim's dead!--to them all play--

Poor Ephraim dies!--and well he may.

ODE XIII[143]

A Soldier should be made of Sterner Stuff

ON DEBORAH GANNET

The American heroine, who on Tuesday last presented a petition

to Congress for a pension, in consideration of services

rendered during the whole of the late war, in the character

of a common follower in the regular armies of America

Ye congress men and men of weight,

Who fill the public chairs,

And many a favor have conferr'd

On some, unknown to Mars;

And ye, who hold the post of fame,

The helmsmen of our great affairs,

Afford a calm, attentive ear

To her who handled sword and spear,

A heroine in a bold career,

Assist a war-worn dame.

With the same vigorous soul inspired

As Joan of Arc, of old,

With zeal against the Briton fired,

Her spirit warm and bold,

She march'd to face her country's foes

Disguised in male attire:

Where'er they prowl'd through field or town

With steady step she follow'd on;

Resolved the conflict to sustain,

She met them on the hill, the plain,

And hostile to the English reign,

She hurl'd the blasting fire.

Now for such generous toils endured,

Her day of warfare done,

In life's decline at length reward

This faithful amazon:

She asks no thousands at your hands,

Though mark'd with many a scar;

She asks no share of indian lands,

Though lands you have to spare:

But something in the wane of days

To make her snug, and keep her warm,

A cottage, and the cheery blaze,

To shield her from the storm;

And something to the pocket too,

Your bounty might afford,

Of her, who did our foes pursue

With bayonet, gun, and sword.

Reflect how many tender ties

A female must forego

Ere to the martial camp she flies

To meet the invading foe:

How many bars has nature placed,

And custom many more,

Lest slighted woman should be graced

With trophies gain'd in war.

All these she nobly overcame,

And scorn'd a censuring age,

Join'd in the ranks, her road to fame,

Despis'd the Briton's rage;

And men, who, with contracted mind,

All arrogant, condemn

And make disgrace in womankind

What honor is in them.

[131] These odes first appeared in the _Time-Piece_, where they were

published in rapid succession between October 16 and November 13, 1797.

Three of them--the fourth, sixth, and eleventh--were republished,

greatly revised, in the edition of 1809. The eighth, tenth, and

thirteenth were used in revised form in the 1815 edition. The others are

here republished for the first time.

The first ode, which is manifestly an adaptation of Dr. Watts'

well-known hymn, seems to have been objected to in some quarters,

for in the _Time-Piece_ for December 22 appeared the following:

"Some serious animadversions appear in the Connecticut Courant on the

first number of the _Book of Odes_, published in the Time-Piece of the

14th ult. being a profane parody, as the writer insinuates, on the first

Psalm of David--where the _aristocrat_ corresponds with the _saint_ in

the psalm, and the _democrat_ with the _impenitent sinner_. These

gentlemen writers ought to consider that the parody in question (as they

choose to call it) was not meant to be sung through a deacon's nose, to

the sound of the organ: nor yet to the timbrel of seven strings: it was

merely intended to be _harped_ upon _out of doors_, for the benefit of

all good democrats, and the utter astoundment and confusion of _the

contrary character_. In the name of common sense how did the printers of

the Connecticut Courant _dare_ to act so _irreverantly_ as to place the

parody before the psalm? Are they trampling on all sanctity; or what do

they mean? Let them beware--serious times are coming on, gentlemen:

'Your life is but a vapour, sure,

A mere old woman's qualm--

And good king David's lyric harp,

May close it--with a psalm.'"

[132] _Time-Piece_, October 18, 1797.

[133] The _Time-Piece_, October 20, 1797.

[134] From the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed in all

but the title which is "To a Democratic Editor." This poem first

appeared in the _Time-Piece_, October 23, 1797, with the following

introduction: "'He that first put a real mark upon the forehead of the

BEAST was the inventor of Printing. This mark was impressed deeply, and

becomes deeper from day to day.'--_Erasmus._"

[135] The _Time-Piece_, October 25, 1797. William Cobbett, an English

adventurer, settled in Philadelphia in 1792. Under the signature "Peter

Porcupine" he wrote many political pamphlets, and edited a paper called

_Porcupine's Gazette_. He left America in 1800 after having been

convicted of libel. His works in twelve volumes, including many

selections from the _Gazette_, were published in 1801, in London. He was

an avowed enemy to the Democrats of America; he opposed the French

interests, and abused roundly Dr. Priestly, Benjamin Franklin, and Dr.

Rush.

[136] Text from the edition of 1809. Originally in the _Time-Piece_,

October 27, 1797, with the following introduction:

"Let but a dancing bear arrive,

A pig that counts you four or five,

And Cato, with his moral strain,

Shall strive to mend the town--in vain."

[137] From the _Time-Piece_, October 31, 1797.

[138] From the 1815 edition. The _Time-Piece_ version, November 1, 1797,

bore the title "To Thos. Swawgum, a Wharf Builder," with the following

introduction:

"'And Alexander built a solid mole from the coast, even unto the isle of

Tyre, through the deep waters of the channel between: and people said it

would be everlasting; and yet at this day it is overwhelmed, and few

vestiges left thereof.'--_Modern Travels._"

[139] From the Time-Piece, October 31, 1797. The following account of

the launch is given in the same issue:

"BOSTON, _October 23_, The Launch! On Saturday last at fifteen minutes

P. M. the frigate CONSTITUTION was launched into the adjacent element,

on which she now rides an elegant and superb specimen of American naval

architecture, combining the unity of wisdom, strength, and beauty. On a

signal being given from on board, her ordnance, on shore, announced to

the neighboring Country, that the CONSTITUTION WAS SECURE."

[140] From the edition of 1815, with the exception of the title, which

is, "The Millennium--To a Ranting Field Orator."

[141] From the _Time-Piece_, November 13, 1797.

[142] Text from the edition of 1809. The title of the newspaper version

was "To the Philadelphia Doctors," with the following motto: "And he

said unto him, Physician Heal Thyself."

[143] Published in the _Time-Piece_, December 4, 1797, and reprinted in

the edition of 1815, the text of which I have used, though I have

retained the title of the newspaper version. In the 1815 edition the

title is "The Heroine of the Revolution. _To the men in power_," with

the note "On December 23, 1797, Deborah Gannet presented a petition to

congress for a pension, in consideration of services rendered during the

whole of the American Revolutionary war, in the rank of a common soldier

in the regular armies of the United States. The above lines were written

on this occasion, at the request of the heroine. It is needless to say,

she had a competency bestowed on her during her natural life." Freneau's

daughter has thus recounted the circumstances under which the affair

became known to the poet:

"While editor of the _Time-Piece_ his office was thronged with visitors

mostly wanting favors of one kind or another. One day he came into

dinner and told Mrs. Freneau that there had been rather an eccentric

character in the office that morning, telling him that she had served

through the Revolutionary War in man's attire and had received several

wounds and showed the scars. All he could do for her was to send her to

Washington with a petition, which he did. Her name was Deborah Gannet.

She went to Congress, presented her petition, and received her pension.

Though he put not his name to it, it was immediately known, as many of

the members were his correspondents, also Thomas Jefferson, the

President."

ON THE FEDERAL CITY[144]

1797

All human things must have their rise,

And Rome advanced from little size

Till future ages saw her grown

The mistress of the world, then known.

So, bounding on Potowmac's flood,

Where ancient oaks so lately stood

An infant city grows apace

Intended for a ruling race.

Here capitols of awful height--

Already burst upon the sight,

And buildings, meant for embryo kings

Display their fronts and spread their wings.

This city bodes no common fate--

All other towns, as books relate,

With huts at first were thinly spread,

With hovels mean, or humble shed.

But matters here are quite reversed,

Here, palaces are built the first,

And late will common rustics come

In such abodes to find a home.

Meantime, it will be fair and just

(Nor will our congress fret, we trust)

If while the poor at distance lurk--

Themselves do their own dirty work.

Rome's earliest citizens were thieves,

So history tells, and man believes,

May matters be again reversed,

May they who here inhabit first

Instruct the late historians pen

To write--that they were honest men.

[144] From the 1815 edition. A young Englishman, Thomas Twining, who

visited Washington in 1796, describes it as follows: "Having crossed an

extensive tract of level country somewhat resembling an English heath, I

entered a large wood through which a very imperfect road had been made,

principally by removing the trees or the upper parts of them in the

usual manner. After some time this indistinct way assumed more the

appearance of a regular avenue, the trees having been cut down in a

straight line although no habitation of any kind was visible. I had no

doubt but I was now riding along one of the streets of the metropolitan

city. I continued in this spacious avenue for half a mile and then came

out upon a large spot cleared of wood, in the center of which I saw two

unfinished buildings and men at work on one of them. Advancing and

speaking to these workmen, they informed me that I was in the center of

the city and that the building was the Capitol. Looking from where I

stood I saw on every side a thick wood pierced with avenues in a more or

less perfect state."

THE ROYAL COCKNEYS IN AMERICA[145]

1797

Why travel so far from your insular home,

Ye cockneys of London, and all in a foam,

To talk, and to talk, with coxcombical phiz,

And tell what a nuisance democracy is:

Twas a lesson we learn'd

When you were concern'd

In wishing success to the vast preparations

To conquer and pillage the royal-plantations.

We Americans far from your king-ridden isle

Do humbly beseech you, all democrat haters,

For fear that your bodies or souls you defile,

Would fairly go off, with your lies and your satires:

The monarch you worship requests your assistance,

And how can you help him at such a long distance?

Tis an Englishman's creed,

And they all have agreed

That, out of old England, there's nothing, they swear,

That can with old England--dear England--compare;

So, away to old England, or we'll send you there.

A swarm is arrived from the hives of the east,

Determined to sap the republic's foundation;

And who is their leader, their scribe, and their priest?

Why, Porcupine Peter,

The democrat-eater,

Transported by Pitt, at the charge of the nation,

To preach to the demos a new revelation.

His patrons in England, and some who are here,

Consented to join in his sink of scurrility,

And gave him, tis certain, four thousand a year

To print a damn'd libel, to please our nobility:

Where I--is the hero of all that is said

I--Corporal Cobbett[A]-a man of the blade!

If his countrymen thought

That for nothing we fought

And they mean to regain, by the aid of his press,

A country they lost, to their shame and disgrace,

Let them fairly engage

In some liberal page:

We can give them an answer, not relish'd by some,

Who will see their friend Peter go, whimpering, home.

[A] Alluding to the egotistical style of his

writings.--_Freneau's note._

[145] From the edition of 1815.

TO THE SCRIBE OF SCRIBES[146]

By the gods of the poets, Apollo and Jove,

By the muse who directs me, the spirits that move,

I council you, Peter, once more, to retire

Or satire shall pierce, with her arrows of fire.

Be careful to stop in your noisy career,

Or homeward retreat, for your danger is near:

The clouds are collecting to burst on your head,

Their sulphur to dart, or their torrents to shed.

Along with the tears, I foresee you will weep,

In the cave of oblivion I put you to sleep;--

This dealer in scandal, this bladder of gall,

This sprig of Parnassus must go to the wall.

From a star of renown in the reign of night

He has dwindled away to a little rush-light:

Then snuff it, and snuff it, while yet it remains

And Peter will leave you the snuff for your pains.--

[146] From the edition of 1815.

TO THE AMERICANS OF THE UNITED STATES[147]

First published November, 1797

Men of this passing age!--whose noble deeds

Honour will bear above the scum of Time:

Ere this eventful century expire,

Once more we greet you with our humble rhyme:

Pleased, if we meet your smiles, but--if denied,

Yet, with Your sentence, we are satisfied.

Catching our subjects from the varying scene

Of human things; a mingled work we draw,

Chequered with fancies odd, and figures strange,

Such, as no courtly poet ever saw;

Who writ, beneath some Great Man's ceiling placed;

Travelled no lands, nor roved the watery waste.

To seize some features from the faithless past;

Be this our care--before the century close:

The colours strong!--for, if we deem aright,

The coming age will be an age of prose:

When sordid cares will break the muses' dream,

And Common Sense be ranked in seat supreme.

Go, now, dear book; once more expand your wings:

Still in the cause of Man severely true:

Untaught to flatter pride, or fawn on kings;--

Trojan, or Tyrian,[A]--give them both their due.--

When they are right, the cause of both we plead,

And both will please us well,--if both will read.

[A] Tros, Tyriusque mihi nullo discrimine

agetur.--Virg_.--Freneau's note._

[147] This was used as the introductory poem to Volume II of the 1809

edition.

TO A NIGHT-FLY[148]

Approaching a Candle

Attracted by the taper's rays,

How carelessly you come to gaze

On what absorbs you in its blaze!

O Fly! I bid you have a care:

You do not heed the danger near;

This light, to you a blazing star.

Already you have scorch'd your wings:

What courage, or what folly brings

You, hovering near such blazing things?

Ah me! you touch this little sun--

One circuit more and all is done!--

Now to the furnace you are gone!--

Thus folly with ambition join'd,

Attracts the insects of mankind,

And sways the superficial mind:

Thus, power has charms which all admire,

But dangerous is that central fire--

If you are wise in time retire.--

[148] First published in the _Time-Piece_, December 8, 1797. Text from

the edition of 1815.

THE INDIAN CONVERT[149]

An Indian, who lived at Muskingum, remote,

Was teazed by a parson to join his dear flock,

To throw off his blanket and put on a coat,

And of grace and religion to lay in a stock.

The Indian long slighted an offer so fair,

Preferring to preaching his fishing and fowling;

A sermon to him was a heart full of care,

And singing but little superior to howling.

At last by persuasion and constant harassing

Our Indian was brought to consent to be good;

He saw that the malice of Satan was pressing,

And the means to repel him not yet understood.

Of heaven, one day, when the parson was speaking,

And painting the beautiful things of the place,

The convert, who something substantial was seeking,

Rose up, and confessed he had doubts in the case.--

Said he, Master Minister, this place that you talk of,

Of things for the stomach, pray what has it got;

Has it liquors in plenty?--If so I'll soon walk off

And put myself down in the heavenly spot.

You fool (said the preacher) no liquors are there!

The place I'm describing is most like our meeting,

Good people, all singing, with preaching and prayer;

They live upon these without eating or drinking.

But the doors are all locked against folks that are wicked;

And you, I am fearful, will never get there:--

A life of Repentance must purchase the ticket,

And few of you, Indians, can buy it, I fear.

Farewell (said the Indian) I'm none of your mess;

On victuals, so airy, I faintish should feel,

I cannot consent to be lodged in a place

Where's there's nothing to eat and but little to steal.

[149] First published in the _Time-Piece_, December 11, 1797, under the

title, "Thomas Swagum, an Oneida Indian and a Missionary Parson." Text

from the 1809 edition.

THE PETTIFOGGER,[150]

or Fee Simple, Esquire

In a town I could mention, a lawyer resided

As cunning as Satan, and fond of disputes;

In wrangles and quarrels he ever confided,

To keep on his docquet a long string of suits.

Of little importance, nay, paltry and mean,

The matter contested, a pig or a hen;

But one thing he stuck to, he ever was seen

To have for his pleading just one pound ten.

With pleasure he saw that the quarrels increased,

Each day he had business from wranglesome men,

But all to the 'squire was a holiday feast

While he got his dear Fee, the one pound ten.

A parchment, Caveto, hung up in his hall

Which cautioned the reader to read and attend,

That for one pound ten he would quibble and brawl,

Twist, lie, and do all things a cause to defend.

Sometimes when the limits of lots were disputed

He would put all to rights in the turn of a straw;

From the tenth of an inch he his pocket recruited

Till he made the two parties curse lawyer and law.

Thus matters went on, and the lawyer grown rich

Fed high, and swilled wine 'till the dropsy began

To bloat up his guts to so monstrous a pitch,

You would hardly have known him to be the same man.

At last he departed, and when he had died,

His worship arriving at Beelzebub's den;

How much is the entrance (demanded the guide?--)

Old Devil made answer, 'Tis One Pound Ten.

[150] First published in the _Time-Piece_, December 13, 1797. Text from

the 1809 edition.

ON A CELEBRATED PERFORMER ON THE VIOLIN[151]

Who, as it was said, went out, in the year 1797, to excite discontents

and insurrections in the western country, particularly, in Ohio,

Kentucky, and Tennessee

Musician of the west! whose vast design

Schemes our new states with England to combine;

How vain the hope, with violin and bow,

Such feeble arms, to work internal wo!

How weak the attempt our union to divide

With not a sword or pistol at your side!

Not even a drum your engineer employs:--

He's right--a drum would blast the plot, by noise:

All must be done in midnight silence, all

Your plans must ripen or your projects fall.

Unknown, unseen, till in the destined hour

Descends the stroke of trans-atlantic power!

By music's note to sway the western wild

Indeed is new;--we heard it and we smiled.

In cold December's iron-hearted reign

Would you with blushing blossoms deck the plain;

Would you with sound immure the Thirteen Stars,

Or plant a garland on the front of Mars?

To sound, not sense, once brutes, they say, advanced,

When Orpheus whistled, fauns and satyrs danced--

You are no Orpheus--and it may be true

He play'd some tunes that are unknown to you.

Hopes, such as yours, on cat-gut who would place;

On tenor, treble, counter, or the bass:

Who arm'd with horse-hair, hopes a world to win

Who gains dominion from a violin?

Such if there was, in times, the lord knows when,

He must have been at least the first of men--

But now--the world would have not much to prize

In such a warfare where no soldier dies:

Thus would it say--by sad experience taught,

'Oh! may we never fight as these have fought!

'These to the charge with Thespian arms advanced,

'And when they should have fought, the soldiers danced;

'They had no drums, they felt no martial flame,

'But, cold as Christmas, to the conflict came!'

My dreams present you thrumming on your string

Playing at proper stands, God save the king!

I see you march, a pedlar with his pack,

And that poor fiddle swung athwart your back,

(Like Reynard from some hen-roost hurrying home

With plunder'd poultry for the feast to come)

Trudging the wilds, on bold adventures bent,

The woods at once your coverlet and tent,

To fierce rebellions our back-woods to call--

The attempt how mighty! and the means how small.

Amphion once, the classic stories say,

When on his organ he began to play,

So soft, so sweet, so melting were his tunes

That even the savage rocks danced rigadoons,

The trees, themselves, with frantic passions fired

Leap'd from their roots and every note admired:

Quitting the spot, where many a year they grew

Quick to the music sprung the enchanted crew,

Form'd o'er his head a sun-repelling power

And bow'd their shadowy heads to music's power.

If what, this moment, some relate be true

Still greater wonders are reserved for you.

Your music, far, all Amphion's art exceeds,

Not trees and rocks, but provinces it leads.

All Alleghany capers to the sound,

And southward moves to meet the iberian bound;

Kentucky hears the soul-enlivening notes

And on the artist and his music doats;

Remote Sanduskie spreads her eager wings,

And wild Miami with the concert rings;

Tiptoe, for flight, stands every hill and tree

From Huron's shores to savage Tennessee;

Arthur St. Clair might soon its influence feel;

But Arthur knows no music--but of steel:

Arthur St. Clair attends, with listening ears,

And when the purpose of your march appears,

Such music only will excite his rage,

He'll come, and drive you from your dancing stage;

Cut every string, the bridge, and sound-board seize,

By your own cat-gut hang you to the trees,

And bid you know, too late, It is no jest

To play rebellion's music to the west.

[151] From the edition of 1815.

NEW YEAR'S VERSES[152]

The Carrier of the Time-Piece, presents the following Address to His

Patrons, with the Compliments of the Season

Fellow Citizens:

The glass has run--see ninety-seven has fled,

And ninety-eight comes on with equal speed;

While safe from harm, beneath their spreading vine,

Columbia's sons in virtuous actions shine:

Their generous contributions feed the poor,

And sends them smiling from their patron's door;

Sweet Peace and Plenty crowns the festive board,

Where man reveres no domineering lord;

But free from scenes of desolating war,

Where kingdoms clash and mighty empires jar,

He lives secure from all the dread alarms

Of fell invaders and the din of arms:--

Such scenes now past have once defil'd our shore

And drench'd Columbia in her children's gore,

Let man exult, the raging storm is o'er.

To you, my customers, I bring the news

Of feuds domestic and of foreign woes;

Of Liberty extending her domain,

And Truth triumphant in her glorious reign.

Consider, patrons through the storm and snow

With constant care I am oblig'd to go;

Shivering and cold, I want the lively cup

To cheer my heart and keep my spirits up:

To stern winter's gloom can joy inspire;

Now social circles grace the Hickory fire;

And on your board, for friends and neighbors spread,

The turkey smokes the industrious peasant fed:

But not to me these blessings are dispos'd,

Fortune's capricious hand to me is clos'd;

I am condemn'd to labour long and hard,

Unknown my troubles, scanty my reward.

Such is the humble German's life of toil,

Who now solicits your approving smile;

My grateful heart still let your bounty share,

And Peace and Freedom reign from year to year.

_New-York, January 1, 1798._

[152] This was published as a broadside, and distributed with the paper.

As far as I can discover Freneau never reprinted it.