1775—1781
THE FIRST POETIC PERIOD
1775-1781[60]
A POLITICAL LITANY[61]
Libera Nos, Domine.—Deliver us, O Lord, not only from British dependence, but also
From a junto that labour with absolute power,
Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour,
From the lords of the council, who fight against freedom,
Who still follow on where delusion[62] shall lead them.
From the group at St. James's, who slight our petitions,
And fools that are waiting for further submissions—
From a nation whose manners are rough and severe,
From scoundrels and rascals,—do keep us all clear.[63]
From pirates sent out by command of the king
To murder and plunder, but never to swing.
From Wallace and Greaves, and Vipers and Roses,[A]
Whom, if heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses.
[A] Captains and ships in the British navy, then employed on the American coast.—Freneau's note. During the summer of 1775, Capt. Wallace and his vessel, the Rose, kept the American coast cities in a state of constant terror. The colonial newspapers show how widespread and real was this terror.
From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of banditti,
Who plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city,[64]
From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear,
The little fat man with his pretty white hair.[65]
From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown,
From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne,
From assemblies that vote against Congress proceedings,
(Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings.)
From Tryon[66] the mighty, who flies from our city,
And swelled with importance disdains the committee:
(But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes,
What the devil care we where the devil he goes.)
From the caitiff,[67] lord North, who would bind us in chains,
From a royal king Log, with his tooth-full of brains,
Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap)
He has conquered our lands, as they lay on his map.[68]
From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears,
We send up to heaven our wishes and prayers
That we, disunited, may freemen be still,
And Britain go on—to be damned if she will.
[60] In August, 1775, Freneau emerges from the obscurity which has concealed him since the year of his graduation at Princeton, and enters upon an era of marvelous productiveness. For four months, poetry must have been his one thought, his one occupation. It was during this period of his life that he did his most spontaneous and original work.
[61] The earliest trace I can find of this poem is in the 1786 edition of Freneau, where it is dated "New York, Sept. 26, 1775." In this edition, and in that of 1795, it had the title "Libera Nos, Domine." In the edition of 1809, which I have followed, it is dated "New-York, June, 1775." The earlier date is probably the date of publication.
[62] "The devil."—Ed. 1786.
[63] "Whom gold can corrupt."—Ed. 1786.
[64] Lord Dunmore was the last Royal Governor of Virginia. In April, 1775, he had removed the public stores from Williamsburg, and with the aid of the navy and what forces he could raise, was waging open war on the colonies.
[65] George Montagu, admiral of the British fleet during the early part of the war, did much to exasperate the colonists. "He stopped and searched vessels without adequate pretext, and fired at the market boats as they entered Newport harbor. He treated the farmers on the islands much as the Saracens in the Middle Ages treated the coast population of Italy." He was mild in appearance, but testy and arbitrary to an extraordinary degree. He covered the British retreat from Boston, aided Lord Dunmore to escape from Virginia, and took part in the capture of New York City.
[66] William Tryon, the last Royal Governor of New York, informed of a resolution of the Continental Congress: "That it be recommended to the several provincial assemblies, in conventions and councils or committees of safety, to arrest and secure every person in their respective colonies whose going at large may, in their opinion, endanger the safety of the colony or the liberties of America," discerning the signs of the times, took refuge on board the Halifax packet in the harbour, and left the city in the middle of October, 1775.—Duyckinck.
[67] Scoundrel.—Ed. 1786.
"From a dunce of a king who was born without brains,
The utmost extent of whose sense is to see
That reigning and making of buttons agree."—Ed. 1786.
AMERICAN LIBERTY, A POEM[69]
Argument
Present Situation of Affairs in North-America.—Address to the Deity.—Unhappy Situation of New-England, in particular.—The first Emigrations of the Colonists from Europe.—Cruelties of the Indian Natives.—All our Hopes of future Safety depend secondarily on our present Resolution and Activity.—Impossible for British Soldiers to join heartily for the purpose of enslaving us.—Present happy Unanimity among the Colonies.—The Baseness of pensioned Writers against their native Country.—General Gage's late Proclamation.—The Odium consequent upon his Undertaking his present Office.—Character of a weak Monarch.—Popery established in Canada.—General Washington.—The Honourable Continental Congress.—Hancock.—Adams.—Invitation to Foreigners to retire hither from their respective Slavish Regions.—Bravery of the New-England Forces in the late Engagements.—The determined Resolution of the Colonies to be free.—The future Happiness of America if she surmounts the present Difficulties.
Once more Bellona, forc'd upon the stage,
Inspires new fury, and awakes her rage,
From North to South her thun'dring trumpet spreads
Tumults, and war and death, and daring deeds.
What breast but kindles at the martial sound?
What heart but bleeds to feel its country's wound?
For thee, blest freedom, to protect thy sway,
We rush undaunted to the bloody fray;
For thee, each province arms its vig'rous host,
Content to die, e'er freedom shall be lost.
Kind watchful power, on whose supreme command
The fate of monarchs, empires, worlds depend,
Grant, in a cause thy wisdom must approve,
Undaunted valour kindled from above,
Let not our souls descend to dastard fear,
Be valour, prudence both united here,
Now as of old thy mighty arm display;
Relieve the opprest, and saving power convey.
'Tis done, and see th' omnipotent befriends,
The sword of Gideon, and of God descends.
Ah, see with grief fair Massachusetts' plains,
The seat of war, and death's terrific scenes;
Where darling peace with smiling aspect stood,
Lo! the grim soldier stalks in quest of blood:
What madness, heaven, has made Britannia frown?
Who plans our schemes to pull Columbia[A] down?
See Boston groan beneath the strong blockade,
Her freedom vanish'd, and destroy'd her trade;
Injur'd, opprest, no tyrant could exceed
The cruel vengeance of so base a deed.
New Albion's[B] sons whom honest freedom moves,
(My heart admires them, and my verse approves),
Tir'd of oppression in a Stuart's reign,
A Popish faction, ministerial train;
Bravely resolv'd to leave their native shore
And some new world, they knew not where, explore,
Far in the West, beyond where Poets said,
The Sun retir'd, and Cynthia went to bed.
Few then had seen the scarce discover'd Bourne,
From whence like death yet fewer did return:
Dire truths from thence the wand'ring sailor brought,
Enlarg'd by terror, and the power of thought,
With all the forms that pict'ring fancy gives,
With all the dread that in idea lives;
Fierce Cannibals that sought the blood of man,
Vast cruel tribes that through the desart ran,
Giants whose height transcends the tow'ring oak,
Brutes with whose screams the trembling forest shook,—
All these and more they held no cause of fear,
Since naught but slavery, dreadful could appear.
Ah, see the day, distressful to the view,
Wives, husbands, fathers, bid a long adieu.
Dear native land, how heav'd the heavy sigh,
When thy last mountains vanish'd on the eye;
Then their frail barks, just enter'd on the sea,
Pursu'd the long, uncomfortable way:
But pitying heav'n the just design surveys,
Sends prosp'rous gales, and wafts them o'er the seas.
Behold the shore; no rising cities there,
To hail them welcome from the sea appear,
In the wild woods the exil'd host were spread,
The heavens their covering, and the earth their bed:
What expectations but a life of woe?
Unnumber'd myriads of the savage foe,
Whose brutal fury rais'd, at once might sweep
The adventurers all to death's destructive sleep;
Yet 'midst this scene of horror and despair,
Stout industry began his office here,
Made forests bend beneath his sturdy stroke,
Made oxen groan beneath the sweaty yoke,
Till half the desart smil'd and look'd as gay
As northern gardens in the bloom of May.
But ah, review the sorrows interwove,
How the fierce native with the stranger strove;—
So heaven's bright lamp, the all-reviving sun,
Just as his flaming journey is begun,
Mists, fogs and vapours, sprung from damps of night,
Mount up and strive to dim the approach of light;
But he in triumph darts his piercing ray,
Scatters their forces and pursues his way.
Oft when the husband did his labour leave
To meet his little family at eve,
Stretch'd in their blood he saw each well known face,
His dear companion and his youthful race;
Perhaps the scalp with barbarous fury torn,
The visage mangled, and the babe unborn
Ripp'd from its dark abode, to view the sun,
Ere nature finish'd half she had begun.
And should we now when spread thro' ev'ry shore,
Submit to that our fathers shunn'd before?
Should we, just heaven, our blood and labour spent,
Be slaves and minions to a parliament?
Perish the thought, nor may one wretch remain,
Who dares not fight and in our cause be slain;
The cause of freedom daunts the hireling foe,
And gives each Sampson's strength toward the blow,
And each, like him whom fear nor force confines,
Destroys a thousand modern Philistines.
Who fights to take our liberty away,
Dead-hearted fights and falls an easy prey;
The cause, the cause, most cruel to enslave,
Disheartens thousands, and unmans the brave:
Who could have thought that Britons bore a heart,
Or British troops to act so base a part?
Britons of old renown'd, can they descend
T' enslave their brethren in a foreign land?
What oath, what oath, inform us if you can,
Binds them to act below the worth of man?
Can they whom half the world admires, can they
Be advocates for vile despotic sway?
Shall they, to every shore and clime renown'd,
Enforce those acts that tyranny did found?
'Yet sure if this be their resolv'd design,
'Conquer they shall where'er the sun doth shine;
'No expedition prov'd unhappy yet,
'Can we Havanna's bloody siege forget,[70]
'Where British cannon the strong fortress tore,
'And wing'd whole legions to its infernal shore.
'Or does the voice of fame so soon forego
'Gibraltar's action, and the vanquish'd foe,
'Where art and nature both at once combin'd
'To baffle all our hardy troops design'd?—
'Yet there Britannia's arms successful sped,
'While haughty Spaniards trembled, felt and fled.'
So say the pensioned fools of slavery,
So say our traitors, but so say not I—
(Tories or traitors, call them what you choose,
Tories are rogues, and traitors imps broke loose).
But know, ye few, the scandal of our land,
On whom returns the blood that we expend,
Those troops whose fears are told on every shore,
Here lose their spirit and are brave no more;
When armies fight to gain some cruel cause,
Establish tyrants or destructive laws,
True courage scorns to inspire the hateful crew,
Recall past fame, or spur them on to new;
Dark boding thoughts the heavy soul possess,
And ancient valour turns to cowardice.
Dark was the prospect, gloomy was the scene,
When traitors join'd to break our union chain:
But soon, by heaven inspir'd, arose the cry,
Freedom or death, unite, unite or die.
Now far and wide a manly spirit reigns,
From Canada to Georgia's sun burnt plains;
Few now insult with falsehood's shameless pen.
Monsters from Tophet, driv'n in shapes of men:
Few pension'd scribblers left the daring head,
Some have turn'd lunatics and some have fled—
Some, late converted, scarce their pensions hold.
And from mere force disdain the charms of gold.
What deep offence has fir'd a monarch's rage,
What moonstruck madness seized the brain of Gage?
Laughs not the soul, when an imprison'd few
Affect to pardon those they can't subdue?
Tho' twice repuls'd and hemm'd up to their stations,
Yet issue pardons, oaths, and proclamations,
As if at sea some desperate madman crew
Should threat the tempest with what they could do,
And like proud Xerxes lash the angry waves,
At the same instant that they find their graves.
But not the pomps and favours of a crown,
A nation's anger, or a statesman's frown,
Could draw the virtuous man from virtue's way,
To chain by force what treach'ry can't betray.
Virtue disdains to own tyrannic laws,
Takes part with freedom, and assumes its cause;
No part had she, her fiercest forces own,
To bring so far this heavy vengeance on;
She stood with Romans while their hearts were true,
And so she shall, Americans, with you.
Should heaven in wrath decree some nation's fall,
Whose crimes from thence for sacred vengeance call,
A monarch first of vulgar soul should rise,
A sure fore-runner of its obsequies,
Whose heart should glow with not one gen'rous thought,
Born to oppress, to propagate, and rot.
Whose lengthen'd reign no deed of worth should grace,
None trusted but a servile pensioned race;
Too dull to know what saving course to take,
That heaven in time its purpose might forsake,
Too obstinately will'd to bow his ear
To groaning thousands or petitions hear,
Dare break all oaths that bind the just like fate,
Oaths, that th' Arch-Devil would blush to violate,
And, foe to truth, both oaths and honour sell,
To establish principles, the growth of hell,—
Still those who aim to be his truest friends,
Traitors, insidious rebels, madmen, fiends,
Hoodwink'd and blind, deceived by secret foes,
Whose fathers once with exil'd tyrants rose,
Bless'd with as little sense as God e'er gave,
Slave to wrong schemes, dupe to a noble knave.
So odd a monarch heaven in wrath would plan,
And such would be the fury of a man.
See far and wide o'er long Canadia's plains,
Old popish fraud and superstition reigns;
The scarlet whore long hath heaven withstood,
Who cries for murder and who thirsts for blood,
Establish'd there, marks down each destined name,
And plants the stake impatient for the flame,
With sanguinary soul her trade begins,
To doom her foes to hell or pardon sins;
Her crafty priests their impious rites maintain,
And crucify their Saviour once again;
Defend his rights, who, scatt'ring lies abroad,
With shameless front usurps the seat of God:
Those are, we fear, who his vile cause assert,
But half reform'd and papists at the heart.
Bear me, some power, as far as the winds can blow,
As ships can travel, or as waves can flow,
To some lone island beyond the southern pole,
Or lands round which pacific waters roll,
There should oblivion stop the heaving sigh,
There should I live at least with liberty.
But honour checks my speed and bids me stay,
To try the fortune of the well fought day.
Resentment for my country's fate I bear,
And mix with thousands for the willing war;
See Washington New Albion's freedom owns,
And moves to war with half Virginia's sons,
Bold in the fight, whose actions might have aw'd
A Roman Hero, or a Grecian God.
He, he, as first his gallant troops shall lead,
Undaunted man, a second Diomede;
As when he fought at wild Ohio's flood,
When savage thousands issu'd from the wood,
When Braddock's fall disgrac'd the mighty day,
And Death himself stood weeping o'er his prey,
When doubting vict'ry chang'd from side to side,
And Indian sod with Indian blood was dy'd,
When the last charge repuls'd th' invenom'd foe,
And lightnings lit them to the shades below.
See where from various distant climes unites
A generous council to protect our rights,
Fix'd on a base too steadfast to be mov'd,
Loving their country, by their country lov'd,
Great guardians of our freedom, we pursue
Each patriot measure as inspir'd by you,
Columbia, nor shall fame deny it owes
Past safety to the counsel you propose;
And if they do not keep Columbia free,
What will alas! become of Liberty?
Great souls grow bolder in their country's cause,
Detest enslavers, and despise their laws.
O Congress fam'd, accept this humble lay,
The little tribute that the muse can pay;
On you depends Columbia's future fate,
A free asylum or a wretched state.
Fall'n on disastrous times we push our plea,
Heard or not heard, and struggle to be free.
Born to contend, our lives we place at stake,
And grow immortal by the stand we make.
O you, who, far from liberty detain'd,
Wear out existence in some slavish land,
Fly thence from tyrants, and their flatt'ring throng,
And bring the fiery freeborn soul along.
Neptune for you shall smooth the hoary deep,
And awe the wild tumultuous waves to sleep;
Here vernal woods, and flow'ry meadows blow,
Luxuriant harvests in rich plenty grow,
Commerce extends as far as waves can roll,
And freedom, God-like freedom, crowns the whole.
And you, brave men, who scorn the dread of death,
Resolv'd to conquer to the latest breath,
Soldiers in act, and heroes in renown,
Warm in the cause of Boston's hapless town,
Still guard each pass; like ancient Romans, you
At once are soldiers, and are farmers too;
Still arm impatient for the vengeful blow,
And rush intrepid on the yielding foe;
As when of late midst clouds of fire and smoke,
Whole squadrons fell, or to the center shook,
And even the bravest to your arm gave way,
And death, exulting, ey'd the unhappy fray.
Behold, your Warren bleeds, who both inspir'd
To noble deeds, and by his actions fir'd;
What pity, heaven!—but you who yet remain
Affect his spirit as you lov'd the man:
Once more, and yet once more for freedom strive,
To be a slave what wretch would dare to live?
We too to the last drop our blood will drain,
And not till then shall hated slavery reign,
When every effort, every hope is o'er,
And lost Columbia swells our breasts no more.
O if that day, which heaven avert, must come,
And fathers, husbands, children, meet their doom,
Let one brave onset yet that doom precede,
To shew the world America can bleed,
One thund'ring raise the midnight cry,
And one last flame send Boston to the sky.
But cease, foreboding Muse, not strive to see
Dark times deriv'd by fatal destiny;
If ever heaven befriended the distrest,
If ever valour succour'd those opprest,
Let America rejoice, thy standard rear,
Let the loud trumpet animate to war:
Thy guardian Genius, haste thee on thy way,
To strike whole hosts with terror and dismay.
Happy some land, which all for freedom gave,
Happier the men whom their own virtues save;
Thrice happy we who long attacks have stood,
And swam to Liberty thro' seas of blood;
The time shall come when strangers rule no more,
Nor cruel mandates vex from Britain's shore;
When Commerce shall extend her short'ned wing,
And her free freights from every climate bring;
When mighty towns shall flourish free and great,
Vast their dominion, opulent their state;
When one vast cultivated region teems,
From ocean's edge to Mississippi's streams;
While each enjoys his vineyard's peaceful shade,
And even the meanest has no cause to dread;
Such is the life our foes with envy see,
Such is the godlike glory to be free.
[A] Columbia, America sometimes so called from Columbus, the first discoverer.—Freneau's note.
[B] New Albion, properly New England, but is often applied to all British America.—Freneau's note.
[69] This was published by Anderson in 1775. In Holt's New York Journal of July 6, it is advertised as just published. The advertisement observes that "This poem is humbly addressed to all true lovers of this once flourishing country, whether they shine as soldiers or statesmen. In it Ciceronian eloquence and patriotic fire are happily blended." The poet never reprinted it. The only copy of the poem extant, as far as I can discover, is that in the Library of Congress at Washington.
[70] Of the siege of Havana, in July, 1762, Bancroft writes: "This siege was conducted in midsummer, against a city which lies just within the tropic. The country around the Moro Castle is rocky. To bind and carry the fascines was of itself a work of incredible labor;... sufficient earth to hold the fascines firm was gathered with difficulty from the crevices of the rocks. Once, after a drought of fourteen days, the grand battery took fire from the flames, and crackling and spreading where water could not follow it, nor earth stifle it, was wholly consumed. The climate spoiled a great part of the provisions. Wanting good water, many died in agonies of thirst. More fell victims of a putrid fever.... Hundreds of carcasses floated on the ocean. And yet such was the enthusiasm of the English, such the resolute zeal of the sailors and soldiers, such the unity of action between the fleet and army, that the vertical sun of June and July, the heavy rains of August, raging fever, and strong and well defended fortresses, all the obstacles of nature and art were surmounted, and the most decisive victory of the war was gained."
GENERAL GAGE'S SOLILOQUY[71]
Scene.—Boston, besieged by the Men of Massachusetts
Written and published in New-York, 1775
Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart, unwounded, play,
For some must write, while some must speak;
So runs the world away!
—Shakespeare.
Destruction waits my call!—some demon say
Why does destruction linger on her way!
Charlestown is burnt, and Warren is deceased—
Heavens! shall we never be from war released?
Ten years the Greeks besieged the walls of Troy,
But when did Grecians their own towns destroy?
Yes, that's the point!—Let those who will, say, No;
If George and North decree—it must be so.
Doubts, black as night, disturb my loved repose—
Men that were once my friends have turned my foes—
What if we conquer this rebellious town,
Suppose we burn it, storm it, tear it down—
This land's like Hydra, cut off but one head,
And ten shall rise, and dare you in its stead.
If to subdue a league or two of coast
Requires a navy, and so large a host,
How shall a length of twice seven hundred miles
Be brought to bend to two European Isles?—
And that, when all their utmost strength unite,
When twelve[A] dominions swear to arm and fight,
When the same spirit darts from every eye,
One fixed resolve to gain their point or die.
As for myself—true—I was born to fight
As George commands, let him be wrong or right,
While from his hand I squeeze the golden prize,[72]
I'll ask no questions, and he'll tell no lies;—
But did I swear, I ask my heart again,
In their base projects monarchs to maintain?—[73]
Yes—when Rebellion her artillery brings
And aims her arrows at the best of kings,
I stand a champion in my monarch's cause—
The men are rebels that resist his laws.[74]
A viceroy I, like modern monarchs, stay
Safe in the town—let others guide the fray:
A life like mine is of no common worth,
'Twere wrong, by heaven, that I should sally forth![75]
A random bullet from a rifle sent
Might pierce my heart, and ruin North's intent:
Let others combat in the dusty field,
Let petty captains scorn to live or yield,
I'll send my ships to neighbouring isles, where stray[76]
Unnumb'red herds, and steal those herds away;
I'll strike the women in this town with awe,
And make them tremble at my martial law.
Should gracious heaven befriend our troops and fleet,
And throw this vast dominion at my feet,
How would Britannia echo with my fame!
What endless honours would await my name!
In every province should the traveller see
Recording marble, raised to honour me.—[77]
Hard by the lakes, my sovereign lord would grant
A rural empire to supply my want,
A manor would but poorly serve my turn,
Less than an empire from my soul I scorn![78]
An ample kingdom round Ontario's lake,
By heaven! should be the least reward I'd take.
There might I reign, unrivalled and alone,
An ocean and an empire of my own!—
What though the scribblers and the wits might say,
He built his pile on vanquished Liberty—
Let others meanly dread the slanderous tongue,
While I obey my king, can I do wrong?
Then, to accomplish all my soul's desire,
Let red-hot bullets set their towns on fire;
May heaven, if so the righteous judgment pass,[79]
Change earth to steel, the sky to solid brass,
Let hosts combined, from Europe centering here,[80]
Strike this base offspring with alarm and fear;
Let heaven's broad concave to the center ring,
And blackest night expand her sable wing,
The infernal powers in dusky combat join,
Wing the swift ball, or spring the deadly mine;
(Since 'tis most true, tho' some may think it odd,
The foes of England are the foes of God):
Let bombs, like comets, kindle all the air,
Let cruel famine prompt the orphan's prayer,
And every ill that war or want can bring
Be shower'd on subjects that renounce their king.
What is their plea?—our sovereign only meant
This people should be taxed without consent,
Ten years the court with secret cunning tried
To gain this point—the event their hopes belied:
How should they else than sometimes miss the mark
Who sleep at helm, yet think to steer the barque?
North, take advice; thy lucky genius show,
Dispatch Sir Jeffery[B] to the states below.
That gloomy prince, whom mortals Satan call,[81]
Must help us quickly, if he help at all—
You strive in vain by force of bribes to tie;
They see through all your schemes with half an eye;
If open force with secret bribes I join,
The contest sickens—and the day is mine.
But hark the trumpet's clangor—hark—ah me!
What means this march of Washington and Lee?
When men like these such distant marches make,
Fate whispers something—that we can't mistake;[82]
When men like these defy my martial rule,
Good heaven! it is no time to play the fool—
Perhaps, they for their country's freedom rise;
North has, perhaps, deceived me with his lies.—
If George at last a tyrant should be found,
A cruel tyrant, by no sanctions bound,
And I, myself, in an unrighteous cause,
Be sent to execute the worst of laws,
How will those dead whom I conjured to fight—
Who sunk in arms to everlasting night,
Whose blood the conquering foe conspired to spill
At Lexington and Bunker's fatal hill,
Whose mangled corpses scanty graves embrace—
Rise from those graves, and curse me to my face!—
Alas! that e'er ambition bade me roam,
Or thirst of power, forsake my native home—
What shall I do?—there, crowd the hostile bands;
Here, waits a navy to receive commands;—
I speak the language of my heart—shall I
Steal off by night, and o'er the ocean fly,
Like a lost man to unknown regions stray,
And to oblivion leave this stormy day?—[83]
Or shall I to Britannia's shores again,
And big with lies, conceal my thousands slain?—
Yes—to some distant clime[84] my course I steer,
To any country rather than be here,
To worlds where reason scarce exerts her law,[85]
A branch-built cottage, and a bed of straw.—
Even Scotland's coast seems charming in my sight,
And frozen Zembla yields a strange delight.—
But such vexations in my bosom burn,
That to these shores I never will return,
'Till fruits and flowers on Greenland's coast be known,
And frosts are thawed in climates once their own.
Ye souls of fire, who burn for chief command,
Come! take my place in this disastrous land;
To wars like these I bid a long good-night—
Let North and George themselves such battles fight.
[A] Georgia had not at this time acceded to the Union of the Thirteen States.—Freneau's note.
[B] Sir Jeffery Amherst, who about this time refused to act against the Colonial cause.—Freneau's note.
[71] From the edition of 1809. The original edition, which consisted of 114 lines, was first published in New York, by H. Gaine, in August, 1775. The poem was thus written and published in the early days of the siege.
General Gage, the last royal governor of Massachusetts, arrived in Boston May, 1774, and remained until October, 1775, when he was succeeded by Major General Howe. The siege of Boston began with the arrival of Washington before the city, early in July, 1775, and continued until Howe was forced to evacuate the city, the following March. Gage's incompetency was admitted even by his own countrymen. He was narrow-minded, and prejudiced, and unable to estimate justly the forces that were against him. His only argument was force and dictatorial interference.
[72] This and the following line not in edition of 1775.
[73] To fight for Britons against Englishmen.—Ed. 1775.
In such damn'd service to harass my brain.—Ed. 1786.
[74] Four lines of the original edition omitted:
"North take advice, thy lucky genius show,
Dismiss a legate to the world below,
Sir Belzebub, for aid like thine we sue,
Send up the damned and let them help me too."
A life like mine is of such mighty worth,
I'll wrong my king if I should sally forth.
[76] This and the following line is not in edition of 1775.
[77] Some trophy of my tedious victory.—Ed. 1775.
[78] The Lordship of a manor I would scorn.—Ed. 1775.
[79] In place of the next eight lines, the edition of 1775 has the following:
"Let heaven's broad concave to the center ring,
And Imps from hell their swifter vengeance wing;
May heaven, if so the righteous judgment pass,
Change earth to steel, the sky to solid brass."
[80] Let hell-cats darting from some blackguard sphere.—Ed. 1786.
[81] This and the four following lines not found in the edition of 1775.
[82] It shows they think their freedom lies at stake.—Ed. 1775.
[83] In the original edition these two lines read as follows:
"Like Captain Cook to Southern islands stray,
And take new kings and kingdoms in my way."
[84] "Foreign clime."—Ed. 1775. "Negro clime."—Ed. 1786.
[85] This line, and the nine following, are not found in the edition of 1775.
THE MIDNIGHT CONSULTATIONS;[86]
OR, A TRIP TO BOSTON
First published in 1775
Small bliss is theirs whom Fate's too heavy hand
Confines through life to some small square of land;
More wretched they whom heaven inspires to roam,
Yet languish out their lives and die at home.
Heaven gave to man this wide extended round,5
No climes confine him and no oceans bound;
Heaven gave him forest, mountain, vale, and plain,
And bade him vanquish, if he could, the main;
But sordid cares our short-lived race confine,
Some toil at trades, some labour in the mine,10
The miser hoards, and guards his shining store,
The sun still rises where he rose before—
No happier scenes his earth-born fancy fill
Than one dark valley, or one well-known hill.
To other shores his mind, untaught to stray,15
Dull and inactive, slumbers life away.
But by the aid of yonder glimmering beam
The pole star, faithful to my vagrant dream,
Wild regent of my heart! in dreams convey
Where the herded Britons their bold ranks display;20
So late the pride of England's fertile soil,
(Her grandeur heightened by successive toil)
See how they sicken in these hostile climes,
Themes for the stage, and subjects for our rhimes.
What modern poet have the muses led25
To draw the curtain that conceals the dead?
What bolder bard to Boston shall repair,
To view the peevish, half-starved spectres there?
O thou wronged country! why sustain these ills?
Why rest thy navies on their native hills?30
See, endless forests shade the uncultured plain,
Descend, ye forests, and command the main:
A leafy verdure shades the mighty mast,
And the tall oak bends idly to the blast,
Earth's entrails teem with stores for your defence,35
Descend and drag the stores of war from thence:
Your fertile soil the flowing sail supplies,
And Europe's arts in every village rise—
No want is yours—Disdain unmanly fear,
And swear no tyrant shall reign master here;40
Know your own strength—in rocky desarts bred,
Shall the fierce tiger by the dog be led,
And bear all insults from that snarling race
Whose courage lies in impudence of face?—
No—rather bid the wood's wild native turn,45
And from his side the unfaithful guardian spurn.
Now, pleased I wander to the dome of state
Where Gage resides, our western potentate—
Chief of ten thousand, all a race of slaves,[87]
Sent to be shrouded in untimely graves;[88]50
Sent by our angry Jove, sent sword in hand
To murder, burn, and ravage through the land.—
You dream of conquest—tell me how or whence—
Act like a man, and get you gone from hence;
A madman sent you to this hostile shore55
To vanquish nations, that shall spill your gore.—
Go, fiends, and in a social league combined
Destroy, distress, and triumph o'er mankind!—
'Tis not our peace this murdering hand restrains,
The want of power is made the monster's chains;60
Compassion is a stranger to his heart,
Or if it came, he bade the guest depart;
The melting tear, the sympathising groan
Were never yet to Gage or Jefferies[A] known;
The seas of blood his heart fore-dooms to spill65
Is but a dying serpent's rage to kill.
What power shall drive these vipers from our shore,
These monsters swoln with carnage, death, and gore!
Twelve was the hour—congenial darkness reigned,
And no bright star a mimic day-light feigned—70
First, Gage we saw—a crimson chair of state
Received the honour of his Honour's weight;
This man of straw the regal purple bound,
But dullness, deepest dullness, hovered round.
Next Graves, who wields the trident of the brine,75
The tall arch-captain of the embattled line,
All gloomy sate—mumbling of flame and fire,
Balls, cannon, ships, and all their damned attire;
Well pleased to live in never-ending hum,
But empty as the interior of his drum.80
Hard by, Burgoyne assumes an ample space,
And seemed to meditate with studious face,
As if again he wished our world to see
Long, dull, dry letters, writ to General Lee—
Huge scrawls of words through endless circuits drawn85
Unmeaning as the errand he's upon.—
Is he to conquer—he subdue our land?—
This buckram hero, with his lady's hand?
By Cesars to be vanquished is a curse,
But by a scribbling fop—by heaven, is worse![89]90
Lord Piercy seemed to snore—but may the Muse
This ill-timed snoring to the peer excuse;
Tired was the long boy of his toilsome day,
Full fifteen miles he fled—a tedious way;
How could he then the dews of Somnus shun,95
Perhaps not used to walk—much less to run.
Red-faced as suns, when sinking to repose,
Reclined the infernal captain of the Rose,[B]
In fame's proud temple aiming for a niche,
With those who find her at the cannon's breech;100
Skilled to direct the cannonading shot,
No Turkish rover half so murdering hot,
Pleased with base vengeance on defenceless towns,
His heart was malice—but his words were, Zounds!
Howe, vexed to see his starving army's doom,105
In prayer, besought the skies for elbow room—[90]
Small was his stock, and theirs, of heavenly grace,
Yet just enough to ask a larger place.—
He cursed the brainless minister that planned
His bootless errand to this hostile land,110
But, awed by Gage, his bursting wrath recoiled,
And in his inmost bosom doubly boiled.
These, chief of all the tyrant-serving train,
Exalted sate—the rest (a pensioned clan),
A sample of the multitude that wait,115
Pale sons of famine, at perdition's gate,
North's friends down swarming (so our monarch wills),
Hungry as death, from Caledonian hills;
Whose endless numbers if you bid me tell,
I'll count the atoms of this globe as well,—120
Knights, captains, 'squires—a wonder-working band,
Held at small wages 'till they gain the land,
Flocked pensive round—black spleen assailed their hearts,
(The sport of plough-boys, with their arms and arts)
And made them doubt (howe'er for vengeance hot)125
Whether they were invincible or not.
Now Gage upstarting from his cushioned seat
Swore thrice, and cried—"'Tis nonsense to be beat!
Thus to be drubbed! pray, warriors, let me know
Which be in fault, myself, the fates, or you—130
Henceforth let Britain deem her men mere toys—
Gods! to be frightened thus by country boys;
Why, if your men had had a mind to sup,
They might have eat that scare-crow[91] army up—
Three thousand to twelve hundred thus to yield,135
And twice five hundred stretched upon the field!—[92]
O shame to Britain, and the British name,
Shame damps my heart, and I must die with shame—
Thus to be worsted, thus disgraced and beat!—
You have the knack, Lord Piercy,[93] to retreat,140
The death you escaped my warmest blood congeals,
Heaven grant me, too, so swift a pair of heels—[94]
In Chevy-Chace, as, doubtless, you have read,
Lord Piercy would have sooner died than fled—
Behold the virtues of your house decay—145
Ah! how unlike the Piercy of that day!"
Thus spoke the great man in disdainful tone
To the gay peer—not meant for him alone—
But ere the tumults of his bosom rise
Thus from his bench the intrepid peer replies:150
"When once the soul has reached the Stygian shore,
My prayer book says, it shall return no more—
When once old Charon hoists his tar-blacked sail,
And his boat swims before the infernal gale,
Farewell to all that pleased the man above,155
Farewell to feats of arms, and joys of love!
Farewell the trade that father Cain began,
Farewell to wine, that cheers the heart of man;
All, all farewell!—the pensive shade must go
Where cold Medusa turns to stone below,160
Where Belus' maids eternal labours ply
To drench the cask that stays forever dry,
And Sysiphus, with many a weary groan,
Heaves up the mount the still recoiling stone!
"Since, then, this truth no mortal dares deny,165
That heroes, kings—and lords, themselves, must die,
And yield to him who dreads no hostile sword,
But treats alike the peasant and the lord;
Since even great George must in his turn give place
And leave his crown, his Scotchmen, and his lace,—170
How blest is he, how prudent is the man
Who keeps aloof from fate—while yet he can;
One well-aimed ball can make us all no more
Than shipwrecked scoundrels on that leeward shore.
"But why, my friends, these hard reflections still175
On Lexington affairs—'tis Bunker's hill—
O fatal hill!—one glance at thee restrains
My once warm blood, and chills it in my veins—
May no sweet grass adorn thy hateful crest
That saw Britannia's bravest troops distrest—180
Or if it does—may some destructive gale
The green leaf wither, and the grass turn pale—
All moisture to your brow may heaven deny,
And God and man detest you, just as I;—
'Tis Bunker's hill, this night has brought us here,185
Pray question him who led your armies there,
Nor dare my courage into question call,
Or blame Lord Piercy for the fault of all."
Howe chanced to nod while heathenish Piercy spoke,
But as his Lordship ceased, his Honour awoke,190
(Like those whom sermons into sleep betray)
Then rubbed his eyes, and thus was heard to say:
"Shall those who never ventured from the town,
Or their ships' sides, now pull our glory down?
We fought our best—so God my honour save!—195
No British soldiers ever fought so brave—
Resolved I led them to the hostile lines,
(From this day famed where'er great Phœbus shines)
Firm at their head I took my dangerous stand,
Marching to death and slaughter, sword in hand,200
But wonted Fortune halted on her way,
We fought with madmen, and we lost the day—
Putnam's brave troops, your honours would have swore
Had robbed the clouds of half their nitrous store,
With my bold veterans strewed the astonished plain,205
For not one musquet was discharged in vain.—
But, honoured Gage, why droops thy laurelled head?—
Five hundred foes we packed off to the dead.—[95]
Now captains, generals, hear me and attend!
Say, shall we home for other succours send?210
Shall other navies cross the stormy main?—
They may, but what shall awe the pride of Spain?
Still for dominion haughty Louis pants—
Ah! how I tremble at the thoughts of France.—
Shall mighty George, to enforce his injured laws,215
Transport all Russia to support the cause?—
That allied empire countless shoals may pour
Numerous as sands that strew the Atlantic shore;
But policy inclines my heart to fear
They'll turn their arms against us when they're here—220
Come, let's agree—for something must be done
Ere autumn flies, and winter hastens on—
When pinching cold our navy binds in ice,
You'll find 'tis then too late to take advice."
The clock strikes two!—Gage smote upon his breast,225
And cried,—"What fate determines, must be best—
But now attend—a counsel I impart
That long has laid the heaviest at my heart—
Three weeks—ye gods!—nay, three long years it seems
Since roast-beef I have touched except in dreams.230
In sleep, choice dishes to my view repair,
Waking, I gape and champ the empty air.—
Say, is it just that I, who rule these bands,
Should live on husks, like rakes in foreign lands?—[96]
Come, let us plan some project ere we sleep,235
And drink destruction to the rebel sheep.
"On neighbouring isles uncounted cattle stray,
Fat beeves and swine, an ill-defended prey—
These are fit visions for my noon day dish,
These, if my soldiers act as I would wish,240
In one short week should glad your maws and mine;
On mutton we will sup—on roast beef dine."
Shouts of applause re-echoed through the hall,
And what pleased one as surely pleased them all;
Wallace was named to execute the plan,245
And thus sheep-stealing pleased them to a man.
Now slumbers stole upon the great man's eye,
His powdered foretop nodded from on high,
His lids just opened to find how matters were,
Dissolve, he said, and so dissolved ye are,250
Then downward sunk to slumbers dark and deep,—
Each nerve relaxed—and even his guts asleep.[97]
[A] An inhuman, butchering English judge in the time of Charles the first.—Freneau's note.
[B] Capt. Wallace.—Freneau's note. Sir James Wallace was a prominent naval officer during the Revolution. In 1774-5 he commanded the Rose, a 20-gun frigate, and greatly annoyed the people of Rhode Island by his detention of shipping and his seizure of private property. His severity and activity made him greatly detested by the colonists during the entire Revolution.
Epilogue
What are these strangers from a foreign isle,
That we should fear their hate or court their smile?—
Pride sent them here, pride blasted in the bud,255
Who, if she can, will build her throne in blood,
With slaughtered millions glut her tearless eyes,
And bid even virtue fall, that she may rise.
What deep offence has fired a monarch's rage?
What moon-struck madness seized the brain of Gage?260
Laughs not the soul when an imprisoned crew
Affect to pardon those they can't subdue,
Though thrice repulsed, and hemmed up to their stations,
Yet issue pardons, oaths, and proclamations!—
Too long our patient country wears their chains,265
Too long our wealth all-grasping Britain drains.
Why still a handmaid to that distant land?
Why still subservient to their proud command?
Britain the bold, the generous, and the brave
Still treats our country like the meanest slave,270
Her haughty lords already share the prey,
Live on our labours, and with scorn repay;—
Rise, sleeper, rise, while yet the power remains,
And bind their nobles and their chiefs in chains:
Bent on destructive plans, they scorn our plea,275
'Tis our own efforts that must make us free—
Born to contend, our lives we place at stake,
And rise to conquerors by the stand we make.—
The time may come when strangers rule no more,
Nor cruel mandates vex from Britain's shore,280
When commerce may extend her shortened wing,
And her rich freights from every climate bring,
When mighty towns shall flourish free and great,
Vast their dominion, opulent their state,
When one vast cultivated region teems285
From ocean's side to Mississippi streams,
While each enjoys his vineyard's peaceful shade,
And even the meanest has no foe to dread.
And you, who, far from Liberty detained,
Wear out existence in some slavish land—290
Forsake those shores, a self-ejected throng,
And armed for vengeance, here resent the wrong:
Come to our climes, where unchained rivers flow,
And loftiest groves, and boundless forests grow.
Here the blest soil your future care demands;295
Come, sweep the forests from these shaded lands,
And the kind earth shall every toil repay,
And harvests flourish as the groves decay.
O heaven-born Peace, renew thy wonted charms—
Far be this rancour, and this din of arms—300
To warring lands return, an honoured guest,
And bless our crimson shore among the rest—
Long may Britannia rule our hearts again,
Rule as she ruled in George the Second's reign,
May ages hence her growing grandeur see,305
And she be glorious—but ourselves as free!
[86] Text from the edition of 1809. The poem was first published in New York in 1775 by Anderson, under the title, "A Voyage to Boston, a poem," and a second edition was printed the same year in Philadelphia for William Woodhouse. The revision of the poem in the 1786 edition of Freneau's works mentions that the poem was published in September, 1775. This is evidently a mistake. In the issue of October 21, of Anderson's Constitutional Gazette, appears the advertisement, "This day is published & to be sold by the printer, 'A Voyage to Boston: a Poem.'" The copy of the poem in possession of the Library Company, Philadelphia, has endorsed upon it, "published in October, 1775." This earliest version, only a fragment of which was given in the various editions of the poet's works, has never before been reprinted. It is as follows:
A VOYAGE TO BOSTON, A POEM
Argument
Introductory reflections. A traveller undertakes a voyage to Boston: arrives in a river of Massachusetts: has there a sight of the native Genius of North-America, who presents him with a mantle, and acquaints him with its virtue of rendering the wearer invisible; desires him to visit the town in that state and remark the transactions there. Accordingly he arrives at General Gage's mansion, where are several other ministerial tools sitting in council. The striking similarity of Gage's temper and conduct to that of Hernando Cortez. Some account of Cortez, and his horrid devastations in Mexico, &c. The traveller enters their junto, and gives an account of the chief members of it, viz., General Gage, Admiral Greaves, General Burgoyne, Lord Percy, General Howe, Capt. Wallace, and a numerous fry of dependents and needy favourites waiting for posts and estates in America, as soon as they shall have compelled us to resign our liberties: General Gage's surprize at their several defeats in New-England, and questions his leaders thereupon. Lord Percy's answer: Greaves's reply to that nobleman: Gage's raillery upon Percy for his nimble retreat on April 19, 1775. Percy's defence of his conduct on that day, and the reason of his activity; and desires them to forget Lexington for the present, and turn their eyes to the late loss at Bunker's Hill. General Howe's speech concerning that action. Burgoyne's harrangue, with his invectives against Colonel Grant, who "pledged himself for the general cowardice of all America:" Gage's brief reply; and communicates his intention of purloining cattle from the islands, and plans that right honourable exploit; but being overcome by sleep, dismisses his counsellors. The cutting down the Liberty Tree in Boston, and untimely end of one of the wretches employed in that sneaking affair. Distresses of the imprisoned citizens in Boston. Dissection of a Tory. The traveller leaves Boston, and visits the Provincial Camp; meets the Genius of America again on the way and resigns the mantle, whereby he again becomes visible; arrives at the camp. View of the Rifle-men, Virginians, &c. Speech of an American soldier; his determined resolution, which is that of all America, to defend our rights and privileges. Grief that he must fight against our own nation. Mention of Carleton and Johnson; concludes with a melancholy recital of our present distractions, and sincere hope of reconcilation with Great Britain before a wicked ministry render it too late. Conclusion.
How curs'd the man whom fate's unhappy doom
Confines, unluckly, to his native home,
How doubly curs'd by cross grain'd stars is he,
Whom fate ties down, tho' struggling to be free!
Heaven gave to man this vast extended round.
No climes confine him and no oceans bound;
Heaven gave him forest, mountain, vale and plain,
And bade him vanquish, if he could, the main:
Then, miser, hoard and heap thy riches still,
View the sun rise above thy well known hill,
Vile as the swine, enjoy thy gloomy den,
Sweat in the compass of a squalid pen,
'Till sick of life, on terms with death agree,
And leave thy fortune, not thy heart, to me.
So mus'd the bard who this rough verse indites,
Asserting freedom, and his country's rights:
Nor mus'd in vain; the fruitful musings brought
To practice what in theory he thought;
And gave desire, a keen desire, to roam
A hundred or two hundred leagues from home.
Where should he go? The eastern hills reply,
Come, pensive traveller, with thy tearful eye,
Come, and fair Boston from our summit see,
No city sits so widow-like as she;
Her trading navies spread their sails no more,
Remotest nations cease to seek her shore,
Deep are her weeds—in darkest sable clad,
O come and view the Queen of all that's sad,
Long are her nights, that yield no chearful sound,
Like endless nights in tombs below the ground,
Low burns her lamp before th' insulting rout;
See, the lamp dies, and every light goes out!
O Britain come, and, if you can, relent
This rage, that better might on Spain be spent.
Touch'd with the mountain's melancholy prayer
(Perhaps a mountain or Dame Fancy there)
Could I refuse, since mutual grief endears,
To seek New Albion's Lady all in tears?
But doubts perplexing hover'd o'er my mind,
Whether to chuse the aid of horse or wind;
That suits the best with bards of place and state,
This must be needy Rhymers compensate,
Since Jove his ancient bounty has deny'd,
And grants no modern Pegasus to ride.
Dark was the night, the winds tempestuous roar'd
From western skies, and warn'd us all aboard;
Spread were the sails, the nimble vessel flies
O'er Neptune's bosom and reflected skies;
Nor halt I here to tell you how she roves
O'er Tython's chambers and his coral groves.
Let some prose wand'rer long-sun journals keep,
I haste me, like the vessel, o'er the deep;
Nor tire you with descriptions of the coast,
New mountains gain'd or hills in æther lost,—
The muse can only hint at scenes like these,
Not stop to spend her poem in their praise:
Three days we cut the brine with steady prore,
The fourth beheld as on New Albion's shore.
Guard me, ye heavens, shield this defenceless head,
While travelling o'er these sanguine plains of dead;
Nor only me, may heaven defend us all
From the harsh rigour of King George's ball.
Far in the depth of an aspiring wood,
Where roll'd its waves a silver winding flood,
Our weary vessel urg'd its darksome way,
And safely anchor'd in a shady bay.
Landing, I left the weather-beaten crew,
And pensive rov'd as home-sick travellers do;
When all at once before my wand'ring eyes,
The Genius of the river seem'd to rise;
Tall and erect, untaught by years to bow,
But not a smile relax'd his clouded brow:
His swarthy features vengeful deeds forebode,
Terror march'd on before him as he trode;
His rattling quiver at his shoulder hung,
His pointed spear and glitt'ring helmet rung;
The tall oaks trembled at the warlike shade,
When thus the Genius of the water said:
"O curious stranger, come from far to see
What grieves us all, but none so much as me!
The free-born Genius of the woods am I,
Who scorn to dwell in lands of slavery;
I, tho' unseen, command the heart to dare,
And spread the soul of freedom thro' the air,
That each may taste and value if he can,
This sovereign good that constitutes the man:
Here, in the center of tyrannic sway,
I spread my spirit and forbid dismay,
To every bosom dart may influence round,
Like the sun beams that fructify the ground;
But waft a timorous and ignoble breath
Where conscience, conscience bids them shrink at death.
"O stranger, led by Heaven's supreme decree,
Go, view the dire effects of tyranny,
Strait to the town direct thy fated way,
But heark attentive, listen and obey,
I to thy care commit this magic vest,
To guard thee 'midst yon' spires, a viewless guest;
Whene'er its wreathy folds thy limbs embrace,
No mortal eye thy roving step shall trace;
Unseen as ghosts that quit the clay below,
Yet seeing all securely thou shalt go.
There watch the motions of the hostile lines,
Observe their counsels, watch their deep designs;
Trace all their schemes, the lawless strength survey
Of licens'd robbers howling for their prey."
So spoke the Genius of the shaded wave,
And then the vest of wondrous virtue gave,
Which scarce my limbs enwrapt, when I began
To move as ne'er before did mortal man.
Light as the air, as free as winds I stray'd,
Pierc'd firmest rocks and walls for prisons made,
Soar'd high, nor ask'd the feeble aid of art,
And trac'd all secrets but the human heart.
Then to the town I held my hasty course,
To Boston's town subdu'd by lawless force;
Close by a centinel I took my stride,
The wretch ne'er saw me tho' I graz'd his side:
But for my vest, what pains had been my lot.
What gibes, what sneers, reproaches, and what not?
Or in their place the robbers had constrained
To turn a Tory, which my heart disdained.
Now stalk'd I on towards the dome of state,
Where Gage resides, our western Potentate,
A second Cortez,[a] sent by heaven's command,
To murder, rage, and ravage o'er our land;
A very Cortez—what's the difference?
He wants his courage and he wants his sense;
E'en Cortez would our tyrant's part disdain.
That murder'd strangers; this his countrymen;
In all the rest resemblance so exact,
No glass Venetian could more true reflect.
In all their rest, congenial souls combin'd,
The scourge, the curse and scandal of our kind.
Cortez was sent by Spain's black brotherhood,
Whose faith is murder, whose religion blood;
Sent unprovok'd, with his Iberian train,
To fat the soil with millions of the slain:
Poor Mexico! arouse thy sanguine head,
Peru, disclose thy hosts of murder'd dead!
Let your vast plains all white with human bones,
That bleeding lie, and ask sepulchral stones,
Force a dumb voice and echo to the sky,
The blasting curse of papal tyranny;
And let your rocks, and let your hills proclaim,
That Gage and Cortez' errand is the same.
Say then what cause this murd'rous band restrains?
The want of power is made the monster's chains,
The streams of blood his heart foredooms to spill,
Is but a dying serpent's rage to kill:
What power shall drive this serpent from our shore,
This scorpion, swoln with carnage, death, and gore?
Twelve was the hour,—infernal darkness reign'd,
Low hung the clouds, the stars their light restrain'd:
High in the dome a dire assembly sat,
A stupid council on affairs of state;
To their dim lamps I urg'd my fearless way,
And marching 'twixt their guards without delay,
Step'd boldly in, and safely veil'd from view,
Stood in the center of the black-guard crew.
First, Gage was there—a mimic chair of state,
[a] Hernando Cortez, one of the original conquerors of Spanish America, who depopulated many provinces, and slew several millions of the natives of this continent. See Father Barthol. Du Casis's History.—Freneau's note.
Here follow lines 72-131 above, with the following variations: line 75, "trident of the sea"; 76, "of artillery"; 79, "everlasting hum"; 80, "But senseless as the echo of a drum"; 81, "his ample chair supplies"; 82, "in studious guise"; 83, "to grant the world to see"; 87-90,
"His arm and pen of equal strength we call,
This kills with dullness, just like that with hall."
91, "O conscious muse"; 93, "the Hero"; 95, "How should"; 97, "as Sol descending to repose"; 98, "the furious Captain"; 100, "'mongst those who find it"; 104, "His forked tongue hiss'd nothing else but Zounds!"; 105, "his army's fatal doom"; 106, "Ceas'd to beseech"; 107-108,
"(How could the skies refuse the pious man
When half the pray'r was blood! and death! and damn!)"
110, "sleeveless errand to a distant land"; 113, "the Pandemonian crew"; 114, "a pension'd few"; 116, "In dreams of Indian gold and Indian state;" 118, "hungry as hell"; 121, "a secondary band"; 123, "assail'd the crowd"; 124, "Black as the horrors of a wintry cloud"; 125, "for doubts had place to grow"; 126, "or no"; 127-131,
Gage starts, rebounding from his ample seat,
Swears thrice, and cries—"Ye furies, are we beat?
Thrice are we drubb'd?—Pray gentles let me know,
Whether it be the fault of fate or you?"
He ceas'd, the anger flash'd from both his eyes,
While Percy to his query thus replies,—
"Let gods and men attest the words I say,
Our soldiers flinch'd not from the dubious fray,
Had each a head of tempered steel possest,
A heart of brass, and admantine breast,
More courage ne'er had urg'd them to the fray,
More true-born valour made them scorn dismay."
"Whoe'er," said Greaves, "their cowardice denies,
Or Lord, or Knight, or 'Squire. I say he lies:
How could the wretches help but marching on,
When at their backs your swords were ready drawn,
To pierce the man that flinch'd a single pace,
From all hell's light'ning blazing in his face?
Death on my life! My Lord, had I been there,
I'd sent New-England's army thro' the air,
Wrench'd their black hearts from this infernal brood,
And turn'd their streams to Oliverian blood.
Here follow lines 131-200 above, with the following variations: 131, "but toys"; 132, "to be conquer'd thus"; 134, "this play-thing army"; 135, "Five thousand to five hundred"; 136, "And fourteen hundred"; 139, "Indeed," cries Gage, "'tis twice we have been beat"; 141, "You 'scap'd my very blood"; 147, "So spoke the Hero"; 148, "The brilliant Peer replies"; 149, 150, not in the original version; 151, "old Styx's shore"; 153, "his sable sail"; 154, "the lazy gale"; 157, "Farewell Quadrille, that helps out life's short span"; following 158,
"Farewell my steeds that stretch across the plain,
More swift than navies bounding o'er the main."
160, "dull Medusa"; 163, 164, not in original version; 165-168,
"Since then, this truth is by mankind confess'd,
That ev'ry Lord must yet be Pluto's guest."
170, "And leave his coursers starting for the race"; 172, "aloof from Styx"; 174, "Than leaky vessels;" 177, "thy ghastly sight restrains;" following 178,
"May no gay flowers or vernal blooming tree
Scent thy vile air or shade the face of thee!"
180, "nodded o'er Britannia's troops"; 183, "to your breast"; 185, "has fix'd us here"; 186, "Pray query"; 189, "fluent Percy"; 194, "our conduct down"; 196, "more brave"; 199, "my bloody stand." In place of lines 201-208, the 1775 version has the following:
'Till met the strength of each opposing force,
Like blazing-stars in their etherial course
That all on fire with rapid swiftness fly,
Then clash and shake the concave of the sky.
Twice we gave way, twice shunn'd the infernal rout,
And twice you would have cry'd all hell's broke out.
They fought like those who press for death's embrace,
And laugh the grizly monarch in the face.
Putnam's brave troops, your honor would have swore,
Had robb'd the clouds of half their sulph'rous store,
Call'd thunder down whence Jove his vengeance spreads,
And drove it mix'd with lightning on our heads!
What tho' Cop's-hill its black artillery play'd,
Clouding the plains in worse than Stygian shade;
Tho' floating batteries rais'd their dismal roar,
Tho' all the navy bellow'd from the shore,
They roar'd in vain, death claim'd from them no share,
But helpless, spent their force in empty air.
Alas! what scenes of slaughter I beheld,
What sudden carnage flush'd the glutted field!
Heaven gave the foe to thin my warlike train,
For not a musket was discharg'd in vain;
Yes, that short hour, while heaven forbore to smile,
Made many widows in Britannia's isle,
And shewing all what power supreme can do,
Gave many orphans to those widows too.
But Gage arouse, come lift thy languid head,
Full fifty foes we pack'd off to the dead:
Who feeling death, from their hot posts, withdrew,
And Warren with the discontented crew—
Blest be the hand that laid his head so low,
Not fifty common deaths could please me so—
But to be short, so quick our men came in,
The hostile army was so very thin;
We fix'd our bay'nets and resum'd the fray,
Then forc'd their lines and made the dogs give way."
Next rose Burgoyne and rais'd his brazen voice,
And cry'd, "We have no reason to rejoice.
Warren is dead—in that we all agree,
Not fate itself is half so fix'd as he;
But my suspecting heart bids me foredoom
A thousand Warrens rising in his room—
Heaven knows I left my native country's air,
In full belief of things that never were;
Deceiv'd by Grant, I've sail'd thus far in vain,
And like a fool may now sail back again—
Grant call'd them cowards—curse the stupid ass,
Their sides are Iron and their hearts are brass—
Cowards he said, and lest that should not do,
He pawn'd his oath and swore that they were so:
O, were he here, I'd make him change his note,
Disgorge his lie or cut the rascal's throat.
Here follow lines 209-252 above, with the following variations: 209, "But Captains"; 213, 214, not in original version; 215, "to make his law obey'd"; 216, "ten thousand Russians to our aid"; 218, "form the ocean shore"; 219, "commands my heart"; 225, "strikes three"; 230, "I've eat no fresh provision, but in dreams"; 231, "to my eyes"; 232, "and chew"; 235, "hold a council"; 236, "some consultation how to filch their sheep"; 237, "Unnumbered cattle"; 238, "sheep an undefended prey"; 239, "fit victims"; 240, "if the Gods would act"; 241, "shall glad your hearts"; 242, "on beef we'll dine"; 247, "the chieftain's eye"; 251, 252, "to dullest slumbers deep, And in his arms embrac'd the powers of sleep."
In Boston's southern end there stands a tree
Long sacred held to darling Liberty;
Its branching arms with verdant leaves were crown'd,
Imparting shade and grateful coolness round:
To its fam'd trunk, invisible as air,
I from the sleepy council did repair.
And at its root, fair Freedom's shrine, I paid
My warmest vows, and blest the virtuous shade.
Now shin'd the gay fac'd sun with morning light.
All Nature joy'd exulting at the sight,
When swift as wind, to vent their base-born rage,
The Tory Williams and the Butcher Gage
Rush'd to the tree, a nameless number near,
Tories and Negroes following in the rear—
Each, axe in hand, attack'd the honour'd tree,
Swearing eternal war with Liberty;
Nor ceas'd their strokes, 'till each repeated wound
Tumbled its honours headlong to the ground;
But e'er it fell, not mindless of its wrong,
Aveng'd it took one destin'd head along.
A Tory soldier on its topmost limb—
The Genius of the shade look'd stern at him,
And mark'd him out that self same hour to dine,
Where unsnuff'd lamps burn low at Pluto's shrine,
Then tripp'd his feet from off their cautious stand;
Pale turn'd the wretch—he spread each helpless hand,
But spread in vain, with headlong force he fell,
Nor stopp'd descending 'till he stopp'd in Hell.
Next, curious to explore, I wander'd where
Our injur'd countrymen imprison'd are,
Some closely coop'd in the unwelcome town;
Some in dark dungeons held ignobly down;
Gage holds them there, and all recess denies,
For 'tis in these the coward's safety lies;
Were these once out, how would our troops consign
Each licens'd robber to the gulphy brine,
Or drive them foaming to the ships for aid,
To beg of stormy Greaves to cannonade,
And midnight vengeance point, like Vandeput,
Voiding his hell-hounds to their devilish glut.
A deed like that the muse must blush to name,
And bids me stamp a coward on thy fame;
Rage, ruffian, rage, nor lay thy thunder down,
'Till all our Tories howl and flee the town.
What is a Tory? Heavens and earth reveal!
What strange blind monster does that name conceal?
There! there he stands—for Augury prepare,
Come lay his heart and inmost entrails bare,
I, by the forelock, seize the Stygian hound;
You bind his arms and bind the dragon down.
Surgeon, attend with thy dissecting knife,
Aim well the stroke that damps the springs of life,
Extract his fangs, dislodge his teeth of prey,
Clap in your pincers, and then tear away.—
Soldier, stand by, the monster may resist.
You draw your back-sword, and I'll draw my fist.
Lo! mixt with air his worthless ghost has fled;
Surgeon, his paleness speaks the monster dead;
Part, part the sutures of his brazen scull,
Hard as a rock, impenetrably dull.
Hold out his brain, and let his brethren see
That tortoise brain, no larger than a pea—
Come, rake his entrails, whet thy knife again,
Let's see what evils threat the next campaign,
If ministerial force shall prove too great,
Or if the Congress save their mighty freight:
See on his breast, deep grav'd with iron pen,
"Passive obedience to the worst of men."
There to his lights direct thy searching eyes,
"Slavery I love, and freedom I despise."
View next his heart, his midriff just above,
"To my own country I'll a traitor prove."
Hard by his throat, for utterance meant, I spy,
"I'll fight for tyrants and their ministry."
His crowded guts unnumber'd scrawls contain,
The scandal of our country and the bane;
His bleeding entrails shew some great design,
Which shall abortive prove, as I divine;
But, freedom lost, nor danger do I see,
If we can only with ourselves agree.
How like St. George, invincible I stand,
This home bred dragon stretch'd beneath my hand!
Here may he lie, and let no traveller dare
The grass green hillock o'er his carcase rear,
Or heap up piles of monumental stones,
To shield from Phœbus and the stars his bones.
This feat perform'd, I girt my magic gown,
And march'd, unlicens'd, from the guarded town.
To our fam'd camp I held my eager course,
Curious to view the courage and the force
Of those, whose hearts are flush'd with freedom's flame,
Who yet stand foremost in the field of fame,
And deeply griev'd with their departing laws,
Arm in conviction of a righteous cause.
But e'er I reach'd the great encampment's bound
The friendly Genius on the way I found;
Graceful he smil'd his azure locks he shook,
While from his lips these flowing accents broke:
"O mortal! guided by the fates and me,
To view what thousands wish in vain to see;
Now to my care the magic vest restore,
Chearful return to what thou wast before,
I to the shades this wond'rous mantle bear,
And hang it safe in Fancy's temple there;
Nor let its loss provoke thee to repine,
The vest was Jove's, the will to lend it mine."
So said the God, and blending with the light,
I walk'd conspicuous and reveal'd to sight,
No more impervious to the human view,
But seeing all, and seen by others too.
Now throngs on throngs on ev'ry side surround,
Beneath the burthen groans the heaving ground,
Those fam'd afar to drive the deadly shot,
With truest level to the central spot;
Those whom Virginia's vast dominion sends,
From her chaste streams and intervening lands,
And those who conscious of their country's claim,
From Pennsylvania's happy climate came.
These, and ten thousand more were scatter'd round
In black battalions on the tented ground,
Prepar'd, whene'er the trumpet's iron roar
Should summon forth to all the woes of war,
To hear with joy the loud alarming call,
And rush perhaps to their own funeral.
Just in the center of the camp arose
An elm, whose shade invited to repose;
Thither I rov'd, and at the cool retreat
A brave, tho' rough-cast, soldier chanc'd to meet:
No fop in arms, no feather on his head,
No glittering toys the manly warrior had,
His auburne face the least employ'd his care,
He left it to the females to be fair;
And tho't the men, whom shining trifles sway,
But pageant soldiers for a sun-shine day.
Marking my pensive step, his hand he laid
On his hard breast, and thus the warrior said:
"Stranger, observe, behold these warlike fields,
Mark well the ills, that civil discord yields:
No crimes of our's this vengeful doom require,
Our city ravag'd and our towns on fire,
Troops pour'd on troops to Britain's lasting shame,
That threaten all with universal flame;
These are the kings, the monarchs of the sea,
Exerting power in lawless tyranny,
These, hot for power, and burning for command,
Would rule the ocean and subject the land;
But while this arm the strength of man retains,
While true-born courage revels through my veins,
I'll spill my blood yon' hostile force to quell,
And lawless power by lawful strength repel;
This rough, black cannon shall our cause defend,
This black, rough cannon is my truest friend.
This, arm'd with vengeance, belching death afar,
Confus'd their thousands marching to the war:
Yet, deeply griev'd, the tears bedew my eyes,
For this, the greatest of calamities;
That our keen weapons, meant for other ends,
Should spend their rage on Britons, once our friends;
But Liberty!—no price hast thou below,
And e'en a Briton's life for thee must go.
Come, then, my weapons, rise in Freedom's aid,
Her steps attend and be her call obey'd;
Let Carleton arm his antichristian might,
And sprinkle holy-water 'ere he fight,
And let him have, to shield his limbs from hurt,
St. Stephen's breeches,[c] and St. Stephen's shirt,[c]
Don Quixote's sword, the valiant knight of Spain,
Which now may grace a madman's side again,
St. Bernard's hose,[c] and lest we give too few,
John Faustus' cap, and Satan's cloven shoe;
(These precious relicks may defend their backs,
And good Guy Johnson should, I think, go snacks)
Nay, let him, ere the clashing armies cope,
Procure a pardon from his friend the Pope,
That if his soul should be dislodg'd from hence,
Heaven may with all his scarlet sins dispense,
And place him safe beyond the reach of ball,
Where Abrah'm's bosom may be had for all.
Some powerful cause disarms my heart of fear,
And bids me bring some future battle near,
When crowds of dead shall veil the ghastful plain,
And mighty Lords like Percy, fly again;
When every pulse with treble force shall beat
And each exert his valour to retreat.
And each shall wish his stature may be made,
Long as it seems at Sol's descending shade:
So tallest trees that tour toward the skies,
From simple acorns take their humble rise.
To see from death their boasted valour shrink,
And basely fly, has sometimes made me think,
The true great heart is often found remote
From the gay trappings of a scarlet coat.
Stranger, in pity lend one pensive sigh,
For all that dy'd and all that yet may die,
If wars intestine long their rage retain,
This land must turn a wilderness again.
While civil discord plumes her snaky head,
What streams of human gore most yet be shed,
With sanguine floods shall Mystick's waves be dy'd,
And ting'd the ocean, with her purple tide;
Enough.—The prospect fills my heart with woe;
Back to the heart my freezing spirits flow,
No more remains; no more than this, that all
Must fight like Romans, or like Romans fall:
O heaven-born peace, renew thy wonted charms,
Where Neptune westward spreads his aged arms;
To hostile lands return an honour'd guest,
And bless our crimson shores among the rest;
'Till then may heaven assert our injur'd claims,
And second every stroke Columbia aims,
Direct our counsels and our leaders sway,
Confound our foes and fill them with dismay.
So shall past years, those happy years, return,
And war's red lamp in Boston cease to burn:
Hear and attest the warmest wish I bring,
God save the Congress and reform the King!
Long may Britannia rule our hearts again,
Rule as she rul'd in George the Second's reign;
May ages hence her growing empire see,
And she be glorious, but ourselves be free,
In that just scale an equal balance hold,
And grant these climes a second age of gold."
He ceas'd, and now the sun's declining beam
With fainter radiance shot a trembling gleam,
The thickening stars proclaim'd the day expir'd,
And to their tented mansions all retir'd.
A notable Tory in Boston.—Freneau's note.
[c] Certain well known relicks among the Papists.—Freneau's note.
[87] "Huns."—Ed. 1786.
[88] "Slaughter'd by our Rifle-guns."—Ed. 1786.
[89] "Proud of his soldiership, Burgoyne rated himself higher yet in his character as an author."—Trevelyan. He was a voluminous letter-writer, and his vivid and interesting letters, of which great numbers have been preserved, throw much light upon the period.
[90] This expression belongs to Burgoyne rather than Howe. "Burgoyne took no pains to hide them [his sentiments] in any company. He exclaimed to the first colonist whom he met ... 'Let us get in and we will soon find elbow-room.' The saying caught the public ear, and the time was not far distant when its author learned to his cost that it is more easy to coin a phrase than to recall it from circulation."—Trevelyan, Am. Rev.
[91] "School-boy army."—Ed. 1786.
[92] The first detachment of troops, which left Boston on the night of April 18th, consisted of 800 men; the reinforcements that met them just beyond Lexington consisted of 1,200 men. "On this eventful day, the British lost 273 of their number, while the Americans lost 93."—Fiske's American Revolution.
[93] Lord Percy was at the head of the reinforcements which rescued the British regulars on their retreat from Concord and Lexington, and it was under his leadership that the disastrous retreat was continued to Boston.
[94] "I believe the fact, stripped of all coloring," Washington wrote six weeks later on, "to be plainly this: that if the retreat had not been as precipitate as it was (and God knows it could not have been more so), the ministerial troops must have surrendered or been totally cut off."—Trevelyan's American Revolution.
[95] "In this battle, in which not more than one hour was spent in actual fighting, the British loss in killed and wounded was 1,054.... The American loss, mainly incurred at the rail fence and during the hand-to-hand struggle at the redoubt, was 449."—Fiske's American Revolution.
[96] Burgoyne, in one of his letters, declares that "a pound of fresh mutton could only be bought for its weight in gold."
[97] Gage's inertness and procrastination were a constant source of ridicule both in England and America. No man was ever more severely criticised. Hume even branded him as a contemptible coward.
THE SILENT ACADEMY[98]
Subjected to despotic sway,
Compelled all mandates to obey,
Once in this dome I humbly bowed,
A member of the murmuring crowd,
Where Pedro Blanco held his reign,
The tyrant of a small domain.
By him a numerous herd controuled,
The smart, the stupid, and the bold,
Essayed some little share to gain
Of the vast treasures of his brain;
Some learned the Latin, some the Greek,
And some in flowery style to speak;
Some writ their themes, while others read,
And some with Euclid stuffed the head;
Some toiled in verse, and some in prose,
And some in logick sought repose;
Some learned to cypher, some to draw,
And some began to study law.
But all is ruined, all is done,
The tutor to the shades is gone,
And all his pupils, led astray,
Have each found out a different way.
Some are in chains of wedlock bound,
And some are hanged and some are drowned;
Some are advanced to posts and places,
And some in pulpits screw their faces;
Some at the bar a living gain,
Perplexing what they should explain;
To soldiers turned, a bolder band
Repel the invaders of the land;
Some to the arts of physic bred,
Despatch their patients to the dead;
Some plough the land, and some the sea,
And some are slaves, and some are free;
Some court the great, and some the muse,
And some subsist by mending shoes—
While others—but so vast the throng,
The Cobblers shall conclude my song.
[98] In the 1786 edition the title is "The Desolate Academy." In place of the first six lines above, the 1786 edition had the following:
"Subjected to despotic rule
Once in this dome I went to school,
Where Pedro Passive held his reign,
The tyrant of a small domain."
LINES TO A COASTING CAPTAIN[99]
Shipwrecked and Nearly Drowned on Hatteras Shoals
So long harassed by winds and seas,
'Tis time, at length, to take your ease,
Change ruffian waves for quiet groves[100]
And war's loud blast for sylvan loves.
In all your rounds, 'tis passing strange
No fair one tempts you to a change—
Madness it is, you must agree,
To lodge alone 'till forty-three.
Old Plato said, no blessing here
Could equal Love—if but sincere;
And writings penn'd by heaven, have shown
That man can ne'er be blest alone.
O'er life's meridian have you pass'd;
The night of death advances fast!
No props you plant for your decline,
No partner soothes these cares of thine.
If Neptune's self, who ruled the main,
Kept sea-nymphs there to ease his pain;
Yourself, who skim that empire o'er,
Might surely keep one nymph on shore.
Myrtilla fair, in yonder grove,
Has so much beauty, so much love,
That, on her lip, the meanest fly
Is happier far than you or I.
[99] In the 1786 edition the title is "The Sea-Faring Bachelor;" in 1795 it was changed to "Advice to a Friend."
"And seek a bride—for few can find
The sea a mistress to their mind."—Ed. 1786.
TO THE AMERICANS[101]
On the Rumoured Approach of the Hessian Forces,
Waldeckers, &c. (Published 1775)
The blast of death! the infernal guns prepare—
"Rise with the storm and all its dangers share."
Occasioned by General Gage's Proclamation that the Provinces were
in a state of Rebellion, and out of the King's protection.[102]
Rebels you are—the British champion[103] cries—
Truth, stand thou forth!—and tell the wretch, He lies:—
Rebels!—and see this mock imperial lord
Already threats these rebels with the cord.[104]
The hour draws nigh, the glass is almost run,
When truth will shine, and ruffians[105] be undone;
When this base miscreant[106] will forbear to sneer,
And curse his taunts and bitter insults here.[107]
If to controul the cunning of a knave,
Freedom respect, and scorn the name of slave;
If to protest against a tyrant's laws,
And arm for vengeance in a righteous cause,
Be deemed Rebellion—'tis a harmless thing:
This bug-bear name, like death, has lost its sting.
Americans! at freedom's fane adore!
But trust to Britain, and her flag,[108] no more;
The generous genius of their isle has fled,
And left a mere impostor in his stead.
If conquered, rebels (their Scotch records show),[109]
Receive no mercy from the parent [A]foe;[110]
Nay, even the grave, that friendly haunt of peace,
(Where Nature gives the woes of man to cease,)
Vengeance will search—and buried corpses there
Be raised, to feast the vultures of the air—
Be hanged on gibbets, such a war they wage—
Such are the devils that swell our souls with rage![111]
If Britain conquers, help us, heaven, to fly:
Lend us your wings, ye ravens of the sky;—
If Britain conquers—we exist no more;
These lands will redden with their children's gore,
Who, turned to slaves, their fruitless toils will moan,
Toils in these fields that once they called their own!
To arms! to arms! and let the murdering sword
Decide who best deserves the hangman's cord:
Nor think the hills of Canada too bleak
When desperate Freedom is the prize you seek;
For that, the call of honour bids you go
O'er frozen lakes and mountains wrapt in snow:[112]
No toils should daunt the nervous and the bold,
They scorn all heat or wave-congealing cold.
Haste!—to your tents in iron fetters bring
These slaves, that serve a tyrant and a king;[113]
So just, so virtuous is your cause, I say,
Hell must prevail if Britain gains the day.
[A] After the battle of Culloden: See Smollett's History of England.—Freneau's note.
[101] The first trace that I can find of this poem is in the Oct. 18, 1775, issue of Anderson's Constitutional Gazette, where it has the title, "Reflections on Gage's Letter to Gen. Washington of Aug. 13." It was published in the 1786 edition with the title, "On the Conqueror of America shut up in Boston. Published in New York, August 1775." The 1795 edition changed the title to "The Misnomer." I have followed the title and text of the 1809 edition.
[102] General Gage's proclamation, issued June 12, 1775, was as follows: "Whereas the infatuated multitudes, who have long suffered themselves to be conducted by certain well-known incendiaries and traitors, in a fatal progression of crimes against the constitutional authority of the state, have at length proceeded to avowed rebellion, and the good effects which were expected to arise from the patience and lenity of the king's government have been often frustrated, and are now rendered hopeless by the influence of the same evil counsels, it only remains for those who are intrusted with the supreme rule, as well for the punishment of the guilty as the protection of the well-affected, to prove that they do not bear the sword in vain."
[103] "The hopeful general."—Constitutional Gazette.
[104] On June 11, Washington had written Gage, among other things, "that the officers engaged in the cause of liberty and their country, who by the fortune of war had fallen into your hands, have been thrown indiscriminately into a common gaol appropriated for felons," and threatening retaliation in like cases, "exactly by the rule you shall observe towards those of ours now in your custody." To this Cage replied, on the 13th: "Britons, ever pre-eminent in mercy, have outgone common examples, and overlooked the criminal in the captive. Upon these principles your prisoners, whose lives, by the law of the land, are destined to the cord, have hitherto been treated with care and kindness," &c.—Duyckinck.
[105] "Gage shall be."—Gazette.
[106] "Black monster."—Gazette.
[107] The Gazette version adds here the lines,
"Nay, with himself, ere freedom sent to quell
Had seen the lowest lurking place of hell."
[108] "British clemency."—Ed. 1786.
[109] "Their past records show."—Ed, 1786. "Gage already lets us know."—Gazette.
[110] "The viper foe."—Gazette.
[111] This and the preceding line not in the earlier versions. In place of them the Gazette has the lines:
"Spoil'd of their shrouds and o'er Canadia's plains
Be hung aloft to terrify in chains."
[112] The Gazette version ends the poem from this point as follows:
"Let Baker's head be snatch'd from infamy,
And Carleton's Popish scull be fixt on high,
And all like him o'er St. John's castle swing,
To show that freedom is no trifling thing."
[113] "Their tyrant of a king."—Ed. 1786.
THE VERNAL AGUE
Where the pheasant[114] roosts at night,
Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,[115]
Where the evening breezes sigh
Solitary, there stray I.
Close along the shaded stream,
Source of many a youthful dream,
Where branchy cedars dim the day,
There I muse, and there I stray.
Yet, what can please amid this bower,
That charmed the eye for many an hour!
The budding leaf is lost to me,
And dead the bloom on every tree.
The winding stream, that glides along,
The lark, that tunes her early song,
The mountain's brow, the sloping vale,
The murmuring of the western gale,
Have lost their charms!—the blooms are gone!
Trees put a darker aspect on,
The stream disgusts that wanders by,
And every zephyr brings a sigh.
Great guardian of our feeble kind!
Restoring Nature, lend thine aid!
And o'er the features of the mind
Renew those colours, that must fade,
When vernal suns forbear to roll,
And endless winter chills the soul.
[114] "Blackbird."—Ed. 1786.
[115] "In groves of half distinguish'd light."—Ib.
GENERAL GAGE'S CONFESSION[116]
Being the Substance of His Excellency's Last Conference with his
Ghostly Father, Father Francis
Compassion!—'tis a stranger to my heart,
Or if it comes—unwelcome guest depart,—
Boston, farewell, thy final doom is pass'd,
North hears my prayers, and I'm recall'd at last;[117]
Sailor on high thy canvas wings display,
Howl, ye west winds, and hurry me away;
Rise, boisterous clouds, and bellowing from on high,
Whisk me along, ye tyrants of the sky—
Quick! let me leave these friendless shores that shed
Ten thousand curses on my hated head.—
But why so swift, why ask I gales so strong,
Since conscience, cruel conscience, goes along?
Must conscience rack my bosom o'er the deep?
I live in hell while she forbears to sleep;
Come, Father Francis, be my heart display'd,
My burden'd conscience asks thy pious aid;
Come, if confession can discharge my sin,
I will confess till hell itself shall grin,
And own the world has found in me again
A second Nero; nay, another Cain.
Friar
Why swells thy breast with such distressing woe?
Your honour surely has the sense to know
Your sins are venial—trust me when I say
Your deepest sins may all be purged away.—
But if misfortunes rouse this nightly grief,
Sure Friar Francis can afford relief:
I thought e're this that leaders of renown
Would scorn to bow to giddy fortune's frown;
See yon bright star (the dewy eve begun)
Walks his gay round and sparkles in the sun;
Faints not, encircled by the ambient blaze,
Tho' pestering clouds may sometimes blunt his rays;
But come, confession makes the conscience light,
Confess, my son, and be absolv'd this night.
Gage
First of the first, I tell it in your ear
(For tho' we whisper, heaven, you know, can hear)
This faultless country ne'er deserv'd my hate;
Just are its pleas; unmerited its fate.
When North ordained me to this thankless place,
My conscience rose and star'd me in the face,
And spite of all I did to quench its flame,
Convinc'd me I was wrong before I came.—
But what, alas, can mortal heroes do,
They are but men, as sacred writings shew,—
Tho' I refus'd, they urged me yet the more,
Nay, even the king descended to implore,
And often with him in his closet pent,
Was plagu'd to death to rule this armament;
Who could a monarch's favourite wish deny?
I yielded just for peace—ay, faith did I—
If this be sin, O tell me, reverend sage,
What will, alas, become of guilty Gage?
Friar
If this be sin—'tis sin, I make no doubt,
But trust me, honour'd sir, I'll help you out,
Even tho' your arms had rag'd from town to town,
And mow'd like flags these rebel nations down,
And joyful bell return'd the murdering din,
And you yourself the master butcher been,—
All should be well—from sins like this, I ween,
A dozen masses shall discharge you clean;
Small pains in purgatory you'll endure,
And hell, you know, is only for the poor,
Pay well the priest and fear no station there,
For heaven must yield to vehemence of prayer.
Gage
Heaven grant that this may be my smallest sin;
Alas, good friar, I'm yet deeper in—
Come round my bed, with friendly groans condole,
To gratify my paunch, I've wrong'd my soul;
Arms I may wield and murder by command,
Spread devastation thro' a guiltless land,
Whole ranks to hell with howling cannon sweep—
But what had I to do with stealing sheep?[118]
I've read my orders, conn'd them o'er with care,
But not a word of stealing sheep is there;
Come, holy friar, can you make a shift
To help a sinner at so dead a lift?
Or must I onward to perdition go,
With theft and murder to complete my woe?
Friar
Murder—nay, hold!—your honour is too sad,
Things are not yet, I hope, become so bad,
Murder, indeed—you've stole, and that I know,
But, sir, believe me, you've not struck a blow;
Some few Americans have bled, 'tis true,
But 'twas the soldiers killed them, and not you.
Gage
Well said, but will this subtile reasoning stand?
Did not the soldiers murder by command,
By my command?—Friar, they did, I swear,
And I must answer for their deeds, I fear.
Friar
Let each man answer for his proper deed,
From sins of murder I pronounce you freed,
And this same reasoning will your honour keep
From imputations of purloining sheep:
Wallace for this to Rome shall post away,
And for this crying sin severely pay,
And tho' his zeal may think his penance slight,
Hair cloth and logs shall be his bed at night,
Coarse fare by day—till his repeated groans
Convince the world he for this sin atones.
Gage
Alas, poor Wallace, how I pity thee!—
But let him go—'tis better him than me;
Yes, let him harbour in some convent there,
And fleas monastic bite him till he swear;
But, friar, have you patience for the rest?
Half my transgressions are not yet confest.
Friar
Not half!—you are a harmless man, I'm told—
Pray, cut them short—the supper will be cold.
Gage
Some devil, regardless of exalted station,
In evil hour assail'd me with temptation,
To issue forth a damned proclamation,
What prince, what king, from Belzebub is free,
He tempted Judas, and has tempted me!
This, this, O friar, was a deadly flaw,
This for the civil founded martial law,[119]
This crime will Gage to Lucifer consign,
And purgatory must for this be mine.
Next—and for this I breathe my deepest sigh,
Ah cruel, flinty, hard, remorseless I!—
How could I crowd my dungeons dark and low
With wounded captives of our injur'd foe?
How could my heart, more hard than hardened steel,
Laugh at the pangs that mangled captives feel?
Why sneer'd I at my fellow men distrest,
Why banished pity from this iron breast!
O friar, could heaven approve my acting so,
Heaven still to mercy swift, to vengeance slow?—
O no—you say, then cease your soothing chat,
Cowards are cruel, I can instance that.—
But hold! why did I, when the fact was done,
Deny it all to gallant Washington?
Why did I stuff the epistolary page
With vile invectives only worthy Gage?[120]
Come, friar, help—shall I recant and say
I writ my letter on a drunken day?
How will it sound, if men should chance to tell
A drunken hero can compose so well?
Friar
Your fears are groundless, give me all the blame,
I writ the letter, you but sign'd your name,
Nor let the proclamation cloud your mind,
'Twas I compos'd it and you only sign'd.—
I, Friar Francis—papist tho' I be,
You private papists can't but value me;
Your sins in Lethe shall be swallowed up,
I'll clear you, if you please, before we sup.
Gage
Nay, clear me not—tho' I should cross the brine,
And pay my vows in distant Palestine,
Or land in Spain, a stranger poor and bare,
And rove on foot a wretched pilgrim there,
And let my eyes in streams perpetual flow,
Where great Messiah dy'd so long ago,
And wash his sacred footsteps with my tears,
And pay for masses fifty thousand years,
All would not do—my monarch I've obey'd,
And now go home, perhaps to lose my head;—
Pride sent me here, pride blasted in the bud,
Which, if it can, will build its throne in blood,
With slaughter'd millions glut its tearless eyes,
And make all nature fall that it may rise;—
Come, let's embark, your holy whining cease,
Come, let's away, I'll hang myself for peace:
So Pontius Pilate for his murder'd Lord
In his own bosom sheath'd the deadly sword—
Tho' he confess'd and wash'd his hands beside,
His heart condemn'd him and the monster dy'd.
[116] "General Gage's Confession" was printed in pamphlet form in 1775. As far as I can ascertain, there exists but a single copy of this publication, that in the possession of the Library Company of Philadelphia. A manuscript note upon this copy, unquestionably the handwriting of Freneau, is as follows: "By Gaine. Published October 25, 1775." The poem was manifestly written after Gage's recall. The poet never reprinted it.
[117] On July 28, 1775, George III. wrote to Lord North: "I have desired Lord Dartmouth to acquaint Lt. G. Gage that as he thinks nothing further can be done this campaign in the province of Massachusetts Bay that he is desired instantly to come over, that he may explain the various wants for carrying on the next campaign." "It was a kindly pretext devised to spare the feelings of an unprofitable but a faithful and a brave servant."—Trevelyan. General Gage embarked at Boston for England, Oct. 12, 1775.
[118] The scarcity of provisions in the British camp during the siege of Boston has been already alluded to. "When marauding expeditions," says Bancroft, "returned with sheep and hogs and cattle captured from islands, the bells were rung as for victory."
[119] Alluding to the proclamation of June 12, five days before Bunker Hill, which established martial law throughout Massachusetts and proscribed Hancock and Samuel Adams. By this proclamation, all who were in arms about Boston, every member of the State Government and of the Continental Congress, were threatened with condign punishment as rebels and traitors.
[120] Washington had written to Gage, remonstrating against the cruel treatment of certain American officers, who were denied the privileges and immunities due their rank. Almost the last official act of Gage was to reply through Burgoyne in a letter addressed to "George Washington, Esqr.," that "Britons, ever pre-eminent in mercy, have overlooked the criminal in the captive. Your prisoners, whose lives by the law of the land are destined to the cord, have hitherto been treated with care and kindness;—indiscriminately, it is true, for I acknowledge no rank that is not derived from the King."
THE DISTREST SHEPHERDESS[121]
or, Mariana's Complaint for the Death of Damon
Written 1775
What madness compell'd my dear shepherd to go
To the siege of Quebec, and distract me with woe!
My heart is so full, it would kill me to tell
How he died on the banks of the river Sorel.
O river Sorel! Thou didst hear him complain,
When dying he languish'd, and called me in vain!
When, pierc'd by the Briton he went to repel,
He sunk on the shores of the river Sorel.
O cruel misfortune, my hopes to destroy:
He has left me alone with my Colin, his boy;
With sorrow I see him, with tears my eyes swell;
Shall we go, my sweet babe, to the river Sorel?
But why should I wander, and give him such pain?
My Damon will ne'er see his Colin again:
To wander so far where the wild Indians dwell,
We should faint ere we came to the river Sorel.
But even to see the pale corpse of my dear
Would give me such rapture, such pleasure sincere!
I'll go, my dear boy, and my grief I will tell
To the willows that grow by the river Sorel.
How shall I distinguish my shepherd's dear grave
Amidst the long forest that darkens the wave:—
Perhaps they could give him no tomb when he fell;
Perhaps he is sunk in the river Sorel.
He was a dear fellow!—O, had he remain'd!
For he was uneasy whene'er I complain'd;
He call'd me his charmer, and call'd me his belle,
What a folly to die on the banks of Sorel!
Then let me remain in my lonely retreat;
My shepherd departed I never shall meet—
Here's Billy O'Bluster—I love him as well,
And Damon may stay at the river Sorel.
[121] This poem is unique in the 1788 edition of Freneau's works. It is evidently an earlier version of the "Mars and Hymen" below.
MARS AND HYMEN[122]
Occasioned by the separation of a young widow from a young military lover, of the troops sent to attack Fort Chamblee, in Canada; in which expedition he lost his life [1775]
Persons of the Poem—Lucinda, Damon, Thyrsis
Damon
Why do we talk of shaded bowers,
When frosts, my fair one, chill the plain,
And nights are cold, and long the hours
That damp the ardour of the swain,
Who, parting from his rural fire,
All pleasure doth forego—
And here and there,
And everywhere,
Pursues the invading foe.
Yes, we must rest on frosts and snows!
No season shuts up our campaign!
Hard as the rocks, we dare oppose
The autumnal, or the wintery reign.
Alike to us, the winds that blow
In summer's season, gay,
Or those that rave
On Hudson's wave,
And drift his ice away.
Winter and war may change the scene!
The ball may pierce, the frost may chill;
And dire misfortunes intervene,
But freedom must be powerful still,
To drive these Britons from our shore,
Who come with sail, who come with oar,
So cruel and unkind,
With servile chain, who strive in vain,
Our freeborn souls to bind. [Exit]
Lucinda (two months after)
They scold me, and tell me I must not complain,
To part a few weeks with my favourite swain!
He goes to the battle!—and leaves me to mourn—
And tell me—and tell me—and will he return?[123]
When he left me, he kiss'd me—and said, My sweet dear,
In less than a month I again will be here;
But still I can hardly my sorrows adjourn—
You may call me a witch—if ever I return.[124]
I said, My dear soldier, I beg you would stay;
But he, with his farmers,[125] went strutting away—
With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
And I wept—for I thought he would never return.[126]
Thyrsis
Fairest of the female train,
You must seek another swain,
Damon will not come again!
All his toils are over!
As you prized him, to excess,
Your loss is great, I will confess,
But, lady, yield not to distress—
I will be your lover.
Lucinda
Not all the swains the land can shew,
(If Damon is not living now)[127]
Can from my bosom drive my woe,
Or bid a second passion glow;—
For Damon has possession;
Not all the gifts that wealth can bring,
Nor all the airs that you can sing,
Nor all the music of the string
Can banish his impression.
Thyrsis
Wedlock and death too often prove
Pernicious to the fires of Love:
With equal strength they both combine
Hearts best united[128] to disjoin:
Hence ardent loves too soon remit;
Thus die the fires that Cupid lit.
Female tears and April snow
Sudden come and sudden go.
Since his head is levelled low,
Cease remembrance of your woe.
Can it be in reason found
To be crazy for Love's wound?[129]
Must you live in sorrows drowned
For a lover under ground?
Lucinda
What a picture have I seen!
What can all these visions mean!
Wintry groves and vacant halls,
Coffins hid by sable palls,
Monuments and funerals!
Forms terrific to the sight,
Ghastly phantoms clad in white;
Streams that ever seemed to freeze,
Shaded o'er by willow trees,[130]
Ever drooping—hardly green—
What a vision have I seen!
One I saw of angel kind,
From the dregs of life refined;
On her visage such a smile,[131]
And she talk'd in such a style!
All was heaven upon her brow;—
Yes, I think I see her now!
All in beams of light arrayed;
And these cheering words she said:
Fair Lucinda, come to me;
What has grief to do with thee?
O forsake your wretched shore,
Crimsoned with its children's gore![132]
Could you but a moment stray
In the meadows where I play,
You would die to come away.
Come away, and speed your wing—[133]
Here we love, and here we sing!
Thyrsis
You will not yet forget your glooms,
The heavy heart, the downcast eye,
The cheek that scarce a smile assumes,
The never-ending sigh![134]
Lucinda
Had you the secret cause to grieve—
That in this breast doth lie,
Instead of wishing to relieve
You would be just as I.
Thyrsis
What secret cause have you to grieve?—
A lover gone astray?—[135]
If one was able to deceive,
Perhaps another may.
Lucinda
My lover has not me deceived,
An act he would disdain;
Oh! he is gone—and I am grieved—
He'll never come again!
He'll never come again!
Thyrsis
The turtle on yon' withered bough
Who lately moaned her murdered mate,
Has found another partner now,—
Such changes all await.
Again her drooping plume is dress'd,
Again she wishes to be bless'd,
And takes a husband to her nest.
If nature has decreed it so
With some above, and all below,
Let us, Lucinda, banish woe,[136]
Nor be perplext with sorrow:
If I should leave your arms this night,
And die before the morning light,
I would advise you—and you might
Wed again to-morrow.
Lucinda
The turtle on yon' withered tree!—
That turtle never felt like me!
Her grief is but a moment's date,
Another day, another mate:
And true it is, the feathered race
Hold many a partner no disgrace.
How would the world my fault display,
What would censorious Sally[137] say?
Would say, while grinning malice sneers,—[138]
She made a conquest by her tears!
Thyrsis
My Polly!—once the pride of all,
That shepherd lads their charmers call,
Too early parted with her bloom,
And sleeps in yonder sylvan tomb:
Her death has set me free—
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
But what is that to me!
Since all must bow to fate's arrest,[139]
No love deceased shall rack my breast—
Come, then, Lucinda, and be blest.
Lucinda
My Damon! Oh, can I forget
The hour you left these moistened eyes,
O'er northern lakes to wander far
To colder climes and dreary skies!
There, vengeful, in their wastes of snow
The Britons guard the frozen shore,
And Damon there is perished now,
The swain that shall return no more!
Thyrsis
Weep, weep no more, my Jersey lass,[140]
The pang is past that fixed his doom—
They, too, shall to destruction pass,
Perhaps—and hardly find a tomb.
Refrain your tears—enough are shed—
They, too, shall have their share of woe:
Fled is their fame, their honours fled;
And Washington shall lay them low.
Lucinda
If you had but yon' sergeant's size,
His mien and looks, so debonaire,
You might seem lovely in my eyes,
Nor should you quite despair.[141]
There's something in your looks, I find,
Recalling Damon to my mind—
He is dead, and I must be resigned!
His lively step, his sun-burnt face,
His nervous arm in you I trace—
Indeed,—I think you no disgrace.[142]
Thyrsis
On this dismal, cloudy day,[143]
In these fighting times, I say,
Will you Yea, or will you Nay?
Lucinda
Oh! I will not tell you Nay,
You have such a coaxing way!
Thyrsis
Call the music!—half is done
That my heart could count upon—
From the grave I seize a prize!
Here she is, and where he lies,
She or I but little care!
O, what animals we are!
For you!—I would forego all ease,[144]
And traverse sands or travel seas.
Of all they sent us from above,
Nothing, nothing is like love!
Happiest passion of the mind,
Sent from heaven to bless mankind,
Though at variance with your charms,
Fate's eternal mandate stands;
Hymen, come!—unite our hands,
And give Lucinda to my arms!
[122] This poem seems first to have appeared in the edition of 1786, where it bore the title, "Female Frailty. Written November 1775." Freneau made use of the opening speeches of Damon and Lucinda in his drama, The Spy. He omitted the poem from the 1795 edition of his works, retaining, however, the opening lyric, which he entitled "The Northern Soldier." The poem was reprinted in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have used. The poet edited the earlier version with great care, making verbal variations in almost every line, and adding lines and even stanzas. I have marked only a few of the more notable changes.
[123] "And, say what you please, he will never return."—Ed. 1786.
"With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
And I wept, being sure he would never return."—Ib.
[125] "With his soldiers."—Ib.
"Then why should I longer my sorrows adjourn?—
You may call me a fool if he ever return."—Ib.
[127] Not in the earliest version.
[128] "Hearts once united."—Ed. 1786.
"Never yet was reason found
So distracted with love's wound
As to be in sorrow drown'd."—Ib.
[130] "Planted round with cypress trees."—Ed. 1786.
[131] Four lines beginning with this not in original version.
[132] "Shrouded all with darkness o'er."—Ib.
"'Come away! and speed thy flight,
All with me is endless light.'"—Ib.
[134] "The breast that heaves a sigh."—Ed. 1786.
[135] "A lover gone away?"—Ib.
"Let us, like them, forget our woe,
And not be kill'd with sorrow."—Ed. 1786.
[137] "Censorious Chloe."—Ib.
[138] "While laughing folly hears."—Ib.
[139] "Death's arrest."—Ed. 1786.
[140] "My lovely lass."—Ib.
"If you had once a soldier's guise,
The splendid coat, the sprightly air,
You might seem charming in these eyes,
Nor would I quite despair."—Ed. 1786.
"His handsome shape, his manly face,
His youthful step in you I trace—
All, all I wish for, but the lace."—Ib.
[143] The following eleven lines not in the original version.
[144] The 1786 version ended as follows:
Thyrsis
For you I would forego my ease,
And traverse lakes, or ravage seas,
And dress in lace, or what you please.
This enchanting month of May,
So bright, so bloomy, and so gay,
Claims our nuptials on this day.
For her vernal triumphs, we
Tune the harp to symphony—
Conquest has attended me.
Brightest season for the mind,
Vigorous, free, and unconfin'd,
Golden age of human kind.
Still at variance with thy charms
Death's eternal empire stands—
Hymen, come—while rapture warms,
And give Lucinda to my arms.
MAC SWIGGEN[145]
A Satire
Written 1775
Long have I sat on this disast'rous shore,
And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
To Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say,
Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may;
But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell
I think I may defer my voyage as well;
Why should I far in search of honour roam,
And dunces leave to triumph here at home?
Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave.
And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave,
Hence came these rhimes, with truth ascrib'd to me,
That swell thy little soul to jealousy:[146]
If thus, tormented at these flighty lays,
You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise,
How will you bear the more exalted rhime,
By labour polish'd, and matur'd by time?
Devoted madman! what inspir'd thy rage,
Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage?
Against a wind-mill would'st thou try thy might,
Against a giant[147] would a pigmy fight?
What could thy slanderous pen with malice arm
To injure him, who never did thee harm?[148]
Have I from thee been urgent to attain
The mean ideas of thy barren brain?
Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine,
And, when detected, swear by Jove they're mine?
O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose,
From thy own envy thy destruction flows!
Bless'd be our western world—its scenes conspire
To raise a poet's fancy and his fire,
Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend!
Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend!
See mighty streams meandering to the main!
See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain!
The spotted herds in flowery meadows see!
But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee?—
You find no charms in all that nature yields,
Then leave to me the grottoes and the fields:
I interfere not with your vast design—
Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine,
Pursue, well pleas'd, your theologic schemes,
Attend professors, and correct your themes,
Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent,
Or prove from scripture what it never meant,
Or far through law, that land of scoundrels, stray,
And truth disguise through all your mazy way;
Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze,
And by long cheating, learn to live at ease;
If but in Wood or Littleton well read,
The devil shall help you to your daily bread.
O waft me far, ye muses of the west—
Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest—
Thrice happy in those dear retreats to find
A safe retirement from all human kind.
Though dire misfortunes every step attend,
The muse, still social, still remains a friend—
In solitude her converse gives delight,
With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,
She aids me, shields me, bears me on her wings,
In spite of growling whelps, to high, exalted things,
Beyond the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.
Hail, great Mac Swiggen![149] foe to honest fame,[150]
Patron of dunces, and thyself the same,
You dream of conquest—tell me, how, or whence?
Act like a man and combat me with sense—
This evil have I known, and known but once,[151]
Thus to be gall'd and slander'd by a dunce,
Saw rage and weakness join their dastard plan
To crush the shadow, not attack the man.
What swarms of vermin from the sultry south
Like frogs surround thy pestilential mouth—
Clad in the garb of sacred sanctity,
What madness prompts thee to invent a lie?
Thou base defender of a wretched crew,
Thy tongue let loose on those you never knew,
The human spirit with the brutal join'd,
The imps of Orcus in thy breast combin'd,
The genius barren, and the wicked heart,
Prepar'd to take each trifling scoundrel's part,
The turn'd up nose, the monkey's foolish face,
The scorn of reason, and your sire's disgrace—
Assist me, gods, to drive this dog of rhime
Back to the torments of his native clime,
Where dullness mingles with her native earth,[152]
And rhimes, not worth the pang that gave them birth!
Where did he learn to write or talk with men?—
A senseless blockhead, with a scribbling pen—
In vile acrostics thou may'st please the fair,[153]
Not less than with thy looks and powder'd hair,
But strive no more with rhime to daunt thy foes,
Or, by the flame that in my bosom glows,
The muse on thee shall her worst fury spend,
And hemp, or water, thy vile being end.
Aspers'd like me, who would not grieve and rage!
Who would not burn, Mac Swiggen to engage?
Him and his friends, a mean, designing race,
I, singly I, must combat face to face—
Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouth'd train,[154]
Assisted by no poets of the plain,
Whose timerous Muses cannot swell their theme
Beyond a meadow or a purling stream.—
Were not my breast impervious to despair,
And did not Clio reign unrivall'd there,
I must expire beneath the ungenerous host,
And dullness triumph o'er a poet lost.
Rage gives me wings, and fearless prompts me on
To conquer brutes the world should blush to own;
No peace, no quarter to such imps I lend,
Death and perdition on each line I send;
Bring all the wittlings that your host supplies,
A cloud of nonsense and a storm of lies—
Your kitchen wit—Mac Swiggen's loud applause,
That wretched rhymer with his lanthorn jaws—
His deep-set eyes forever on the wink,
His soul extracted from the public sink—
All such as he, to my confusion call—
And tho' ten myriads—I despise them all.
Come on, Mac Swiggen, come—your muse is willing,
Your prose is merry, but your verse is killing—
Come on, attack me with that whining prose,
Your beard is red, and swine-like is your nose,
Like burning brush your bristly head of hair,
The ugliest image of a Greenland bear—
Come on—attack me with your choicest rhimes,
Sound void of sense betrays the unmeaning chimes—
Come, league your forces; all your wit combine,
Your wit not equal to the bold design—
The heaviest arms the Muse can give, I wield,
To stretch Mac Swiggen floundering on the field,
'Swiggen, who, aided by some spurious Muse,
But bellows nonsense, and but writes abuse,
'Swiggen, immortal and unfading grown,[155]
But by no deeds or merits of his own.—
So, when some hateful monster sees the day,
In spirits we preserve it from decay,
But for what end, it is not hard to guess—
Not for its value, but its ugliness.
Now, by the winds which shake thy rubric mop,
(That nest of witches, or that barber's shop)
Mac Swiggen, hear—Be wise in times to come,
A dunce by nature, bid thy muse be dumb,
Lest you, devoted to the infernal skies,
Descend, like Lucifer, no more to rise.—
Sick of all feuds, to Reason I appeal[156]
From wars of paper, and from wars of steel,
Let others here their hopes and wishes end,
I to the sea with weary steps descend,
Quit the mean conquest that such swine might yield,
And leave Mac Swiggen to enjoy the field—
In distant isles some happier scene I'll choose,
And court in softer shades the unwilling Muse,
Thrice happy there, through peaceful plains to rove,
Or the cool verdure of the orange grove,
Safe from the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.
[145] I can find only two versions of this poem: that in the 1786 edition of the poet, which I have reproduced, and that in the 1809 edition, in which the title is changed to "A Satire in Answer to a Hostile Attack. [First written, and published 1775.]" From the nature of the concluding lines of the poem, it may be inferred that it was the last work done by the poet before starting on his voyage to the West Indies, late In November. I have not been able to find a trace of the hostile attack in the newspapers or publications of the period, or of the original publication of "Mac Swiggen." The poem was omitted from the 1795 edition, only the first eight lines being used in the short poem "To Shylock Ap-Shenken." The poet made many verbal changes for the later edition, but I have marked only the most significant.
[146] "Urge your little soul to cruelty."—Ed. 1809.
[147] "Castle."—Ed. 1809.
[148] "Meant you harm."—Ib.
[149] "Thou bright genius." In each case where Mac Swiggen is used in the earlier version, it is changed later.—"This giant," "Sangrado," "dear satirist," "a green goose," "scribbler," and "insect," are supplied in its place.
[150] Of the ninety-four remaining lines of the poem, fifty were taken from the satires written by the poet while in college, in the war between the Whig and Cliosophic Societies. Many of the lines were much changed. The portion used by Freneau may be said to comprise all of the three early satires that could be quoted with decency.
[151] This line and the one following not in the Clio-Whig satires.
[152] This line and the one following not in the Clio-Whig satires.
[153] This line and the seven following not in the Clio-Whig satires.
[154] This line and the seven following not in the Clio-Whig satires.
[155] Six lines not in Clio-Whig satires.
[156] The remainder of the poem not in the Clio-Whig satires.
THE HOUSE OF NIGHT[157]
A Vision
Advertisement—This Poem is founded upon the authority of Scripture, inasmuch as these sacred books assert, that the last enemy that shall be conquered is Death. For the purposes of poetry he is here personified, and represented as on his dying bed. The scene is laid at a solitary palace, (the time midnight) which, tho' before beautiful and joyous, is now become sad and gloomy, as being the abode and receptacle of Death. Its owner, an amiable, majestic youth, who had lately lost a beloved consort, nevertheless with a noble philosophical fortitude and humanity, entertains him in a friendly manner, and by employing Physicians, endeavours to restore him to health, altho' an enemy; convinced of the excellence and propriety of that divine precept, If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink. He nevertheless, as if by a spirit of prophecy, informs this (fictitiously) wicked being of the certainty of his doom, and represents to him in a pathetic manner the vanity of his expectations, either of a reception into the abodes of the just, or continuing longer to make havock of mankind upon earth. The patient finding his end approaching, composes his epitaph, and orders it to be engraved on his tombstone, hinting to us thereby, that even Death and Distress have vanity; and would be remembered with honour after he is no more, altho' his whole life has been spent in deeds of devastation and murder. He dies at last in the utmost agonies of despair, after agreeing with an avaricious Undertaker to intomb his bones. This reflects upon the inhumanity of those men, who, not to mention an enemy, would scarcely cover a departed friend with a little dust, without certainty of reward for so doing. The circumstances of his funeral are then recited, and the visionary and fabulous part of the poem disappears. It concludes with a few reflections on the impropriety of a too great attachment to the present life, and incentives to such moral virtue as may assist in conducting us to a better.
1
Trembling I write my dream, and recollect
A fearful vision at the midnight hour;
So late, Death o'er me spread his sable wings,
Painted with fancies of malignant power!
2
Such was the dream the sage Chaldean saw5
Disclos'd to him that felt heav'n's vengeful rod,
Such was the ghost, who through deep silence cry'd,
Shall mortal man—be juster than his God?
3
Let others draw from smiling skies their theme,
And tell of climes that boast unfading light,10
I draw a darker scene, replete with gloom,
I sing the horrors of the House of Night.
4
Stranger, believe the truth experience tells,
Poetic dreams are of a finer cast
Than those which o'er the sober brain diffus'd,15
Are but a repetition of some action past.
5
Fancy, I own thy power—when sunk in sleep
Thou play'st thy wild delusive part so well
You lift me into immortality,
Depict new heavens, or draw the scenes of hell.20
6
By some sad means, when Reason holds no sway,
Lonely I rov'd at midnight o'er a plain
Where murmuring streams and mingling rivers flow
Far to their springs, or seek the sea again.
7
Sweet vernal May! tho' then thy woods in bloom25
Flourish'd, yet nought of this could Fancy see,
No wild pinks bless'd the meads, no green the fields,
And naked seem'd to stand each lifeless tree:
8
Dark was the sky, and not one friendly star
Shone from the zenith or horizon, clear,30
Mist sate upon the woods, and darkness rode
In her black chariot, with a wild career.
9
And from the woods the late resounding note
Issued of the loquacious Whip-poor-will,[A]
Hoarse, howling dogs, and nightly roving wolves35
Clamour'd from far off cliffs invisible.
[A] A Bird peculiar to America, of a solitary nature, who never sings but in the night. Her note resembles the name given to her by the country people.—Freneau's note.
10
Rude, from the wide extended Chesapeke
I heard the winds the dashing waves assail,
And saw from far, by picturing fancy form'd,
The black ship travelling through the noisy gale.40
11
At last, by chance and guardian fancy led,
I reach'd a noble dome, rais'd fair and high,
And saw the light from upper windows flame,
Presage of mirth and hospitality.
12
And by that light around the dome appear'd45
A mournful garden of autumnal hue,
Its lately pleasing flowers all drooping stood
Amidst high weeds that in rank plenty grew.
13
The Primrose there, the violet darkly blue,
Daisies and fair Narcissus ceas'd to rise,50
Gay spotted pinks their charming bloom withdrew,
And Polyanthus quench'd its thousand dyes.
14
No pleasant fruit or blossom gaily smil'd,
Nought but unhappy plants or trees were seen,
The yew, the myrtle, and the church-yard elm,55
The cypress, with its melancholy green.
15
There cedars dark, the osier, and the pine,
Shorn tamarisks, and weeping willows grew,
The poplar tall, the lotos, and the lime,
And pyracantha did her leaves renew.60
16
The poppy there, companion to repose,
Display'd her blossoms that began to fall,
And here the purple amaranthus rose
With mint strong-scented, for the funeral.
17
And here and there with laurel shrubs between65
A tombstone lay, inscrib'd with strains of woe,
And stanzas sad, throughout the dismal green,
Lamented for the dead that slept below.
18
Peace to this awful dome!—when strait I heard
The voice of men in a secluded room,70
Much did they talk of death, and much of life,
Of coffins, shrouds, and horrors of a tomb.
19
Pathetic were their words, and well they aim'd
To explain the mystic paths of providence,
Learn'd were they all, but there remain'd not I75
To hear the upshot of their conference.
20
Meantime from an adjoining chamber came
Confused murmurings, half distinguish'd sounds,
And as I nearer drew, disputes arose
Of surgery, and remedies for wounds.80
21
Dull were their feuds, for they went on to talk
Of Anchylosis,[B] and the shoulder blade,
Os Femoris,[B] Trochanters[B]—and whate'er
Has been discuss'd by Cheselden or Meade:
[B] Anchylosis—a morbid contraction of the joints. Os Femoris—the thigh bone. Trochanters—two processes in the upper part of the thigh bone, otherwise called rotator major et minor, in which the tendons of many muscles terminate.—Freneau's notes.
22
And often each, to prove his notion true,85
Brought proofs from Galen or Hippocrates—
But fancy led me hence—and left them so,
Firm at their points of hardy No and Yes.
23
Then up three winding stairs my feet were brought
To a high chamber, hung with mourning sad,90
The unsnuff'd candles glar'd with visage dim,
'Midst grief, in ecstacy of woe run mad.
24
A wide leaf'd table stood on either side,
Well fraught with phials, half their liquids spent,
And from a couch, behind the curtain's veil,95
I heard a hollow voice of loud lament.
25
Turning to view the object whence it came,
My frighted eyes a horrid form survey'd;
Fancy, I own thy power—Death on the couch,
With fleshless limbs, at rueful length, was laid.100
26
And o'er his head flew jealousies and cares,
Ghosts, imps, and half the black Tartarian crew,
Arch-angels damn'd, nor was their Prince remote,
Borne on the vaporous wings of Stygian dew.
27
Around his bed, by the dull flambeaux' glare,105
I saw pale phantoms—Rage to madness vext,
Wan, wasting grief, and ever musing care,
Distressful pain, and poverty perplext.
28
Sad was his countenance, if we can call
That countenance, where only bones were seen110
And eyes sunk in their sockets, dark and low,
And teeth, that only show'd themselves to grin.
29
Reft was his scull of hair, and no fresh bloom
Of chearful mirth sate on his visage hoar:
Sometimes he rais'd his head, while deep-drawn groans115
Were mixt with words that did his fate deplore.
30
Oft did he wish to see the daylight spring,
And often toward the window lean'd to hear,
Fore-runner of the scarlet-mantled morn,
The early note of wakeful Chanticleer.120
31
Thus he—But at my hand a portly youth
Of comely countenance, began to tell,
"That this was Death upon his dying bed,
"Sullen, morose, and peevish to be well;
32
"Fixt is his doom—the miscreant reigns no more125
"The tyrant of the dying or the dead;
"This night concludes his all-consuming reign,
"Pour out, ye heav'ns, your vengeance on his head.
33
"But since, my friend (said he), chance leads you here,
"With me this night upon the sick attend,130
"You on this bed of death must watch, and I
"Will not be distant from the fretful fiend.
34
"Before he made this lofty pile his home,
"In undisturb'd repose I sweetly slept,
"But when he came to this sequester'd dome,135
"'Twas then my troubles came, and then I wept:
35
"Twice three long nights, in this sad chamber, I,
"As though a brother languish'd in despair,
"Have 'tended faithful round his gloomy bed,
"Have been content to breathe this loathsome air.140
36
"A while relieve the languors that I feel,
"Sleep's magic forces close my weary eyes;
"Soft o'er my soul unwonted slumbers steal,
"Aid the weak patient till you see me rise.
37
"But let no slumbers on your eye-lids fall,145
"That if he ask for powder or for pill
"You may be ready at the word to start,
"And still seem anxious to perform his will.
38
"The bleeding Saviour of a world undone
"Bade thy compassion rise toward thy foe;150
"Then, stranger, for the sake of Mary's son,
"Thy tears of pity on this wretch bestow.
39
"'Twas he that stole from my adoring arms
"Aspasia, she the loveliest of her kind,
"Lucretia's virtue, with a Helen's charms,155
"Charms of the face, and beauties of the mind.
40
"The blushy cheek, the lively, beaming eye,
"The ruby lip, the flowing jetty hair,
"The stature tall, the aspect so divine,
"All beauty, you would think, had center'd there.160
41
"Each future age her virtues shall extol,
"Nor the just tribute to her worth refuse;
"Fam'd, to the stars Urania bids her rise,
"Theme of the moral, and the tragic Muse.
42
"Sweet as the fragrance of the vernal morn,165
"Nipt in its bloom this faded flower I see;
"The inspiring angel from that breast is gone,
"And life's warm tide forever chill'd in thee!
43
"Such charms shall greet my longing soul no more,
"Her lively eyes are clos'd in endless shade,170
"Torpid, she rests on yonder marble floor;
"Approach, and see what havock Death has made.
44
"Yet, stranger, hold—her charms are so divine,
"Such tints of life still on her visage glow,
"That even in death this slumbering bride of mine175
"May seize thy heart, and make thee wretched too.
45
"O shun the sight—forbid thy trembling hand
"From her pale face to raise the enshrouding lawn,—
"Death claims thy care, obey his stern command,
"Trim the dull tapers, for I see no dawn!"180
46
So said, at Death's left side I sate me down,
The mourning youth toward his right reclin'd;
Death in the middle lay, with all his groans,
And much he toss'd and tumbled, sigh'd and pin'd.
47
But now this man of hell toward me turn'd,185
And strait, in hideous tone, began to speak;
Long held he sage discourse, but I forebore
To answer him, much less his news to seek.
48
He talk'd of tomb-stones and of monuments,
Of Equinoctial climes and India shores,190
He talk'd of stars that shed their influence,
Fevers and plagues, and all their noxious stores.
49
He mention'd, too, the guileful calenture,[C]
Tempting the sailor on the deep sea main,
That paints gay groves upon the ocean floor,195
Beckoning her victim to the faithless scene.
[C] Calenture—an inflammatory fever, attended with a delirium, common in long voyages at sea, in which the diseased persons fancy the sea to be green fields and meadows, and, if they are not hindered, will leap overboard.—Freneau's note.
50
Much spoke he of the myrtle and the yew,
Of ghosts that nightly walk the church-yard o'er,
Of storms that through the wint'ry ocean blow
And dash the well-mann'd galley on the shore,200
51
Of broad-mouth'd cannons, and the thunderbolt,
Of sieges and convulsions, dearth and fire,
Of poisonous weeds—but seem'd to sneer at these
Who by the laurel o'er him did aspire.
52
Then with a hollow voice thus went he on:205
"Get up, and search, and bring, when found, to me,
"Some cordial, potion, or some pleasant draught,
"Sweet, slumb'rous poppy, or the mild Bohea.
53
"But hark, my pitying friend!—and, if you can,
"Deceive the grim physician at the door—210
"Bring half the mountain springs—ah! hither bring
"The cold rock water from the shady bower.
54
"For till this night such thirst did ne'er invade,
"A thirst provok'd by heav'n's avenging hand;
"Hence bear me, friends, to quaff, and quaff again215
"The cool wave bubbling from the yellow sand.
55
"To these dark walls with stately step I came,
"Prepar'd your drugs and doses to defy;
"Smit with the love of never dying fame,
"I came, alas! to conquer—not to die!"220
56
Glad, from his side I sprang, and fetch'd the draught,
Which down his greedy throat he quickly swills,
Then on a second errand sent me strait,
To search in some dark corner for his pills.
57
Quoth he, "These pills have long compounded been,225
"Of dead men's bones and bitter roots, I trow;
"But that I may to wonted health return,
"Throughout my lank veins shall their substance go."
58
So down they went.—He rais'd his fainting head
And oft in feeble tone essay'd to talk;230
Quoth he, "Since remedies have small avail,
"Assist unhappy Death once more to walk."
59
Then slowly rising from his loathsome bed,
On wasted legs the meagre monster stood,
Gap'd wide, and foam'd, and hungry seem'd to ask,235
Tho' sick, an endless quantity of food.
60
Said he, "The sweet melodious flute prepare,
"The anthem, and the organ's solemn sound,
"Such as may strike my soul with ecstacy,
"Such as may from yon' lofty wall rebound.240
61
"Sweet music can the fiercest pains assuage,
"She bids the soul to heaven's blest mansions rise,
"She calms despair, controuls infernal rage
"And deepest anguish, when it hears her, dies.
62
"And see, the mizzling, misty midnight reigns,245
"And no soft dews are on my eye-lids sent!—
"Here, stranger, lend thy hand; assist me, pray,
"To walk a circuit of no large extent."—
63
On my prest shoulders leaning, round he went,
And could have made the boldest spectre flee,250
I led him up stairs, and I led him down,
But not one moment's rest from pain got he.
64
Then with his dart, its cusp unpointed now,
Thrice with main strength he smote the trembling floor;
The roof resounded to the fearful blow,255
And Cleon started, doom'd to sleep no more.
65
When thus spoke Death, impatient of controul,
"Quick, move, and bring from yonder black bureau
"The sacred book that may preserve my soul
"From long damnation, and eternal woe.260
66
"And with it bring—for you may find them there,
"The works of holy authors, dead and gone,
"The sacred tome of moving Drelincourt,
"Or what more solemn Sherlock mus'd upon:
67
"And read, my Cleon, what these sages say,265
"And what the sacred Penman hath declar'd,
"That when the wicked leaves his odious way,
"His sins shall vanish, and his soul be spar'd."
68
But he, unmindful of the vain command,
Reason'd with Death, nor were his reasonings few:270
Quoth he—"My Lord, what frenzy moves your brain,
"Pray, what, my Lord, can Sherlock be to you,
69
"Or all the sage divines that ever wrote,
"Grave Drelincourt, or heaven's unerring page;
"These point their arrows at your hostile breast,275
"And raise new pains that time must ne'er assuage.
70
"And why should thus thy woe disturb my rest?
"Much of Theology I once did read,
"And there 'tis fixt, sure as my God is so,
"That Death shall perish, tho' a God should bleed.280
71
"The martyr, doom'd the pangs of fire to feel,
"Lives but a moment in the sultry blast;
"The victim groans, and dies beneath the steel,
"But thy severer pains shall always last.
72
"O miscreant vile, thy age has made thee doat—285
"If peace, if sacred peace were found for you,
"Hell would cry out, and all the damn'd arise
"And, more deserving, seek for pity too.
73
"Seek not for Paradise—'tis not for thee,
"Where high in heaven its sweetest blossoms blow,290
"Nor even where, gliding to the Persian main,
"Thy waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow!
74
"Bloody has been thy reign, O man of hell,
"Who sympathiz'd with no departing groan;
"Cruel wast thou, and hardly dost deserve295
"To have Hic Jacet stampt upon thy stone.
75
"He that could build his mansion o'er the tombs,
"Depending still on sickness and decay,
"May dwell unmov'd amidst these drowsier glooms,
"May laugh the dullest of these shades away.300
76
"Remember how with unrelenting ire
"You tore the infant from the unwilling breast—
"Aspasia fell, and Cleon must expire,
"Doom'd by the impartial God to endless rest:
77
"In vain with stars he deck'd yon' spangled skies,305
"And bade the mind to heaven's bright regions soar,
"And brought so far to my admiring eyes
"A glimpse of glories that shall blaze no more!
78
"Even now, to glut thy devilish wrath, I see
"From eastern realms a wasteful army rise:310
"Why else those lights that tremble in the north?
"Why else yon' comet blazing through the skies?
79
"Rejoice, O fiend; Britannia's tyrant sends
"From German plains his myriads to our shore.
"The fierce Hibernian with the Briton join'd—315
"Bring them, ye winds!—but waft them back no more.
80
"To you, alas! the fates in wrath deny
"The comforts to our parting moments due,
"And leave you here to languish and to die,
"Your crimes too many, and your tears too few.320
81
"No cheering voice to thee shall cry, Repent!
"As once it echoed through the wilderness—
"No patron died for thee—damn'd, damn'd art thou
"Like all the devils, nor one jot the less.
82
"A gloomy land, with sullen skies is thine,325
"Where never rose or amaranthus grow,
"No daffodils, nor comely columbine,
"No hyacinths nor asphodels for you.
83
"The barren trees that flourish on the shore
"With leaves or fruit were never seen to bend,330
"O'er languid waves unblossom'd branches hang,
"And every branch sustains some vagrant fiend.
84
"And now no more remains, but to prepare
"To take possession of thy punishment;
"That's thy inheritance, that thy domain,335
"A land of bitter woe, and loud lament.
85
"And oh that He, who spread the universe,
"Would cast one pitying glance on thee below!
"Millions of years in torments thou might'st fry,
"But thy eternity!—who can conceive its woe!"340
86
He heard, and round with his black eye-balls gaz'd,
Full of despair, and curs'd, and rav'd, and swore:
"And since this is my doom," said he, "call up
"Your wood-mechanics to my chamber door:
87
"Blame not on me the ravage to be made;345
"Proclaim,—even Death abhors such woe to see;
"I'll quit the world, while decently I can,
"And leave the work to George my deputy."
88
Up rush'd a band, with compasses and scales
To measure his slim carcase, long and lean—350
"Be sure," said he, "to frame my coffin strong,
"You, master workman, and your men, I mean:
89
"For if the Devil, so late my trusty friend,
"Should get one hint where I am laid, from you,
"Not with my soul content, he'd seek to find355
"That mouldering mass of bones, my body, too!
90
"Of hardest ebon let the plank be found,
"With clamps and ponderous bars secur'd around,
"That if the box by Satan should be storm'd,
"It may be able for resistance found."360
91
"Yes," said the master workman, "noble Death,
"Your coffin shall be strong—that leave to me—
"But who shall these your funeral dues discharge?
"Nor friends nor pence you have, that I can see."
92
To this said Death—"You might have ask'd me, too,365
"Base caitiff, who are my executors,
"Where my estate, and who the men that shall
"Partake my substance, and be call'd my heirs.
93
"Know, then, that hell is my inheritance,
"The devil himself my funeral dues must pay—370
"Go—since you must be paid—go, ask of him,
"For he has gold, as fabling poets say."
94
Strait they retir'd—when thus he gave me charge,
Pointing from the light window to the west,
"Go three miles o'er the plain, and you shall see375
"A burying-yard of sinners dead, unblest.
95
"Amid the graves a spiry building stands
"Whose solemn knell resounding through the gloom
"Shall call thee o'er the circumjacent lands
"To the dull mansion destin'd for my tomb.380
96
"There, since 'tis dark, I'll plant a glimmering light
"Just snatch'd from hell, by whose reflected beams
"Thou shalt behold a tomb-stone, full eight feet,
"Fast by a grave, replete with ghosts and dreams.
97
"And on that stone engrave this epitaph,385
"Since Death, it seems, must die like mortal men;
"Yes—on that stone engrave this epitaph,
"Though all hell's furies aim to snatch the pen.
98
"Death in this tomb his weary bones hath laid,
"Sick of dominion o'er the human kind—390
"Behold what devastations he hath made,
"Survey the millions by his arm confin'd.
99
"Six thousand years has sovereign sway been mine,
"None, but myself, can real glory claim;
"Great Regent of the world I reign'd alone,395
"And princes trembled when my mandate came.
100
"Vast and unmatch'd throughout the world, my fame
"Takes place of gods, and asks no mortal date—
"No; by myself, and by the heavens, I swear,
"Not Alexander's name is half so great.400
101
"Nor swords nor darts my prowess could withstand,
"All quit their arms, and bowd to my decree,
"Even mighty Julius died beneath my hand,
"For slaves and Cæsars were the same to me!
102
"Traveller, wouldst thou his noblest trophies seek,405
"Search in no narrow spot obscure for those;
"The sea profound, the surface of all land
"Is moulded with the myriads of his foes."
103
Scarce had he spoke, when on the lofty dome
Rush'd from the clouds a hoarse resounding blast—410
Round the four eaves so loud and sad it play'd
As though all musick were to breathe its last.
104
Warm was the gale, and such as travellers say
Sport with the winds on Zaara's barren waste;
Black was the sky, a mourning carpet spread,415
Its azure blotted, and its stars o'ercast!
105
Lights in the air like burning stars were hurl'd,
Dogs howl'd, heaven mutter'd, and the tempest blew,
The red half-moon peeped from behind a cloud
As if in dread the amazing scene to view.420
106
The mournful trees that in the garden stood
Bent to the tempest as it rush'd along,
The elm, the myrtle, and the cypress sad
More melancholy tun'd its bellowing song.
107
No more that elm its noble branches spread,425
The yew, the cypress, or the myrtle tree,
Rent from the roots the tempest tore them down,
And all the grove in wild confusion lay.
108
Yet, mindful of his dread command, I part
Glad from the magic dome—nor found relief;430
Damps from the dead hung heavier round my heart,
While sad remembrance rous'd her stores of grief.
109
O'er a dark field I held my dubious way
Where Jack-a-lanthorn walk'd his lonely round,
Beneath my feet substantial darkness lay,435
And screams were heard from the distemper'd ground.
110
Nor look'd I back, till to a far off wood,
Trembling with fear, my weary feet had sped—
Dark was the night, but at the inchanted dome
I saw the infernal windows flaming red.440
111
And from within the howls of Death I heard,
Cursing the dismal night that gave him birth,
Damning his ancient sire, and mother sin,
Who at the gates of hell, accursed, brought him forth.
112
[For fancy gave to my enraptur'd soul445
An eagle's eye, with keenest glance to see,
And bade those distant sounds distinctly roll,
Which, waking, never had affected me.]
113
Oft his pale breast with cruel hand he smote,
And tearing from his limbs a winding sheet,450
Roar'd to the black skies, while the woods around,
As wicked as himself, his words repeat.
114
Thrice tow'rd the skies his meagre arms he rear'd,
Invok'd all hell, and thunders on his head,
Bid light'nings fly, earth yawn, and tempests roar,455
And the sea wrap him in its oozy bed.
115
"My life for one cool draught!—O, fetch your springs,
"Can one unfeeling to my woes be found!
"No friendly visage comes to my relief,
"But ghosts impend, and spectres hover round.460
116
"Though humbled now, dishearten'd and distrest,
"Yet, when admitted to the peaceful ground,
"With heroes, kings, and conquerors I shall rest,
"Shall sleep as safely, and perhaps as sound."
117
Dim burnt the lamp, and now the phantom Death465
Gave his last groans in horror and despair—
"All hell demands me hence,"—he said, and threw
The red lamp hissing through the midnight air.
118
Trembling, across the plain my course I held,
And found the grave-yard, loitering through the gloom,470
And, in the midst, a hell-red, wandering light,
Walking in fiery circles round the tomb.
119
Among the graves a spiry building stood,
Whose tolling bell, resounding through the shade,
Sung doleful ditties to the adjacent wood,475
And many a dismal drowsy thing it said.
120
This fabrick tall, with towers and chancels grac'd,
Was rais'd by sinners' hands, in ages fled;
The roof they painted, and the beams they brac'd,
And texts from scripture o'er the walls they spread:480
121
But wicked were their hearts, for they refus'd
To aid the helpless orphan, when distrest,
The shivering, naked stranger they mis-us'd,
And banish'd from their doors the starving guest.
122
By laws protected, cruel and prophane,485
The poor man's ox these monsters drove away;—
And left Distress to attend her infant train,
No friend to comfort, and no bread to stay.
123
But heaven look'd on with keen, resentful eye,
And doom'd them to perdition and the grave,490
That as they felt not for the wretch distrest,
So heaven no pity on their souls would have.
124
In pride they rais'd this building tall and fair,
Their hearts were on perpetual mischief bent,
With pride they preach'd, and pride was in their prayer,495
With pride they were deceiv'd, and so to hell they went.
125
At distance far approaching to the tomb,
By lamps and lanthorns guided through the shade,
A coal-black chariot hurried through the gloom,
Spectres attending, in black weeds array'd,500
126
Whose woeful forms yet chill my soul with dread,
Each wore a vest in Stygian chambers wove,
Death's kindred all—Death's horses they bestrode,
And gallop'd fiercely, as the chariot drove.
127
Each horrid face a grizly mask conceal'd,505
Their busy eyes shot terror to my soul
As now and then, by the pale lanthorn's glare,
I saw them for their parted friend condole.
128
Before the hearse Death's chaplain seem'd to go,
Who strove to comfort, what he could, the dead;510
Talk'd much of Satan, and the land of woe,
And many a chapter from the scriptures read.
129
At last he rais'd the swelling anthem high,
In dismal numbers seem'd he to complain;
The captive tribes that by Euphrates wept,515
Their song was jovial to his dreary strain.
130
That done, they plac'd the carcase in the tomb,
To dust and dull oblivion now resign'd,
Then turn'd the chariot tow'rd the House of Night,
Which soon flew off, and left no trace behind.520
131
But as I stoop'd to write the appointed verse,
Swifter than thought the airy scene decay'd;
Blushing the morn arose, and from the east
With her gay streams of light dispell'd the shade.
132
What is this Death, ye deep read sophists, say?—525
Death is no more than one unceasing change;
New forms arise, while other forms decay,
Yet all is Life throughout creation's range.
133
The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine,
The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow,530
The Apalachian and the Ararat
Sooner or later must to ruin go.
134
Hills sink to plains, and man returns to dust,
That dust supports a reptile or a flower;
Each changeful atom by some other nurs'd535
Takes some new form, to perish in an hour.
135
Too nearly join'd to sickness, toils, and pains,
(Perhaps for former crimes imprison'd here)
True to itself the immortal soul remains,
And seeks new mansions in the starry sphere.540
136
When Nature bids thee from the world retire,
With joy thy lodging leave, a fated guest;
In Paradise, the land of thy desire,
Existing always, always to be blest.
[157] The text is from the edition of 1786, which contains the only complete version. The poem was first published in the August number of The United States Magazine, 1779, which also contained the following note: "'The House of Night', a poem in the present number of the Magazine, is from a young gentleman who has favoured us with several original pieces in the course of this work; and readers of taste will no doubt be pleased with it, as perfectly original both in the design and manner of it." It bore the title "The House of Night; or, Six Hours Lodging with Death, A Vision," and the quotation:
"Felix qui potiut rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorable Fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari.
Virg. Georg. II., v. 490."
As printed in the magazine it consisted of seventy-three stanzas, which coincide with the following numbers of the 1786 edition: 3, 4, 6-10, 12, 14, 18, 20-26, 28, 29, 31, 32, 47-54, 58, 59, 65, 66, 68, 69, 72, 74, 75, 78, 79, 86, 87, 94, 96-100, 102-106, 111, 113-115, 117, 118, 125-127, 130, 131. Following are the variations:
Line 10, "eternal light"; 11, "a deeper scene"; 21, "the mind cannot recall"; 23, "where Chesapeque's deep rivers upward flow"; 25, "Though then the woods, in fairest vernal bloom"; 28, "childless tree"; 29, "a friendly star"; 35, "Hoarse roaring wolves, and nightly roving bears"; 37, "Fierce from the loudly sounding Chesapeque"; 45, 46, "When to my view a pile of buildings stood, And near, a garden of autumnal hue"; 55, "The yew, the willow"; 69, "Peace to those buildings; when at once I heard"; 70, "in a remoter dome"; 77, "a superior chamber"; 78, "Confused murmurs, scarce distinguish'd sounds"; 81, "Long were their feuds, for they design'd to talk"; 95, "And from a bed behind a curtain veil"; 97, "Turning to view from whence the murmur came"; 99, "Death, dreary death, upon the gloomy couch"; 100, "in rueful form"; 101, "High o'er his head"; 109, 110, "Sad was his aspect, if we so can call, That aspect where but skin and bones were seen"; 111, "deep and low"; 121, 122, "Then at my hand I saw a comely youth, Of port majestic, who began to tell"; 126, "The monarch"; 127, "melancholy reign"; 185, "the man"; 186, "with frightful tone"; 188, "To answer, and"; 192, "their sickly stores"; 194, "the placid main"; 195, "fine groves"; 196, "Beckoning his footsteps"; 198, "The summer winds, and of the church-yard hoar"; 202, "Of fevers and contagions"; 206, "Arise, make search"; 229, 230, "But now refresh'd, the phantoms rais'd his head, And writhing, seem'd to aim once more to talk"; 232, "expiring death"; 234, "the monstrous spectre"; 257, "Now to the anxious youth his speech he turn'd"; 274, "inspired page"; 275, "harden'd breast"; 285, "Wicked old man"; 295, 296, "nor dost thou now deserve To have 'here lies' engrav'd"; 299, 300, "Might dwell unmov'd amidst November's glooms, And laugh the dullest of his shades away"; 309, "thy savage rage"; 310, "a bloody army"; 315, "The Caledonian with the Albion join'd." Here in the 1779 version occur the following stanzas:
"Why runs thy stream dejected to the main,
O Hudson, Hudson, dreary, dull and slow?
Seek me no more along that mountain stream,
For on his banks is heard the sound of woe.
Sword, famine, thirst, and pining sickness there,
Shall people half the realms this monster owns;
He like the cruel foe, accursed he,
Laughs at our pains, rejoices in our groans.
Now wilt you tremble if you hear your fate,
Out of the dread Apocalypse your doom,
That death and hell must perish in the lake
Of fire, dispelling half hell's ancient gloom."
341, "black optics"; 348, "And leave the business to some deputy"; 373, "Now thus the drooping victim gave me charge"; 381, "A quivering light"; 383, "by whose far glimmering beams"; 384, "arrayed with ghosts"; 388, "furies snatch the engraving pen"; 390-392,
"Tir'd of his long continued victory:
What glory can there be to vanquish those
Who all beneath his stroke are sure to die?"
398, "Is borne secure, and rides aloft in state"; 399, "No, the stars"; 410, "Burst from the skies the fury of a blast"; 411, "Round the four eaves"; 414, "Sport with the sands"; 417, "Lights through the air like blazing stars"; 420, "As if afraid the fearful"; 424, "its dreary song"; 441, "Now from within"; 451, "Roar'd like a devil; while the woods around"; 458-460,
"Haste, seize the wretch who my request denies.
Tophet receive him to thy lowest pit,
Chain'd midst eternal oaths and blasphemies."
470, "And found the cœmetery in the gloom"; 471, "a hell-red waving light"; 472, "horrid circles"; 497, 498, "to the grave"; 499, 500, "A sable chariot drove with wild career, And following close a gloomy cavalcade"; 501, "Whose spectre forms"; 502, "by Pluto's consort wove"; 507, "lanthorn's beam"; 517, "Now deep was plac'd"; 520, "The sable steeds went swifter than the wind"; 523, 524, "Blooming the morn arose, and in the east Stalk'd gallantly in her sun-beam parade." The poem closes in the 1779 version with the following stanzas:
"Waking I found my weary night a dream;
Dreams are perhaps forebodings of the soul;
Learn'd sages tell why all these whims arose,
And from what source such mystic visions roll.
Do they portend approaching death, which tells
I soon must hence my darksome journey go?
Sweet Cherub Hope! Dispel the clouded dream
Sweet Cherub Hope, man's guardian god below.
Stranger, who'er thou art, who this shall read,
Say does thy nightly fancy rove like mine;
Transport thee o'er wide lands and wider seas
Now underneath the pole and now the burning line?
Poet, who thus dost rove, say, shall thou fear
New Jordan's stream prefigured by the old?
It will but waft thee where thy fathers are
The bards with long eternity enroll'd.
It will but waft thee where thy Homer shrouds
His laurell'd head in some Elysian grove,
And on whose skirts perhaps in future years,
At awful distance you and I may rove.
Enough—when God and nature give the word,
I'll tempt the dusky shore and narrow sea:
Content to die, just as it be decreed,
At four score years, or now at twenty-three."
In the edition of 1795, Freneau used only stanzas 3-17, 119-124 of the poem, giving it the title "The Vision of the Night. A Fragment." In this there are some sixteen variations from the earlier text, nearly all minor verbal changes not always for the better. Several, however, are significant, for instance, line 12 is made to read, "I sing the horrors and the shades of night"; line 32 is changed to "with her ebon spear"; line 478 to "raised by churchmen's hands"; and 480 to "texts from Moses."
The poet used the 1786 edition as a sort of quarry for his later editions. He used thirteen stanzas for "The Sexton's Sermon," q.v.; stanzas 39-43 were reprinted in the 1809 edition in connection with stanzas 35-38 of "Santa Cruz" and entitled "Elegiac Lines"; stanza 79 became stanza one and 55 stanza two of the "Hessian Embarkation," and stanza 49 was inserted after stanza 90 of the 1809 version of "Santa Cruz."
THE JAMAICA FUNERAL[158]
1776
1
Alcander died—the rich, the great, the brave;
Even such must yield to heaven's severe decree,
Death, still at hand, conducts us to the grave,
And humbles monarchs as he humbled thee.
2
When, lingering, to his end Alcander drew,
Officious friends besieg'd his lofty door,
Impatient they the dying man to view
And touch that hand they soon must touch no more.
3
"Alas, he's gone!" the sad attendants cry,
Fled is the breath that never shall return—
"Alas! he's gone!" his tearful friends reply,
"Spread the dark crape, and round his pale corpse mourn.
4
"Ye that attend the pompous funeral, due,
"In sable vestments let your limbs be clad,
"For vulgar deaths a common sorrow shew,
"But costly griefs are for the wealthy dead.
5
"Prepare the blessings of the generous vine,
"Let bulls and oxen groan beneath the steel,
"Throughout the board let choicest dainties shine,
"To every guest a generous portion deal."
6
A mighty crowd approach'd the mourning dome,
Some came to hear the sermon and the prayer,
Some came to shun Xantippe's voice at home,
And some with Bacchus to relieve their care.
7
A Levite came, and sigh'd among the rest,
A rusty band and tatter'd gown he wore,
His leaves he tumbled, and the house he blest,
And conn'd his future sermon o'er and o'er.
8
And oft a glance he cast towards the wine
That briskly sparkled in the glassy vase,
And often drank, and often wish'd to dine,
And red as Phœbus glow'd his sultry face.
9
Much did he chatter, and on various themes,
He publish'd news that came from foreign climes,
He told his jests, and told his last year's dreams,
And quoted dull stuff from lord Wilmot's rhymes.
10
And dunn'd the mourners for his parish dues
With face of brass, and scrutinizing eye,
And threaten'd law-suits if they dar'd refuse
To pay his honest earnings punctually.
11
An honest sire, who came in luckless hour
To hear the sermon and to see the dead,
Presuming on this consecrated hour,
Ventur'd to check the parson on that head.
12
Quoth he, "My priest, such conduct is not fit,
"For other speech this solemn hour demands:
"What if your parish owes its annual debt,
"Your parish ready to discharge it stands."
13
No more he said—for charg'd with wounds and pain,
The parson's staff, like Jove's own lightning, flew,
Which cleft his jaw-bone and his cheek in twain,
And from their sockets half his grinders drew.
14
Nor less deceas'd some moments lay the sire
Than if from heav'n the forked lightnings thrown
Had pierc'd him with their instantaneous fire,
And sent him smoking to the world unknown.
15
At last he mov'd, and, weltering in his gore.
Thus did the rueful, wounded victim say,
"Convey me hence—so bloody and so sore
"I cannot wait to hear the parson pray;
16
"And if I did, what pleasure could be mine—
"Can he allure me to the world of bliss—
"Can he present me at the heavenly shrine
"Who breaks my bones, and knocks me down in this?
17
"The scripture says—the text I well recall—
"A Priest or Bishop must no striker be,
"Then how can such a wicked priest but fall,
"Who at a funeral thus has murdered me?"
18
Thus he—But now the sumptuous dinner came,
The Levite; boldly seiz'd the nobler place,
Beside him sate the woe-struck widow'd dame,
Who help'd him drain the brimful china vase.
19
Which now renew'd, he drank that ocean too,
Like Polypheme, the boon Ulysses gave;
Another came, nor did another do,
For still another did the monster crave.
20
With far-fetch'd dainties he regal'd his maw,
And prais'd the various meats that crown'd the board:
On tender capons did the glutton gnaw,
And well his platter with profusion stor'd.
21
But spoke no words of grace—I mark'd him well,
I fix'd my eye upon his brazen brow—
He look'd like Satan aiming to rebel,
Such pride and madness were his inmates now.
22
But not contented with this hectoring priest,
Sick of his nonsense, softly I withdrew,
And at a calmer table shar'd the feast,
To sorrow sacred, and to friendship due.
23
Which now atchiev'd, the tolling bell remote
Summon'd the living and the dead to come,
And through the dying sea-breeze swell'd the note,
Dull on the ear, and lengthening through the gloom.
24
The bier was brought, the costly coffin laid,
And prayers were mutter'd in a doleful tone,
While the sad pall, above the body spread,
From many a tender breast drew many a groan.
25
The Levite, too, some tears of Bacchus shed—
Reeling before the long procession, he
Strode like a general at his army's head,
His gown in tatters, and his wig—ah me!
26
The words of faith in both his hands he bore,
Prayers, cut and dry, by ancient prelates made,
Who, bigots while they liv'd, could do no more
Than leave them still by bigots to be said.
27
But he admir'd them all!—he read with joy
St. Athanasius in his thundering creed,
And curs'd the men whom Satan did employ
To make King Charles, that heav'n-born martyr, bleed.
28
At last they reach'd the spiry building high,
And soon they enter'd at the eastern gate—
The parson said his prayers most learnedly,
And mutter'd more than memory can relate.
29
Then through the temple's lengthy aisles they went,
Approaching still the pulpit's painted door,
From whence, on Sundays, many a vow was sent,
And sermons plunder'd from some prelate's store.
30
Here, as of right, the priest prepar'd to rise,
And leave the corpse and gaping crowd below,
Like sultry Phœbus glar'd his flaming eyes,
Less fierce the stars of Greenland evenings glow.
31
Up to the pulpit strode he with an air,
And from the Preacher thus his text he read:
"More I esteem, and better is by far
"A dog existing than a lion dead.
32
"Go, eat thy dainties with a joyful heart,
"And quaff thy wine with undissembled glee,
"For he who did these heavenly gifts impart
"Accepts thy prayers, thy gifts, thy vows, and thee."
The Sermon
33
These truths, my friends, congenial to my soul,
Demand a faithful and attentive ear—
No longer for your 'parted friend condole,
No longer shed the tributary tear.
34
Curs'd be the sobs, these useless floods of woe
That vainly flow for the departed dead—
If doom'd to wander on the coasts below,
What are to him these seas of grief you shed?
35
If heaven in pleasure doth his hours employ—
If sighs and sorrows reach a place like this,
They blast his glories, and they damp his joy,
They make him wretched in the midst of bliss.
36
And can you yet—and here he smote his breast—
And can you yet bemoan that torpid mass
Which now for death and desolation drest,
Prepares the deep gulph of the grave to pass.
37
You fondly mourn—I mourn Alcander too,
Alcander late the living, not the dead;
His casks I broach'd, his liquors once I drew,
And freely there on choicest dainties fed.
38
But vanish'd are they now!—no more he calls,
No more invites me to his plenteous board;
No more I caper at his splendid balls,
Or drain his cellars, with profusion stor'd.
39
Then why, my friends, for yonder senseless clay,
That ne'er again befriends me, should I mourn?
Yon' simple slaves that through the cane-lands stray
Are more to me than monarchs in the urn.
40
The joys of wine, immortal as my theme,
To days of bliss the aspiring soul invite;
Life, void of this, a punishment I deem,
A Greenland winter, without heat or light.
41
Count all the trees that crown Jamaica's hills,
Count all the stars that through the heavens you see.
Count every drop that the wide ocean fills;
Then count the pleasures Bacchus yields to me.
42
The aids of wine for toiling man were meant;
I prize the smiling Caribbean bowl—
Enjoy those gifts that bounteous nature lent,
Death to thy cares, refreshing to the soul.
43
Here fixt to-day in plenty's smiling vales,
Just as the month revolves we laugh or groan,
September comes, seas swell with horrid gales,
And old Port Royal's fate may be our own.
44
A few short years, at best, will bound our span,
Wretched and few, the Hebrew exile said;
Live while you may, be jovial while you can,
Death as a debt to nature must be paid.
45
When nature fails, the man exists no more,
And death is nothing but an empty name,
Spleen's genuine offspring at the midnight hour,
The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream.
46
You ask me where these mighty hosts have fled,
That once existed on this changeful ball?—
If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,
Where, ere their birth they were, they now are all.[A]
"Quæris, quo jaceas post obitum loco?—
Quo non nata jacent."—Senec. Troas.—Freneau's note.
47
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 darkness all return again.
48
Then envy not, ye sages too precise,
The drop from life's gay tree, that damps our woe,
Noah himself, the wary and the wise,
A vineyard planted, and the vines did grow:
49
Of social soul was he—the grape he press'd,
And drank the juice oblivious to his care;
Sorrow he banish'd from his place of rest,
And sighs and sobbing had no entrance there.
50
Such bliss be ours through every changing scene;
The glowing face bespeaks the glowing heart;
If heaven be joy, wine is to heaven a-kin,
Since wine, on earth, can heavenly joys impart.
51
Mere glow-worms are we all, a moment shine;
I, like the rest, in giddy circles run,
And Grief shall say, when I this life resign,
"His glass is empty, and his frolics done!"
52
He said, and ceas'd—the funeral anthem then
From the deep choir and hoarse-ton'd organ came;
Such are the honours paid to wealthy men,
But who for Irus would attempt the same?
53
Now from the church returning, as they went,
Again they reach'd Alcander's painted hall,
Their sighs concluded, and their sorrows spent,
They to oblivion gave the Funeral.
54
The holy man, by bishops holy made,
Tun'd up to harmony his trembling strings,
To various songs in various notes he play'd,
And, as he plays, as gallantly he sings.
55
The widow'd dame, less pensive than before,
To sprightly tunes as sprightly did advance,
Her lost Alcander scarce remember'd more;
And thus the funeral ended in a dance.
[158] As far as I can discover, this poem occurs only in the edition of 1786. Freneau seems deliberately to have abandoned it after this edition. A few stanzas from this poem are scattered through the poem entitled "The Sexton's Sermon," q.v. Stanza 43 was inserted after stanza 15 of the later versions of "Santa Cruz."
THE BEAUTIES OF SANTA CRUZ[A][159]
1776
Sweet orange grove, the fairest of the isle,
In thy soft shade luxuriously reclin'd,
Where, round my fragrant bed, the flowrets smile,
In sweet delusions I deceive my mind.
But Melancholy's glooms assail my breast,
For potent nature reigns despotic here;—
A nation ruin'd, and a world oppress'd,
Might rob the boldest Stoic of a tear.
[A] Or St. Croix, a Danish island (in the American Archipelago), commonly, tho' erroneously included in the cluster of the Virgin Islands; belonging to the crown of Denmark.—Freneau's note [Ed. 1809].
1
Sick of thy northern glooms, come, shepherd, seek
More equal climes, and a serener sky:
Why shouldst thou toil amid thy frozen ground,
Where half year's snows, a barren prospect lie,
2
When thou mayst go where never frost was seen,
Or north-west winds with cutting fury blow,
Where never ice congeal'd the limpid stream,
Where never mountain tipt its head with snow?
3
Twice seven days prosperous gales thy barque shall bear
To isles that flourish in perpetual green,
Where richest herbage glads each shady vale,
And ever verdant plants on every hill are seen.
4
Nor dread the dangers of the billowy deep,
Autumnal winds shall safely waft thee o'er;
Put off the timid heart, or, man unblest,
Ne'er shalt thou reach this gay enchanting shore.
5
Thus Judah's tribes beheld the promis'd land,
While Jordan's angry waters swell'd between;
Thus trembling on the brink I see them stand,
Heav'n's type in view, the Canaanitish green.
6
Thus, some mean souls, in spite of age and care,
Are so united to this globe below,
They never wish to cross death's dusky main,
That parting them and happiness doth flow.
7
Though reason's voice might whisper to the soul
That nobler climes for man the gods design—
Come, shepherd, haste—the northern breezes blow,
No more the slumbering winds thy barque confine.
8
From the vast caverns of old ocean's bed,
Fair Santa Cruz, arising, laves her waist,
The threat'ning waters roar on every side,
For every side by ocean is embrac'd.
9
Sharp, craggy rocks repel the surging brine,
Whose cavern'd sides by restless billows wore,
Resemblance claim to that remoter isle [Eolia
Where once the winds' proud lord the sceptre bore.
10
Betwixt old Cancer and the mid-way line,
In happiest climate lies this envied isle,
Trees bloom throughout the year, streams ever flow,
And fragrant Flora wears a lasting smile.
11
Cool, woodland streams from shaded clifts descend,
The dripping rock no want of moisture knows,
Supply'd by springs that on the skies depend,
That fountain feeding as the current flows.
12
Such were the isles which happy Flaccus sung,
Where one tree blossoms while another bears,
Where spring forever gay, and ever young,
Walks her gay round through her unwearied years.
13
Such were the climes which youthful Eden saw
Ere crossing fates destroy'd her golden reign—
Reflect upon thy loss, unhappy man,
And seek the vales of Paradise again.
14
No lowering skies are here—the neighbouring sun
Clear and unveil'd, his brilliant journey goes,
Each morn emerging from the ambient main,
And sinking there each evening to repose.
15
In June's fair month the spangled traveller gains
The utmost limits of his northern way,
And blesses with his beams cold lands remote,
Sad Greenland's coast, and Hudson's frozen bay.
16
The shivering swains of those unhappy climes
Behold the side-way monarch through the trees,
We feel his fiercer heat, his vertic beams,
Temper'd with cooling winds and trade-wind breeze.
17
Yet, though so near heav'n's blazing lamp doth run,
We court the beam that sheds the golden day,
And hence are called the children of the sun,
Who, without fainting, bear his downward ray.
18
No threatening tides upon our island rise,
Gay Cynthia scarce disturbs the ocean here,
No waves approach her orb, and she, as kind,
Attracts no water to her silver sphere.
19
The happy waters boast, of various kinds,
Unnumber'd myriads of the scaly race,
Sportive they glide above the delug'd sand,
Gay as their clime, in ocean's ample vase.
20
Some streak'd with burnish'd gold, resplendent glare,
Some cleave the limpid deep, all silver'd o'er,
Some, clad in living green, delight the eye,
Some red, some blue; of mingled colours more.
21
Here glides the spangled Dolphin through the deep,
The giant-carcas'd whales at distance stray.
The huge green turtles wallow through the wave,
Well pleas'd alike with land or water, they.
22
The Rainbow cuts the deep, of varied green,
The well fed Grouper lurks remote, below,
The swift Bonetta coasts the watry scene,
The diamond coated Angels kindle as they go.
23
Delicious to the taste, salubrious food,
Which might some temperate studious sage allure
To curse the fare of his abstemious school,
And turn, for once, a cheerful Epicure.
24
Unhurt, may'st thou this luscious food enjoy,
To fulness feast upon the scaly kind;
These, well selected from a thousand more,
Delight the taste, and leave no plague behind.
25
Nor think Hygeia[B] is a stranger here;
To sensual souls the climate may fatal prove,
Anguish and death attend, and pain severe,
The midnight revel, and licentious love.
[B] Goddess of Health.—Freneau's note.
26
Full many a swain, in youth's serenest bloom,
Is borne untimely to this alien clay,
Constrain'd to slumber in a foreign tomb,
Far from his friends, his country far away.
27
Yet, if devoted to a sensual soul,
If fondly their own ruin they create,
These victims to the banquet and the bowl
Must blame their folly only, not their fate.
28
But thou, who first drew breath in northern air,
At early dawn ascend the sloping hills,
And oft' at noon to lime tree shades repair,
Where some soft stream from neighbouring groves distils.
29
And with it mix the liquid of the lime,
The old ag'd essence of the generous cane,
And sweetest syrups of this liquorish clime,
And drink, to cool thy thirst, and drink again.
30
This happy beverage, joy inspiring bowl,
Dispelling far the shades of mental night,
Wakes bright ideas on the raptur'd soul,
And sorrow turns to pleasure and delight.
31
Sweet verdant isle, through thy dark woods I rove,
And learn the nature of each native tree,
The fustick hard, the poisonous manchineel,
Which for its fragrant apple pleaseth thee:
32
Alluring to the smell, fair to the eye,
But deadliest poison in the taste is found—
O shun the dangerous tree, nor taste, like Eve,
This interdicted fruit in Eden's ground.
33
The lowly mangrove, fond of watry soil,
The white bark'd gregory, rising high in air,
The mastick in the woods you may descry,
Tamarind, and lofty plumb-trees flourish there.
34
Sweet orange groves in lonely vallies rise
And drop their fruits, unnotic'd and unknown,
And cooling acid limes in hedges grow,
The juicy lemons swell in shades their own.
35
Once in these groves divine Aurelia stray'd!—
Then, conscious nature, smiling, look'd more gay;
But soon she left the dear delightful shade,
The shade, neglected, droops and dies away,
36
And pines for her return, but pines in vain,
In distant isles belov'd Aurelia died,
Pride of the plains, ador'd by every swain,
Sweet warbler of the woods, and of the woods the pride.
37
Philander early left this rural maid,
Nor yet return'd, by fate compell'd to roam,
But absent from the heavenly girl he stray'd,
Her charms forgot, forgot his native home.
38
O fate severe, to seize the nymph so soon,
The nymph, for whom a thousand shepherds sigh,
And in the space of one revolving moon
To doom the fair one and her swain to die!
39
Sweet, spungy plumbs on trees wide spreading hang,
Bell-apples here, suspended, shade the ground,
Plump grenadilloes and güavas grey,
With melons in each plain and lawn abound.
40
The conic form'd cashew, of juicy kind,
Which bears at once an apple and a nut;
Whose poisonous coat, indignant to the lip,
Doth in its cell a wholesome kernel shut.
41
The prince of fruits, whom some jayama call,
Anana some, the happy flavour'd pine;
In which unite the tastes and juices all
Of apple, peach, quince, grape, and nectarine,
42
Grows to perfection here, and spreads his crest;
His diadem toward the parent sun;
His diadem, in fiery blossoms drest,
Stands arm'd with swords from potent nature won.
43
Yon' cotton shrubs with bursting knobs behold,
Their snow white locks these humble groves array;
On slender trees the blushing coffee hangs
Like thy fair cherry, and would tempt thy stay.
44
Safe from the winds, in deep retreats, they rise;
Their utmost summit may thy arm attain;
Taste the moist fruit, and from thy closing eyes
Sleep shall retire, with all his drowsy train.
45
The spicy berry, they güava call,
Swells in the mountains on a stripling tree;
These some admire, and value more than all,
My humble verse, besides, unfolds to thee.
46
The smooth white cedar, here, delights the eye,
The bay-tree, with its aromatic green,
The sea-side grapes, sweet natives of the sand,
And pulse, of various kinds, on trees are seen.
47
Here mingled vines that downward shadows cast,
Here, cluster'd grapes from loaded boughs depend,
Their leaves no frosts, their fruits no cold winds blast,
But, rear'd by suns, to time alone they bend.
48
The plantane and banana flourish here,
Of hasty growth, and love to fix their root
Where some soft stream of ambling water flows,
To yield full moisture to their cluster'd fruit.
49
No other trees so vast a leaf can boast,
So broad, so long—through these refresh'd I stray,
And though the noon-sun all his radiance shed,
These friendly leaves shall shade me all the way,
50
And tempt the cooling breeze to hasten there,
With its sweet odorous breath to charm the grove;
High shades and verdant seats, while underneath
A little stream by mossy banks doth rove,
51
Where once the Indian dames slept with their swains,
Or fondly kiss'd the moon-light eves away;
The lovers fled, the tearful stream remains,
And only I console it with my lay.
52
Among the shades of yonder whispering grove
The green palmittoes mingle, tall and fair,
That ever murmur, and forever move,
Fanning with wavy bough the ambient air.
53
Pomegranates grace the wild, and sweet-sops there
Ready to fall, require thy helping hand,
Nor yet neglect the papaw or mamee
Whose slighted trees with fruits unheeded stand.
54
Those shaddocks juicy shall thy taste delight,
And yon' high fruits, the richest of the wood,
That cling in clusters to the mother tree,
The cocoa-nut; rich, milky, healthful food.
55
O grant me, gods, if yet condemn'd to stray,
At least to spend life's sober evening here,
To plant a grove where winds yon' shelter'd bay,
And pluck these fruits that frost nor winter fear.
56
Cassada shrubs abound—transplanted here
From every clime, exotic blossoms blow;
Here Asia plants her flowers, here Europe seeds,
And hyperborean plants, un-winter'd, grow.
57
Here, a new herbage glads the generous steed,
Mules, goats, and sheep enjoy these pastures fair,
And for thy hedges, nature has decreed,
Guards of thy toils, the date and prickly pear.
58
But chief the glory of these Indian isles
Springs from the sweet, uncloying sugar-cane,
Hence comes the planter's wealth, hence commerce sends
Such floating piles to traverse half the main.
59
Whoe'er thou art that leav'st thy native shore,
And shall to fair West India climates come,
Taste not the enchanting plant—to taste forbear,
If ever thou wouldst reach thy much lov'd home.
60
Ne'er through the Isle permit thy feet to rove,
Or, if thou dost, let prudence lead the way,
Forbear to taste the virtues of the cane,
Forbear to taste what will complete thy stay.
61
Whoever sips of this enchanting juice,
Delicious nectar, fit for Jove's own hall,
Returns no more from his lov'd Santa Cruz,
But quits his friends, his country, and his all.
62
And thinks no more of home—Ulysses so
Dragg'd off by force his sailors from that shore
Where lotos grew, and, had not strength prevail'd,
They never would have sought their country more.
63
No annual toil inters this thrifty plant,
The stalk lopt off, the freshening showers prolong,
To future years, unfading and secure,
The root so vigorous, and the juice so strong.
64
Unnumber'd plants, besides, these climates yield,
And grass peculiar to the soil, that bears
Ten thousand varied herbs, array the field,
This glads thy palate, that thy health repairs.
65
Along the shore a wondrous flower is seen,
Where rocky ponds receive the surging wave,
Some drest in yellow, some array'd in green,
Beneath the water their gay branches lave.
66
This mystic plant, with its bewitching charms,
Too surely springs from some enchanted bower;
Fearful it is, and dreads impending harms,
And Animal the natives call the flower.
67
From the smooth rock its little branches rise,
The objects of thy view, and that alone,
Feast on its beauties with thy ravish'd eyes,
But aim to touch it, and—the flower is gone.
68
Nay, if thy shade but intercept the beam
That gilds their boughs beneath the briny lake,
Swift they retire, like a deluding dream,
And even a shadow for destruction take.
69
Warn'd by experience, seek not thou to gain
The magic plant thy curious hand invades;
Returning to the light, it mocks thy pain,
Deceives all grasp, and seeks its native shades.
70
On yonder steepy hill, fresh harvests rise,
Where the dark tribe from Afric's sun-burnt plain
Oft o'er the ocean turn their wishful eyes
To isles remote high looming o'er the main,
71
And view soft seats of ease and fancied rest,
Their native groves new painted on the eye,
Where no proud misers their gay hours molest,
No lordly despots pass unsocial by.
72
See yonder slave that slowly bends this way,
With years, and pain, and ceaseless toil opprest,
Though no complaining words his woes betray,
The eye dejected proves the heart distrest.
73
Perhaps in chains he left his native shore,
Perhaps he left a helpless offspring there,
Perhaps a wife, that he must see no more,
Perhaps a father, who his love did share.
74
Curs'd be the ship that brought him o'er the main,
And curs'd the hands who from his country tore,
May she be stranded, ne'er to float again,
May they be shipwreck'd on some hostile shore—
75
O gold accurst, of every ill the spring,
For thee compassion flies the darken'd mind,
Reason's plain dictates no conviction bring,
And passion only sways all human kind.
76
O gold accurst! for thee we madly run
With murderous hearts across the briny flood,
Seek foreign climes beneath a foreign sun,
And there exult to shed a brother's blood.
77
But thou, who own'st this sugar-bearing soil,
To whom no good the great First Cause denies,
Let freeborn hands attend thy sultry toil,
And fairer harvests to thy view shall rise.
78
The teeming earth shall mightier stores disclose
Than ever struck thy longing eyes before,
And late content shall shed a soft repose,
Repose, so long a stranger at thy door.
79
Give me some clime, the favourite of the sky,
Where cruel slavery never sought to rein—
But shun the theme, sad muse, and tell me why
These abject trees lie scatter'd o'er the plain?
80
These isles, lest nature should have prov'd too kind,
Or man have sought his happiest heaven below,
Are torn with mighty winds, fierce hurricanes,
Nature convuls'd in every shape of woe.
81
Nor scorn yon' lonely vale of trees so reft;
There plantane groves late grew of lively green,
The orange flourish'd, and the lemon bore,
The genius of the isle dwelt there unseen.
82
Wild were the skies, affrighted nature groan'd
As though approach'd her last decisive day,
Skies blaz'd around, and bellowing winds had nigh
Dislodg'd these cliffs, and tore yon' hills away.
83
O'er the wild main, dejected and afraid,
The trembling pilot lash'd his helm a-lee,
Or, swiftly scudding, ask'd thy potent aid,
Dear pilot of the Galilëan sea.
84
Low hung the clouds, distended with the gale
The clouds dark brooding wing'd their circling flight,
Tremendous thunders join'd the hurricane,
Daughter of chaos and eternal night.
85
And how, alas! could these fair trees withstand
The wasteful madness of so fierce a blast,
That storm'd along the plain, seiz'd every grove,
And delug'd with a sea this mournful waste.
86
That plantane grove, where oft I fondly stray'd,
Thy darts, dread Phœbus, in those glooms to shun,
Is now no more a refuge or a shade,
Is now with rocks and deep sands over-run.
87
Those late proud domes of splendour, pomp and ease
No longer strike the view, in grand attire;
But, torn by winds, flew piece-meal to the seas,
Nor left one nook to lodge the astonish'd squire.
88
But other groves the hand of Time shall raise,
Again shall nature smile, serenely gay,
So soon each scene revives, why should I leave
These green retreats, o'er the dark seas to stray?
89
For I must go where the mad pirate roves,
A stranger on the inhospitable main,
Torn from the scenes of Hudson's sweetest groves,
Led by false hope, and expectation vain.
90
There endless plains deject the wearied eye,
And hostile winds incessant toil prepare;
And should loud bellowing storms all art defy,
The manly heart alone must conquer there.
91
On these blue hills, to pluck the opening flowers,
Might yet awhile the unwelcome task delay,
And these gay scenes prolong the fleeting hours
To aid bright Fancy on some future day.
92
Thy vales, Bermuda, and thy sea-girt groves,
Can never like these southern forests please;
And, lash'd by stormy waves, you court in vain
The northern shepherd to your cedar trees.
93
Not o'er those isles such equal planets rule,
All, but the cedar, dread the wintry blast:
Too well thy charms the banish'd Waller sung;
Too near the pilot's star thy doom is cast.
94
Far o'er the waste of yonder surgy field
My native climes in fancied prospect lie,
Now hid in shades, and now by clouds conceal'd,
And now by tempests ravish'd from my eye.
95
There, triumphs to enjoy, are, Britain, thine,
There, thy proud navy awes the pillag'd shore;
Nor sees the day when nations shall combine
That pride to humble and our rights restore.
96
Yet o'er the globe shouldst thou extend thy reign,
Here may thy conquering arms one grotto spare;
Here—though thy conquest vex—in spite of pain,
I quaff the enlivening glass, in spite of care.
97
What, though we bend to a tyrannic crown;
Still Nature's charms in varied beauty shine—
What though we own the proud imperious Dane,
Gold is his sordid care, the Muses mine.
98
Winter, and winter's glooms are far remov'd;
Eternal spring with smiling summer join'd;—
Absence and death, and heart-corroding care,
Why should they cloud the sun-shine of the mind?
99
But, shepherd, haste, and leave behind thee far
Thy bloody plains, and iron glooms above,
Quit the cold northern star, and here enjoy,
Beneath the smiling skies, this land of love.
100
The drowsy pelican wings home his way,
The misty eve sits heavy on the sea,
And though yon' sail drags slowly o'er the main,
Say, shall a moment's gloom discourage thee?
101
To-morrow's sun now paints the faded scene,
Though deep in ocean sink his western beams,
His spangled chariot shall ascend more clear,
More radiant from the drowsy land of dreams.
102
Of all the isles the neighbouring ocean bears,
None can with this their equal landscapes boast:
What could we do on Saba's cloudy height;
Or what could please on 'Statia's barren coast?
103
Couldst thou content on rough Tortola stray,
Confest the fairest of the Virgin train;
Or couldst thou on these rocky summits play
Where high St. John stands frowning o'er the main?
104
Haste, shepherd, haste—Hesperian fruits for thee,
And cluster'd grapes from mingled boughs depend—
What pleasure in thy forests can there be
That, leafless now, to every tempest bend?
105
To milder stars, and skies of clearer blue,
Sworn foe to arms, at least a-while repair,
And, till to mightier force proud Britain bends,
Despise her triumphs, and deceive thy care.
106
Soon shall the genius of the fertile soil
A new creation to thy view unfold;
Admire the works of Nature's magic hand,
But scorn that vulgar bait, all potent gold.
107
Yet, if persuaded by no lay of mine,
You still admire your climes of frost and snow,
And pleas'd, prefer above our southern groves
The darksome forests, that around thee grow:
108
Still there remain—thy native air enjoy,
Repell the tyrant who thy peace invades,
While, pleas'd, I trace the vales of Santa Cruz,
And sing with rapture her inspiring shades.
[159] Text from the edition of 1786. The poem was first published in the February (1779) issue of the United States Magazine, as a part of an extended article, with the title, "Account of the Island of Santa Cruz: Containing an original Poem on the Beauties of that Island. In a letter to A. P. Esq." The poem is introduced as follows: "I believe the best thing I can do with the rest of this paper is to transcribe a few dull heavy lines which I composed near two years ago on the spot." The poem consisted of fifty-two stanzas, corresponding to the following above: 1-4, 6-10, 14-16, 18-23, 31-34, 39, 40, 48-51, 53, 54, 56, 58-63, 70, 79-82, 85, 88, 96, 98, 100, 101, 104, 106-108. Freneau revised it with a careful hand for his edition of 1786. Some of the lines changed most notably are as follows:
| Stanza 1. | "Less rigorous climes, and a more friendly sky." |
| 6. | "So some dull minds, in spite of age and care, Are grown so wedded to this globe below." |
| 39. | "Sweet spungy plumbs on trees wide spreading hang, The happy flavour'd pine grows crested from the ground." |
| 51. | "Where once the Indian dames inchanted slept." |
| 56. | "Cassada shrubs abound, whose poison root, Supplies the want of snow-white Northern flour; This grated fine, and steep'd in water fair, Forsakes each particle of noxious power." |
| 70. | "On yonder peaked hill fresh harvests rise, Where wretched he—the Ethiopian swain." |
| 79. | "He pants a land of freedom and repose, Where cruel slavery never sought to reign, O quit thee them, my muse, and tell me why." |
| 88. | "But now the winds are past, the storm subsides, All nature smiles again serenely gay, The beauteous groves renew'd—how shall I leave My green retreat at Butler's verdant bay." |
| 96. | "Fain would I view my native climes again, But murder marks the cruel Briton there— Contented here I rest, in spite of pain, And quaff the enlivening juice in spite of care." |
| 100. | "The misty night sits heavy on the sea, Yon lagging sail drags slowly o'er the main, Night and its kindred glooms are nought to me." |
| 104. | "Then shepherd haste, and leave behind thee far The bloody plains and iron glooms above, Quit thy cold northern star, and here enjoy, Beneath the smiling skies this land of love." |
Each of the later editions passed under the revising pen of Freneau, but the variations consisted largely of verbal changes. As a sample of his revision, note the following:
Stanza 3, 1779, "Two weeks, with prosperous gales"; 1786, "Twice seven days prosperous gales"; 1809, "Twice ten days prosperous gales"; 26, 1779, "And tho' fierce Sol his beams directly shed"; 1786, "And though the noon-sun all his radiance shed"; 1795, "The noon sun his fierce radiance shed"; 30, 1779, "fruits that over-top the wood"; 1786, "fruits, the richest of the wood"; 1795, "fruits the noblest of the wood"; 38, 1779, "peaked hill"; 1786, "steepy hill"; 1795, "blue-brow'd hill"; 41, 1779, "lovely green"; 1786, "lively green"; 1795, "liveliest green." Freneau added three stanzas to the later versions. After stanza 16 above, be added the following:
"The native here, in golden plenty blest,
Bids from the soil the verdant harvests spring;
Feasts in the abundant dome, the joyous guest;
Time short,—life easy,—pleasure on the wing."
Following this he added stanza 43 of "The Jamaica Funeral." Stanza 49 of "The House of Night" was interpolated between 90 and 91. Stanzas 35-38 were omitted from the 1786 version, and in connection with stanzas 39-43 of "The House of Night," became the "Elegiac Lines" of the later editions. The text of the 1795 version was almost unrevised for the 1809 edition.
ON A HESSIAN DEBARKATION[160]
1776
There is a book, tho' not a book of rhymes,
Where truth severe records a nation's crimes;—
To check such monarchs as with brutal might
Wanton in blood, and trample on the right.
Rejoice, O Death!—Britannia's tyrant sends
From German plains his myriads to our shore;
The Caledonian with the English joined:—
Bring them, ye winds, but waft them back no more.
To these far climes with stately step they come,
Resolved all prayers, all prowess to defy;
Smit with the love of countries not their own,
They come, indeed, to conquer—not to die.
In the slow breeze (I hear their funeral song,)
The dance of ghosts the infernal tribes prepare:
To hell's dark mansions haste, ye abandoned throng,
Drinking from German sculls old Odin's beer.
From dire Cesarea[A] forced, these slaves of kings,
Quick, let them take their way on eagle's wings:
To thy strong posts, Manhattan's isle, repair,
To meet the vengeance that awaits them there!
[A] The old Roman name of Jersey.—Freneau's note.
[160] This poem first appears in the 1795 edition, though the opening stanzas had formed a part of "The House of Night" in the 1786 edition. It must have been composed after this edition was published. I have inserted it here on account of its historical significance. Text is from the edition of 1809.
THE JEWISH LAMENTATION AT
EUPHRATES[161]
By Babel's streams we sate and wept,
When Sion bade our sorrows flow;
Our harps on lofty willows slept
That near those distant waters grow:
The willows high, the waters clear,
Beheld our toils and sorrows there.
The cruel foe, that captive led
Our nation from their native soil,
The tyrant foe, by whom we bled,
Required a song, as well as toil:
"Come, with a song your sorrows cheer,
"A song, that Sion loved to hear."
How shall we, cruel tyrant, raise
A song on such a distant shore?—
If I forget my Sion's praise,
May my right hand assume no more
To strike the silver sounding string,
And thence the slumbering music bring.
If I forget that happy home,
My perjured tongue, forbear to move!
My eyes, be closed in endless gloom—
My joy, my rapture, and my love!
No rival grief my mind can share,
For thou shalt reign unrivalled there.
Remember, Lord, that hated foe
(When conquered Sion drooped her head)
Who laughing at our deepest woe,
Thus to our tears and sorrows said,
"From its proud height degrade her wall,
"Destroy her towers—and ruin all."
Thou, Babel's offspring, hated race,
May some avenging monster seize,
And dash your venom in your face
For crimes and cruelties like these:
And, deaf to pity's melting moan,
With infant blood stain every stone.
[161] First published in the United States Magazine for September, 1779, under the title, "Psalm CXXXVII Imitated. By Philip Freneau, a young gentleman to whom in the course of this work we are greatly indebted." Signed, "Monmouth, Sept. 10, 1779." In the 1786 edition it bore the title, "Psalm CXXXVII Versified."
AMERICA INDEPENDENT
and Her Everlasting Deliverance from British Tyranny
and Oppression[162]
First published in Philadelphia, by Mr. Robert Bell, in 1778
To him who would relate the story right,
A mind supreme should dictate, or indite.—
Yes!—justly to record the tale of fame,
A muse from heaven should touch the soul with flame,
Some powerful spirit, in superior lays,
Should tell the conflicts of these stormy days!
'Tis done! and Britain for her madness sighs—
Take warning, tyrants, and henceforth be wise,
If o'er mankind man gives you regal sway,
Take not the rights of human kind away.
When God from chaos gave this world to be,
Man then he formed, and formed him to be free,
In his own image stampt the favourite race—
How darest thou, tyrant, the fair stamp deface!
When on mankind you fix your abject chains,
No more the image of that God remains;
O'er a dark scene a darker shade is drawn,
His work dishonoured, and our glory gone!
When first Britannia sent her hostile crew
To these far shores, to ravage and subdue,
We thought them gods, and almost seemed to say
No ball could pierce them, and no dagger slay—
Heavens! what a blunder—half our fears were vain;
These hostile gods at length have quit the plain,
On neighbouring isles the storm of war they shun,
Happy, thrice happy, if not quite undone.
Yet soon, in dread of some impending woe,
Even from these islands shall these ruffians go—
This be their doom, in vengeance for the slain,
To pass their days in poverty and pain;
For such base triumphs, be it still their lot
To triumph only o'er the rebel Scot,
And to their insect isle henceforth confined
No longer lord it o'er the human kind.—
But, by the fates, who still prolong their stay,
And gather vengeance to conclude their day,
Yet, ere they go, the angry Muse shall tell
The treasured woes that in her bosom swell:—
Proud, fierce, and bold, O Jove! who would not laugh
To see these bullies worshipping a calf:
But they are slaves who spurn at Reason's rules;
And men, once slaves, are soon transformed to fools.—
To recommend what monarchies have done,
They bring, for witness, David and his son;
How one was brave, the other just and wise,
And hence our plain Republics they despise;
But mark how oft, to gratify their pride,
The people suffered, and the people died;
Though one was wise, and one Goliah slew,
Kings are the choicest curse that man e'er knew!
Hail, worthy Briton!—how enlarged your fame;
How great your glory, terrible your name;
"Queen of the isles, and empress of the main,"—
Heaven grant you all these mighty things again;
But first insure the gaping crowd below
That you less cruel, and more just may grow:
If fate, vindictive for the sins of man,
Had favour shown to your infernal plan,
How would your nation have exulted here,
And scorned the widow's sigh, the orphan's tear!
How had your prince, of all bad men the worst,
Laid worth and virtue prostrate in the dust!
A second Sawney[A] had he shone to-day,
A world subdued, and murder but his play;
How had that prince, contemning right or law,
Glutted with blood his foul, voracious maw:
In him we see the depths of baseness joined,
Whate'er disgraced the dregs of human kind;
Cain, Nimrod, Nero—fiends in human guise,
Herod, Domitian—these in judgment rise,
And, envious of his deeds, I hear them say
None but a George could be more vile than they.
Swoln though he was with wealth, revenge, and pride,
How could he dream that heaven was on his side—
Did he not see, when so decreed by fate,
They placed the crown upon his royal pate,
Did he not see the richest jewel fall—[B]
Dire was the omen, and astonished all.—
That gem no more shall brighten and adorn;
No more that gem by British kings be worn,
Or swell to wonted heights of fair renown
The fading glories of their boasted crown.
Yet he to arms, and war, and blood inclined,
(A fair-day warrior with a feeble mind,
Fearless, while others meet the shock of fate,
And dare that death, which clips his thread too late.)
He to the fane (O hypocrite!) did go,
While not an angel there but was his foe,
There did he kneel, and sigh, and sob, and pray,
Yet not to lave his thousand sins away,
Far other motives swayed his spotted soul;
'Twas not for those the secret sorrow stole
Down his pale cheek—'twas vengeance and despair
Dissolved his eye, and planted sorrow there;—
How could he hope to bribe the impartial sky
By his base prayers, and mean hypocrisy?—
Heaven still is just, and still abhors all crimes,
Not acts like George, the Nero of our times.
What were his prayers—his prayers could be no more
Than a thief's wishes to recruit his store:—
Such prayers could never reach the worlds above;
They were but curses in the ear of Jove;—
You prayed that conquest might your arms attend,
And crush that freedom virtue did defend,
That the fierce Indian, rousing from his rest,
Might these new regions with his flames invest,
With scalps and tortures aggravate our woe,
And to the infernal world dismiss your foe.
No mines of gold our fertile country yields,
But mighty harvests crown the loaded fields,
Hence, trading far, we gained the golden prize,
Which, though our own, bewitched their greedy eyes—
For that they ravaged India's climes before,
And carried death to Asia's utmost shore—
Clive was your envied slave, in avarice bold—
He mowed down nations for his dearer gold;
The fatal gold could give no true content,
He mourned his murders, and to Tophet went.
Led on by lust of lucre and renown,
Burgoyne came marching with his thousands down,
High were his thoughts, and furious his career,
Puffed with self-confidence, and pride severe,
Swoln with the idea of his future deeds,
Onward to ruin each advantage leads:
Before his hosts his heaviest curses flew,
And conquered worlds rose hourly to his view:
His wrath, like Jove's, could bear with no controul,
His words bespoke the mischief in his soul;
To fight was not this general's only trade,
He shined in writing, and his wit displayed—
To awe the more with titles of command
He told of forts he ruled in Scottish land;—
Queen's colonel as he was, he did not know
That thorns and thistles, mixed with honours, grow;
In Britain's senate, though he held a place,
All did not save him from one long disgrace,
One stroke of fortune that convinced them all
That men could conquer, and lieutenants fall.
Foe to the rights of man, proud plunderer, say
Had conquest crowned you on that mighty day
When you, to Gates, with sorrow, rage, and shame
Resigned your conquests, honours, arms, and fame,
When at his feet Britannia's wreathes you threw,
And the sun sickened at a sight so new;
Had you been victor—what a waste of woe!
What souls had vanished to where souls do go!
What dire distress had marked your fatal way,
What deaths on deaths disgraced that dismal day!
Can laurels flourish in a soil of blood,
Or on those laurels can fair honours bud—
Cursed be that wretch who murder makes his trade,
Cursed be all wars that e'er ambition made!
What murdering Tory now relieves your grief,
Or plans new conquests for his favourite chief;
Designs still dark employ that ruffian race,
Beasts of your choosing, and our own disgrace,
So vile a crew the world ne'er saw before,
And grant, ye pitying heavens, it may no more:
If ghosts from hell infest our poisoned air,
Those ghosts have entered their base bodies here;
Murder and blood is still their dear delight—
Scream round their roofs, ye ravens of the night!
Whene'er they wed, may demons and despair,
And grief and woe, and blackest night be there;
Fiends leagued from hell the nuptial lamp display,
Swift to perdition light them on their way,
Round the wide world their devilish squadrons chace,
To find no realm, that grants one resting place.
Far to the north, on Scotland's utmost end
An isle there lies, the haunt of every fiend,
No shepherds there attend their bleating flocks,
But withered witches rove among the rocks;
Shrouded in ice, the blasted mountains show
Their cloven heads, to daunt the seas below;
The lamp of heaven in his diurnal race
There scarcely deigns to unveil his radiant face,
Or if one day he circling treads the sky
He views this island with an angry eye,
Or ambient fogs their broad, moist wings expand,
Damp his bright ray, and cloud the infernal land;
The blackening winds incessant storms prolong,
Dull as their night, and dreary as my song;
When stormy winds and gales refuse to blow,
Then from the dark sky drives the unpitying snow;
When drifting snows from iron clouds forbear,
Then down the hail-stones rattle through the air—
There screeching owls, and screaming vultures rest,
And not a tree adorns its barren breast;
No peace, no rest, the elements bestow,
But seas forever rage, and storms forever blow.
There, Loyals, there, with loyal hearts retire,
There pitch your tents, and kindle there your fire;
There desert Nature will her stings display,
And fiercest hunger on your vitals prey,
And with yourselves let John Burgoyne retire
To reign the monarch, whom your hearts admire.
Britain, at last to arrest your lawless hand,
Rises the genius of a generous land,
Our injured rights bright Gallia's prince defends,
And from this hour that prince and we are friends;
Feuds, long upheld, are vanished from our view.
Once we were foes—but for the sake of you—
Britain, aspiring Briton, now must bend—
Can she at once with France and us contend,
When we alone, remote from foreign aid,
Her armies captured, and distressed her trade?
Britain and we no more in combat join,
No more, as once, in every sea combine;
Dead is that friendship which did mutual burn,
Fled is the sceptre, never to return;
By sea and land, perpetual foes we meet,
Our cause more honest, and our hearts as great;
Lost are these regions to Britannia's reign,
Nor need these strangers of their loss complain,[163]
Since all, that here with greedy eyes they view,
From our own toil to wealth and empire grew.
Our hearts are ravished from our former queen
Far as the ocean God hath placed between,
They strive in vain to join this mighty mass
Torn by convulsions from its native place.
As well might men to flaming Hecla join
The huge high Alps, or towering Appenine:
In vain they send their half-commissioned tribe,
And whom they cannot conquer, strive to bribe;
Their pride and madness burst our union chain,
Nor shall the unwieldy mass unite again.
Nor think that France sustains our cause alone;
With gratitude her helping hand we own,
But hear, ye nations—Truth herself can say
We bore the heat and danger of the day:
She calmly viewed the tumult from afar,
We braved each insult, and sustained the war:
Oft drove the foe, or forced their hosts to yield,
Or left them more than once a dear bought field—
'Twas then, at last, on Jersey plains distrest,
We swore to seek the mountains of the west,
There a free empire for our seed obtain,
A terror to the slaves that might remain.[164]
Peace you demand, and vainly wish to find
Old leagues renewed, and strength once more combined—
Yet shall not all your base dissembling art
Deceive the tortures of a bleeding heart—
Yet shall not all your mingled prayers that rise
Wash out your crimes, or bribe the avenging skies;
Full many a corpse lies mouldering on the plain
That ne'er shall see its little brood again:
See, yonder lies, all breathless, cold, and pale,
Drenched in her gore, Lavinia of the vale;[C]
The cruel Indian seized her life away,
As the next morn began her bridal day!—
This deed alone our just revenge would claim,
Did not ten thousand more your sons defame.
Returned, a captive, to my native shore,
How changed I find those scenes that pleased before!
How changed those groves where fancy loved to stray,
When spring's young blossoms bloom'd along the way;
From every eye distils the frequent tear,
From every mouth some doleful tale I hear!
Some mourn a father, brother, husband, friend:
Some mourn, imprisoned in their native land,
In sickly ships what numerous hosts confin'd
At once their lives and liberties resigned:
In dreary dungeons woeful scenes have passed,
Long in the historian's page the tale will last,
As long as spring renews the flowery wood,
As long as breezes curl the yielding flood!—
Some sent to India's sickly climes afar,
To dig, with slaves, for buried diamonds there,
There left to sicken in a land of woe
Where o'er scorched hills infernal breezes blow,
Whose every blast some dire contagion brings,
Fevers or death on its destructive wings,
'Till fate relenting, its last arrows drew,
Brought death to them, and infamy to you.
Pests of mankind! remembrance shall recall
And paint these horrors to the view of all;
Heaven has not turned to its own works a foe
Nor left to monsters these fair realms below,
Else had your arms more wasteful vengeance spread,
And these gay plains been dyed a deeper red.
O'er Britain's isle a thousand woes impend,
Too weak to conquer, govern, or defend,
To liberty she holds pretended claim—
The substance we enjoy, and they the name;
Her prince, surrounded by a host of slaves,
Still claims dominion o'er the vagrant waves:
Such be his claims o'er all the world beside,—
An empty nothing—madness, rage and pride.
From Europe's realms fair freedom has retired,
And even in Britain has the spark expired—
Sigh for the change your haughty empire feels,
Sigh for the doom that no disguise conceals!
Freedom no more shall Albion's cliffs survey;
Corruption there has centered all her sway,
Freedom disdains her honest head to rear,
Or herd with nobles, kings, or princes there;[165]
She shuns their gilded spires and domes of state,
Resolved, O Virtue, at thy shrine to wait;
'Midst savage woods and wilds she dares to stray,
And bids uncultured nature bloom more gay.
She is that glorious and immortal sun,
Without whose ray this world would be undone,
A mere dull chaos, sunk in deepest night,
An abject something, void of form and light,
Of reptiles, worst in rank, the dire abode,
Perpetual mischief, and the dragon's brood.
Let Turks and Russians glut their fields with blood,
Again let Britain dye the Atlantic flood,
Let all the east adore the sanguine wreathe
And gain new glories from the trade of death—
America! the works of peace be thine,
Thus shalt thou gain a triumph more divine—
To thee belongs a second golden reign,
Thine is the empire o'er a peaceful main;
Protect the rights of human kind below,
Crush the proud tyrant who becomes their foe,
And future times shall own your struggles blest,
And future years enjoy perpetual rest.
Americans! revenge your country's wrongs;
To you the honour of this deed belongs,
Your arms did once this sinking land sustain,
And saved those climes where Freedom yet must reign—
Your bleeding soil this ardent task demands,
Expel yon' thieves from these polluted lands,
Expect no peace till haughty Britain yields,
'Till humbled Britons quit your ravaged fields—
Still to the charge that routed foe returns,
The war still rages, and the battle burns—
No dull debates, or tedious counsels know,
But rush at once, embodied, on your foe;
With hell-born spite a seven years' war they wage,
The pirate Goodrich, and the ruffian Gage.
Your injured country groans while yet they stay,
Attend her groans, and force their hosts away;
Your mighty wrongs the tragic muse shall trace,
Your gallant deeds shall fire a future race;
To you may kings and potentates appeal,
You may the doom of jarring nations seal;
A glorious empire rises, bright and new!
Firm be the structure, and must rest on you!—
Fame o'er the mighty pile expands her wings,
Remote from princes, bishops, lords, and kings,
Those fancied gods, who, famed through every shore,
Mankind have fashioned, and like fools, adore.
Here yet shall heaven the joys of peace bestow,
While through our soil the streams of plenty flow,
And o'er the main we spread the trading sail,
Wafting the produce of the rural vale.
[A] Alexander the Great.—Freneau's note.
[B] A real event of that day: See Remembrancer of 1777.—Freneau's note.
[C] Miss M'Crea. See histories of the revolutionary war.—Freneau's note.
"A most pathetic story was told of one Jenny M'Rea, murdered by Indians near Fort Edward. Her family were Loyalists; she herself was engaged to be married to a Loyalist officer. She was dressed to receive her lover when a party of Indians burst into the house, carried off the whole family to the woods, and there murdered, scalped, and mangled them in a most horrible manner."—Hildreth's United States. See also Irving's Life of Washington. Barlow, in the sixth book of the Columbiad, has given a poetic version of the story.
[162] From the edition of 1809. The poem was written, according to the edition of 1786, in August, 1778. It was first published in conjunction with a work entitled "Travels of the Imagination," by Robert Bell of Philadelphia, and reissued twice by him during the same year. In this edition it bore the title, "American Independence an Everlasting Deliverance from British Tyranny. A Poem." Later were added the words. "By Philip F——u."
"Nor shall these upstarts of their loss complain,
Since all the debt we owe to Britain's throne
Was mere idea, and the rest our own."—Ed. 1786.
[164] "In this dark day of peril to the cause and to himself (at the close of 1776) Washington remained firm and undaunted. In casting about for some stronghold where he might make a desperate stand for the liberties of his country, his thoughts reverted to the mountain regions of his early campaigns. General Mercer was at hand, who had shared his perils among those mountains, and his presence may have contributed to bring them to his mind. 'What think you.' said Washington, 'if we should retreat to the back parts of Pennsylvania, would the Pennsylvanians support us?' 'If the lower counties give up, the back counties will do the same,' was the discouraging reply. 'We must then retire to Augusta County, in Virginia,' said Washington. 'Numbers will repair to us for safety, and we will try a predatory war. If overpowered, we must cross the Alleghanies.' Such was the indomitable spirit, rising under difficulties and buoyant in the darkest moment, that kept our tempest-tossed cause from foundering."—Irving's Washington, II, 448.
[165] "To herd with North, or Bute, or Mansfield there,"—Ed. 1786.
ON AMANDA'S SINGING BIRD[166]
A native of the Canary Islands, confined in a small cage
Happy in my native grove,
I from spray to spray did rove,
Fond of music, full of love.
Dressed as fine as bird could be,
Every thing that I did see,
Every thing was mirth to me.
There had I been, happy still,
With my mate to coo and bill
In the vale, or on the hill.
But the cruel tyrant, man,
(Tyrant since the world began)
Soon abridged my little span.
How shall I the wrong forget!
Over me he threw a net;
And I am his prisoner yet.
To this rough Bermudian shore
Ocean I was hurried o'er,
Ne'er to see my country more!
To a narrow cage confined,
I, who once so gaily shined,
Sing to please the human kind.
Dear Amanda!—leave me free,
And my notes will sweeter be;
On your breast, or in the tree![167]
On your arm I would repose—
One—oh make me—of your beaus—
There I would relate my woes.
Now, all love, and full of play,
I so innocently gay,
Pine my little life away.
Thus to grieve and flutter here,
Thus to pine from year to year;
This is usage too severe.
From the chiefs who rule your isle,
I will never court a smile;
All, with them, is prison style.[168]
But from your superior mind
Let me but my freedom find,
And I will be all resigned.
Then your kiss will hold me fast—
If but once by you embraced,
In your 'kerchief I will rest.
Gentle shepherds of the plain,
Who so fondly hear my strain;
Help me to be free again.
'Tis a blessing to be free:—
Fair Amanda![169]—pity me,
Pity him who sings for thee.
But if, cruel, you deny
That your captive bird should fly,
Here detained so wrongfully,
Full of anguish, faint with woe,
I must, with my music, go
To the cypress groves below.
[166] Published in the Freeman's Journal, July 3, 1782, under the title "On a Lady's Singing Bird, a native of the Canary Islands, confined in a very small cage. Written in Bermuda, 1778."
[167] This stanza and the next original in the edition of 1809.
[168] This stanza and the two following original in the edition of 1809.
[169] "Belinda."—Ed. 1786.
ON THE NEW AMERICAN FRIGATE
ALLIANCE[170]
As Neptune traced the azure main
That owned, so late, proud Britain's reign,
A floating pile approached his car,
The scene of terror and of war.
As nearer still the monarch drew
(Her starry flag displayed to view)
He asked a Triton of his train
"What flag was this that rode the main?
"A ship of such a gallant mien
"This many a day I have not seen,
"To no mean power can she belong,
"So swift, so warlike, stout, and strong.
"See how she mounts the foaming wave—
"Where other ships would find a grave,
"Majestic, aweful, and serene,
"She sails the ocean, like its queen."—
"Great monarch of the hoary deep,
"Whose trident awes the waves to sleep,
(Replied a Triton of his train)
"This ship, that stems the western main,
"To those new, rising States belongs,
"Who, in resentment of their wrongs,
"Oppose proud Britain's tyrant sway,
"And combat her, by land and sea.
"This pile, of such superior fame,
"From their strict union takes her name,
"For them she cleaves the briny tide,
"While terror marches by her side.
"When she unfurls her flowing sails,
"Undaunted by the fiercest gales,
"In dreadful pomp, she ploughs the main,
"While adverse tempests rage in vain.
"When she displays her gloomy tier,
"The boldest foes congeal with fear,
"And, owning her superior might,
"Seek their best safety in their flight.
"But when she pours the dreadful blaze,
"And thunder from her cannon plays,
"The bursting flash that wings the ball,
"Compells those foes to strike, or fall.
"Though she, with her triumphant crew,
"Might to their fate all foes pursue,
"Yet, faithful to the land that bore,
"She stays, to guard her native shore.
"Though she might make the cruisers groan
"That sail within the torrid zone,
"She kindly lends a nearer aid,
"Annoys them here, and guards the trade.
"Now, traversing the eastern main,
"She greets the shores of France and Spain;
"Her gallant flag, displayed to view,
"Invites the old world to the new.
"This task atchieved, behold her go
"To seas congealed with ice and snow,
"To either tropic, and the line,
"Where suns with endless fervour shine.
"Not, Argo, on thy decks were found
"Such hearts of brass, as here abound;
"They for their golden fleece did fly,
"These sail—to vanquish tyranny."
[170] "Built up the River Merrimack at Salisbury, Massachusetts, she was first sailed in the spring of 1778, soon after her being launched, and was then commanded by Capt. Landais, a Frenchman, who was preferred to the command as a compliment to his nation and the alliance made with us, a new people."
"As Philadelphians we are entitled to some preeminence for our connection with this peculiar frigate. After the close of the War of Independence, she was owned in our city and employed as a merchant ship. When no longer seaworthy, she has been stretched upon the margin of Petty's Island to remain for a century to come, a spectacle to many river passengers."—Watson's Annals, III, 338.
The Alliance was the only one of our first navy, of the class of frigates, which escaped capture or destruction during the war. She was during the Revolution what "Old Ironsides" became in later years, the idol of the American people. She was in many engagements and was always victorious.
Freneau's poem first appeared, as far as I can find, in the 1786 edition. It was probably written shortly after the launch of the frigate.
ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN NICHOLAS
BIDDLE[171]
Commander of the Randolph Frigate, Blown up near Barbadoes, 1776
What distant thunders rend the skies,
What clouds of smoke in columns rise,
What means this dreadful roar?
Is from his base Vesuvius thrown,
Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down,
Or Etna's self no more!
Shock after shock torments my ear;
And lo!—two hostile ships appear,
Red lightnings round them glow:
The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four,
The Randolph thirty-two—no more—
And will she fight this foe!
The Randolph soon on Stygian streams
Shall coast along the land of dreams,
The islands of the dead!
But Fate, that parts them on the deep,
May save the Briton yet to weep
His days of victory fled.[172]
Say, who commands that dismal blaze,
Where yonder starry streamer plays?
Does Mars with Jove engage!
'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires,
Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires,
With more than mortal rage.
Tremendous flash!—and hark, the ball
Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all;
Her bravest sons expire;
Did Mars himself approach so nigh,
Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly
The Randolph's fiercer fire.
The Briton views his mangled crew,
"And shall we strike to thirty-two?—
(Said Hector, stained with gore)
"Shall Britain's flag to these descend—
"Rise, and the glorious conflict end,
"Britons, I ask no more!"
He spoke—they charged their cannon round,
Again the vaulted heavens resound,
The Randolph bore it all,
Then fixed her pointed cannons true—
Away the unwieldy vengeance flew;
Britain, thy warriors fall.
The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay,
Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away,
Her boldest heroes dead—
She saw amidst her floating slain
The conquering Randolph stem the main—
She saw, she turned—and fled!
That hour, blest chief, had she been thine,
Dear Biddle, had the powers divine
Been kind as thou wert brave;
But Fate, who doomed thee to expire,
Prepared an arrow, tipt with fire,
And marked a watery grave.
And in that hour, when conquest came,
Winged at his ship a pointed flame,
That not even he could shun—
The battle ceased, the Yarmouth fled,
The bursting Randolph ruin spread,
And left her task undone![173]
[171] This poem was first published as a pamphlet in 1781, by Francis Bailey of Philadelphia, in connection with "The Prison Ship."
Nicholas Biddle, born in Philadelphia in 1750, was a sailor from his boyhood. At one time he served beside Nelson in the British navy. In 1776, when the new frigate Randolph, of thirty-two guns, was launched at Philadelphia, he was made commander, and after several unimportant cruises he was placed over a small fleet of war vessels, with the Randolph as flagship. In March, 1779, he fell in with the British ship Yarmouth, and after a vigorous action of twenty minutes, the Randolph was blown up by her own magazine, only four men escaping with their lives.
Freneau has made several minor errors. The date 1776, which is found on all the versions of the poem, should manifestly be 1779. The Yarmouth did not attempt flight, nor did Biddle die at the moment of victory, as the poet represents. In the words of Cooper, "Victory was almost hopeless, even had all his vessels behaved equally well with his own ship." Captain Vincent had only five men killed and twelve wounded at the time of the explosion, yet the gallantry and skill of Biddle in the face of great odds justify all the praise that Freneau gives him.
[172] "His ancient honours fled."—Ed. 1786. This stanza was omitted from the 1795 edition, but returned again in 1809.
[173] "And lost what honour won."—Ed. 1786. "And lost what courage won."—Ed. 1795.
CAPTAIN JONES'S INVITATION[174]
Thou, who on some dark mountain's brow
Hast toil'd thy life away till now,
And often from that rugged steep
Beheld the vast extended deep,
Come from thy forest, and with me
Learn what it is to go to sea.
There endless plains the eye surveys
As far from land the vessel strays;
No longer hill nor dale is seen,
The realms of death intrude between,
But fear no ill; resolve, with me
To share the dangers of the sea.
But look not there for verdant fields—
Far different prospects Neptune yields;
Green seas shall only greet the eye,
Those seas encircled by the sky.
Immense and deep—come then with me
And view the wonders of the sea.
Yet sometimes groves and meadows gay
Delight the seamen on their way;
From the deep seas that round us swell
With rocks the surges to repel
Some verdant isle, by waves embrac'd,
Swells, to adorn the wat'ry waste.
Though now this vast expanse appear
With glassy surface, calm and clear;
Be not deceiv'd—'tis but a show,
For many a corpse is laid below—
Even Britain's lads—it cannot be—
They were the masters of the sea!
Now combating upon the brine,
Where ships in flaming squadrons join,
At every blast the brave expire
'Midst clouds of smoke, and streams of fire;
But scorn all fear; advance with me—
'Tis but the custom of the sea.
Now we the peaceful wave divide,
On broken surges now we ride,
Now every eye dissolves with woe
As on some lee-ward coast we go—
Half lost, half buried in the main
Hope scarcely beams on life again.
Above us storms distract the sky,
Beneath us depths unfathom'd lie,
Too near we see, a ghastly sight,[175]
The realms of everlasting night,
A wat'ry tomb of ocean green
And only one frail plank between!
But winds must cease, and storms decay,
Not always lasts the gloomy day,
Again the skies are warm and clear,
Again soft zephyrs fan the air,
Again we find the long lost shore,
The winds oppose our wish no more.
If thou hast courage to despise
The various changes of the skies,
To disregard the ocean's rage,
Unmov'd when hostile ships engage,
Come from thy forest, and with me
Learn what it is to go to sea.
[174] From the 1786 edition. In the 1795 edition the title was changed to "The Invitation."
Captain John Paul Jones sailed from Isle de Groaix, France, on his memorable cruise, August 14, 1779. To secure a crew for his fleet had been the work of many months.
[175] "Disheartening sight."—Ed. 1795.
THE SEA VOYAGE[176]
From a gay island green and fair,
With gentle blasts of southern air,
Across the deep we held our way,
Around our barque smooth waters played,
No envious clouds obscur'd the day,
Serene came on the evening shade.
Still farther to the north we drew,
And Porto Rico's mountains blue,
Were just decaying on the eye,
When from the main arose the sun;
Before his ray the shadows fly,
As we before the breezes run.
Now northward of the tropic pass'd,
The fickle skies grew black at last;
The ruffian winds began to roar,
The sea obey'd their tyrant force,
And we, alas! too far from shore,
Must now forsake our destin'd course.
The studding sails at last to hand,
The vent'rous captain gave command;
But scarcely to the task went they
When a vast billow o'er us broke,
And tore the sheets and tacks away,
Nor could the booms sustain the stroke.
Still vaster rose the angry main.
The winds through every shroud complain;
The topsails we could spread no more,
Though doubly reef'd, the furious blast
Away the fluttering canvas bore,
And vow'd destruction to the mast.
When now the northern storm was quell'd,
A calm ensued—but ocean swell'd
Beyond the towering mountain's height,
Till from the south new winds arose;
Our sails we spread at dead of night,
And fair, though fierce, the tempest blows.
When morning rose, the skies were clear
The gentle breezes warm and fair,
Convey'd us o'er the wat'ry road;
A ship o'ertook us on the way,
Her thousand sails were spread abroad,
And flutter'd in the face of day.
At length, through many a climate pass'd,
Cæsaria's hills we saw at last,
And reach'd the land of lovely dames;
My charming Cælia there I found,
'Tis she my warmest friendship claims,
The fairest maid that treads the ground.
[176] Unique in the October number of the United States Magazine, 1779. The poem doubtless describes the poet's voyage home from the West Indies, in June and July, 1778.