STANZAS
Published at the Procession to the Tomb of the Patriots
In the Vicinity of the Former Stations of the Prison Ships, at New-York.[178]
Beneath these banks, along this shore,
And underneath the waters, more
Forgotten corpses rest;
More bones by cruelty consigned
To death, than shall be told mankind
To chill the feeling breast:
More bones of those who, dying here
In floating dungeons, anchored near,
A prey to fierce disease,
Than fame in her recording page
Will tell some late enquiring age,
When telling things like these.
Ah me! what ills, what sighs, what groans,
What spectre forms, what moving moans,
What woes on woes were found;
When here oppressed, insulted, crossed,
The vigour of the soul was lost
In miseries thickening round.
The youths of firm undaunted mind,
To climate nor to coast confined,
All misery taught to bear—
I saw them, as the sail they spread,
I saw them by misfortune led
To capture, and to care.
Though night and storms were round them cast,
They climbed the well-supported mast,
And reefed the fluttering sail;
Though thunders roared and lightnings glared,
They toil, nor death, nor danger feared,
They braved the loudest gale.—
Great Cause, that brought them all their woe:
Thou, Freedom!—bade their spirits glow;
But forced, at last, to yield,
Died in despair each sickening crew:
They vanished from the world—but you,
Columbia, kept the field.
They sunk, unpitied, in their bloom,—
They scarcely found a shallow tomb
To hide the naked bones:
For, feeble was the nervous hand
That once could toil, or once command
The force of Neptune's sons.
In aid of that immortal cause
Which spurned at England's tyrant laws,
These passed the troubled main;
They dared the seas she called her own,
To meet the ruffians of a throne,
And honour's purpose gain.
All generous—while that power was proved,
To war the brave adventurers moved,
And catched the seaman's art,
Met on their own domain, the crew
Of foreign slaves, that never knew
The independent heart.
Thou, Independence, vast design;
The efforts of the brave were thine,
When doubtful all, and dark;
It was a chaos to explore;
It seemed all sea, without a shore,
Nor on that sea an ark.
For You, the young, the firm, the brave,
Too often met an early grave,
Unnoticed and unknown:
On naked shores were seen to lie,
In scorching heats were doomed to die
With agonizing groan.
By strength, or chance, if some survived
Disease, which hosts of life deprived,
That life they should devote,
To venture all in Freedom's cause,
To combat tyrants, and their laws,
So felt near this sad spot.
Yes—and the spirit which began,
(We swear by all that's great in man)
That spirit shall go on,
To brighten and illume the mind,
'Till tyrants vanish from mankind
And Tyranny is Done.
[178] From the edition of 1809.
THE TOMB OF THE PATRIOTS[179][A]
Quae Tiberine, videbis
Funera, cum, tumulum praeter labore recentum! Virg.
[A] Occasioned by the general procession of many thousands of the citizens of New York on the 26th of May, 1808, to inter the bones and skeletons of american prisoners who perished in the old Jersey, and other prison ships, during the revolutionary war; and which were now first discovered by the wasting of the shores and banks on Long Island, where they had been left.—Freneau's note.
When Philip's son possess'd his native lands
And train'd on grecian fields his grecian bands,
In Thebes subdued, or Athens near her fall,
He saw no honor, or despised it all.
To be reduced to universal sway
The world's vast prospect in perspective lay;—
While yet restricted to Larissa's plain
He cursed his fortune for a lot so mean,
On all his steps the gloom of sadness hung,
And fierce resentment all his bosom stung
That fortune's whim restrain'd to such a floor,
Had done so little, and might do no more.
Mercantile Tyre his laboring mind oppress'd,
The persian throne deprived his soul of rest—
The world his stage, he meant to play his part,
And unsubjected India gall'd his heart!
Look to the east where Tamerlane display'd
His crescent[B] moons and nations prostrate laid,
March where he would, the world before him bow'd
In conquest mighty, as of conquest proud—
What was the event? let tragic story tell
While sad sensations in the bosom swell—
What were the effects? in every step we trace
The wasteful havoc of a royal race,
Once fertile fields a howling desert made
The town in ashes, or the town decay'd,
Degraded man to native wildness turn'd,
His prospects clouded and his commerce spurn'd—
If such the outset of this mad career
What will the last disgusting scene appear,
Of all he conquer'd, when no more remains
Than vagrant subjects, or unpeopled plains!
[B] The three crescent moons in the turkish military standard, which had their origin, it is said, from the asiatic Tartars. Timurbeck (or Tamerlane) was of tartarian extraction.—Freneau's note.
Thus, when ambition prompts the ardent mind,
The soul, eccentric, frantic, unconfined,
To peace a stranger, soars to heights unknown,
And, slighting reason, yields the will to none;
Mere passion rules, degrading powers prevail,
And cool reflection quits the unbalanced scale.
It leaves the haunts of happiness and rest
To float on winds, disorder'd and unblest,
Quits all the calm that nature meant for man
To find some prize, or form the aspiring plan;
That plan ungain'd, the object cheats the view,
Or, if attain'd, they other marks pursue;
Till all is closed in disappointment's shade
And folly wonders at the flight she made:
Ambition's self finds every prospect vain,
The visions vanish, and the glooms remain.
And such the vice, with nations as with man,
Such the great failing since the world began:
To power exalted, as to power they rose
By honest toils, and humbling all their foes;
That zenith gain'd, they covet vast domains
And all, that pride from vast possession gains,
Till glittering visions bring the uneasy sigh
And uncontrol'd dominion blasts the eye.
Britain! we cite you to our bar, once more;
What but ambition urged you to our shore?—
To abridge our native rights, seven years you strove;
Seven years were ours your arm of death to prove,
To find, that conquest was your sovereign view;
Your aims, to fetter, humble, and subdue,
To seize a soil which not your labor till'd
When the rude native scarcely we repell'd,
When, with unbounded rage, their nations swore
To hurl the out-law'd stranger from their shore,
Or swell the torrent with their thousands slain
No more to approach them, or molest their reign.—
What did we ask?—what right but reason owns?
Yet even the mild petition met your frowns.
Submission, only, to a monarch's will
Could calm your rage, or bid your storm be still,
Before our eyes the angry shades appear
Of those, whose relics we this day inter:
They live, they speak, reproach you, and complain
Their lives were shorten'd by your galling chain:
They aim their shafts, directed to your breast,—
Let rage, and fierce resentment tell the rest.
These coffins, tokens of our last regard,
These mouldering bones your vengeance might have spared.—
If once, in life, they met you on the main,
If to your arms they yielded on the plain,—
Man, once a captive, all respect should claim
That Britain gave, before her days of shame.
How changed their lot! in floating dungeons thrown,
They sigh'd unpitied, and relieved by none:
In want of all that nature's wants demand,
They met destruction from some traitor's hand,
Who treated all with death or poison here,
Or the last groan, with ridicule severe.
A sickening languor to the soul returns
And kindling passion at the motive spurns:
The murders here, did we at length display
Would more than paint an indian tyrant's sway:
Then hush the theme, and to the dust restore
These, once so wretched near Manhattan's shore,
When tyrants ruled, whose hearts no mercy felt:
In blood they wallow'd as in death they dealt.
Thou who shalt come, by sad reflection taught,
To seek on Nassau's isle this lonely vault;
Think, when surveying this too gloomy scene,
Think what, had heaven decreed, you might have been.
When, with the rest, you pass'd the weary hour
Chain'd or subjected to some ruffian's power,
Think, as you see the sad procession pass'd,
Think what these are, and you must be at last.—
Learn, as you hope to find your heart's applause,
To love your country and respect her laws;
Revere the sages, who your rights explain'd,
Revere the patriots, who your cause sustain'd.
Your country's Hero, rising to your view,
Attend his precepts, and with care pursue,
He first to shield you, rais'd his powerful arm,
To honor steady as for freedom warm;
When she relumed her half-extinguish'd fire,
Then, not till then, did Washington retire,
And left a light, a radiance to display,
And mark his efforts, when he led the way.
When war's long waste your independence crown'd
And Hudson heard th' invigorating sound!
His was the task; to him the part assign'd
To paralize the vultures of mankind.
Admit no tyrants, to debase your minds;
Some selfish motive to all tyrants binds;
If robed in ermine or in scarlet clad,
The worst of idiots is a king run mad:
And Rome's worst prince accomplish'd by a word
No more, than by his councils, George the third!
How oft has rugged nature charged my pen
With gall, to shed it on that worst of men,
Who, dumb to all that reason might decide,
Mankind, their reason, and their prayers defy'd:
Who, firm to all that phrenzy could pursue,
Explored the ancient world, to chain the new;
And tired the despot, search'd each dark recess,
And ransack'd hell, to find the hireling hesse:—
Could he be here, a witness to this day,
With calm delight he would this scene survey,
Would see unmoved, with apathy of mind,
The gaping vault, this havoc of mankind!
Without a tear, these mouldering bones review,
That fell by ruffian hands—employ'd by you.
His phrenzy, rampant with the right divine,
Inspired a nation with a black design,
To blast with poison, like a wizard's spell,
And plant on man the characters of hell!—
Thou, who shalt come, of feeling mind possest,
And, heaven's first gift, the patriotic breast,
On this bleak coast, to tread the island plain,
Think, what revenge disgraced a monarch's reign!
Who, not content with wealth and power we gave,
Forgot the subject, to enthral the slave:
Such was his hope;—that hope to realize
He sent his myriads to demand the prize;
What were the splendid trophies he acquired?
Were these bleach'd bones the trophies he admired?
While passion fires, or kindred sorrows fall,
Ask not, if this sequester'd cell is all,
Is all that honors these collected bones?—
Enough is done to stigmatize all thrones:
Ask not, while passion with resentment fires,
Why to the skies no monument aspires?—
Enough is done to rouse the patriot glow
And bid the rising race your feelings know.
[179] From the edition of 1815.
ON THE PEAK OF PICO
ONE OF THE AZORES, OR WESTWARD ISLANDS[180]
Attracted to this airy steep
Above the subject hills,
Ocean, from his surrounding deep
The urn of Pico fills.
Thence gushing streams, unstinted, stray
To glad the mountain's side;
Or, winding through the vallies, gay,
Through fields, and groves, and vineyards glide.
To him the plains their verdure owe
Confessing what your smiles bestow,
Thou Peak of the Azores.
From day to day the unwearied sail
Surveys your towering cone,
And when th' adjacent prospects fail,
And neighboring isles no more they hail,
You meet the eye alone.
Twice forty miles the exploring eye
Discerns you o'er the waste,
Now, a blue turret in the sky
When not by mists embraced.
Long may you stand, the friendly mark,
To those who sail afar,
A spot that guides the wandering barque,
A second polar star.
[180] From the edition of 1815. Freneau sailed for the Madeira Islands May 12, 1803, arriving there on June 23. He was back in Charleston on August 16 following.
A BACCHANALIAN DIALOGUE
Written 1803[181]
Arrived at Madeira, the island of vines,
Where mountains and vallies abound,
Where the sun the wild juice of the cluster refines,
To gladden the magical ground:
As pensive I stray'd in her elegant shade,
Now halting and now on the move,
Old Bacchus I met, with a crown on his head,
In the darkest recess of a grove.
I met him with awe, but no symptom of fear
As I roved by his mountains and springs,
When he said with a sneer, "how dare you come here,
You hater of despots and kings?—
Do you know that a prince, and a regent renown'd
Presides in this island of wine?
Whose fame on the earth has encircled it round
And spreads from the pole to the line?
Haste away with your barque: on the foam of the main
To Charleston I bid you repair:
There drink your Jamaica, that maddens the brain;
You shall have no Madeira—I swear."
"Dear Bacchus," (I answered) for Bacchus it was
That spoke in this menacing tone:
I knew by the smirk and the flush on his face
It was Bacchus, and Bacchus alone—
"Dear Bacchus, (I answered) ah, why so severe?—
Since your nectar abundantly flows,
Allow me one cargo—without it I fear
Some people will soon come to blows:
I left them in wrangles, disorder, and strife,
Political feuds were so high,
I was sick of their quarrels, and sick of my life,
And almost requested to die."
The deity smiling, replied, "I relent:—
For the sake of your coming so far,
Here, taste of my choicest—go, tell them repent,
And cease their political war.
With the cargo I send, you may say, I intend
To hush them to peace and repose;
With this present of mine, on the wings of the wind
You shall travel, and tell them, here goes
A health to old Bacchus! who sends them the best
Of the nectar his island affords,
The soul of the feast and the joy of the guest,
Too good for your monarchs and lords.
No rivals have I in this insular waste,
Alone will I govern the isle
With a king at my feet, and a court to my taste,
And all in the popular style.
But a spirit there is in the order of things,
To me it is perfectly plain,
That will strike at the scepters of despots and kings,
And only king Bacchus remain."
[181] From edition of 1815.
STANZAS WRITTEN AT THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA[182]
On the fatal and unprecedented torrents of water which collected from the mountains on the
ninth of October, 1803, and destroyed a considerable part of the city of Funchal,
drowned a vast number of people, and damaged, to a great amount,
several plantations and villages in that neighborhood.
The rude attack, if none will tell,
On Bacchus, in his favorite isle;
If none in verse describe it well,
If none assume a poet's style
These devastations to display;—
Attend me, and perhaps I may.
To those who own the feeling heart
This tragic scene I would present,
No fiction, or the work of art,
Nor merely for the fancy meant:
Twas all a shade, a darken'd scene,
Old Noah's deluge come again!
From hills beyond the clouds that soar,
The vaults of heaven, the torrents run,
And rushing with resistless power,
Assail'd the island of the sun:
Fond nature saw the blasted vine,
And seem'd to sicken and repine.
As skyward stream'd the electric fire
The heavens emblazed, or wrapt in gloom;
The clouds appear, the clouds retire
And terror said, "the time is come
When all the groves, and hill, and plain
Will sink to ocean's bed again."
The cheery god, who loves to smile
And gladness to the heart bestows,
Almost resolved to quit his isle,
And in unwonted passion rose;
He sought his caves in wild dismay
And left the heavens to have their way.
The whistling winds had ceased to blow;
Not one, of all the aerial train—
No gale to aid that night of wo
Disturb'd the slumbers of the main;
In distant woods they silent slept;
Or, in the clouds, the tempest kept.
The bursting rains in seas descend,
Machico[A] heard the distant roar,
And lightnings, while the heavens they rend,
Show'd ruin marching to the shore:
Egyptian darkness brought her gloom
And fear foreboded nature's doom.
[A] A distant village on the island.—Freneau's note.
The heavens on fire, an ocean's force
Seized forests, vineyards, herds, and men,
And swelling streams from every source
Bade ancient chaos come again:
Through Fonchal's[B] road their courses held
And ocean saw his waves repell'd.
[B] The capital town of the island.—Ibid.
Ill fated town!—what works of pride
In one short hour were swept away!
Huge piles that time had long defy'd,
In ruthless ruin scatter'd lay:
Some buried in the opening deep—
With crowds dismiss'd to endless sleep,
From her fond arms the daughter torn,
The mother saw destruction near;
Both on the whirling surge were borne,
Forgetful of the farewell tear:
At distance torn, with feeble cries,
Far from her arms the infant dies.
Her dear delight, her darling boy
In morn of days and dawning bloom,
This opening bud of promised joy
Too early found a watery tomb,
Or floated on the briny waste;
No more beloved, no more embraced.
From heights immense, with force unknown,
Enormous rocks and mangled trees
Were headlong hurl'd and hurrying down,
Fix'd their foundation in the seas!
Or, rushing with a mountain's weight,
Hurl'd to the deeps their domes of state.
On heaven intent the affrighted priest
Where church was left, to churches ran,
With suppliant voice the skies addrest,
And wail'd the wickedness of man:
For which he thought, this scourge was meant,
And, weeping, said, repent, repent!
But Santa Clara's lofty walls,
Where pines through life the pious nun,
Whose prison to the mind recalls
What superstition's power has done:
No conquest there the floods essay'd,
Religion guarded man and maid.
What seem'd beyond the cannon's power,
The walls of rock, were torn away;
To ruin sunk the church and tower,
And no respect the flood would pay
To silver saints, or saints of wood,
The bishop's cap, the friar's hood.
Hard was their fate! more happy thou
The lady of the mountain tall;[C]
When desolation raged below
She stood secure, and scorn'd it all,
Where Gordon,[D] for retirement, chose
His groves, his gardens, and the muse.
[C] Nossa Senyora da Montana, a fine church on a high eminence in the mountains.—Freneau's note.
[D] A respectable gentleman of the island.—Ibid.
Who on this valley's drowning bed
Would plan a street, or build again,
Unthinking as the Brazen head[E]
For wretches builds a source of pain,
A church, a street, that soon or late
May share the same, or a worse fate.
[E] A rocky promontory a few miles eastward of the capital.—Ibid.
Let some vast bridge assume their place
Like those the romans raised of old,
With arches, firm as nature's base,
Of architecture grand and bold;
So will the existing race engage
The thanks of a succeeding age.
Pontinia[F] long must wear the marks
Of this wide-wasting scene of wo,
Where near the Loo, the tar embarks
When prosperous winds, to waft him, blow:
These ravages may time repair,
But he and I will not be there.
[F] The western quarter, near the Loo fort, where is the only eligible place of landing.—Ibid.
General Note.
From the best accounts that could be procured at Madeira, there perished in and near the city of Funchal, five hundred and fifty persons. The ravages were chiefly confined to the eastern parts of the town where the loss was immense in bridges, houses, streets and other property, public as well as private—there was one magnificent church totally destroyed, standing near the sea, and called in the portuguese tongue, Nossa Senyora da Caillou (lady of the beach) besides this, there were five handsome chapels carried away. Five very considerable streets with their immense stone buildings have entirely disappeared, or but some insignificant parts remaining. The water rose in a short space of time from 14 to 16 feet in the adjacent parts of the city, and bursting into the buildings, where it did not much injure the latter, it greatly damaged the merchantile property lodged therein. There were about two hundred persons supposed to be lost in other parts of the island, particularly in the villages, and small towns. The following circumstance it was asserted, added not a little to the devastations occasioned by the accumulation of water in the vallies. The governor, with several other considerable landholders in the mountains, had, for several years back, been in the practice of erecting stone dams across the vast and spacious valley above the city, at different intervals of distance for the purpose of watering the adjacent grounds, or leading off streams in a variety of directions—when the immense body of rain fell in October last, all this gave way, and carried death and destruction therewith.—Freneau's note.
[182] From the edition of 1815. Freneau sailed from Charleston January 25, 1804, and on March 7 he arrived at Madeira. On April 15 he was at Santa Cruz, and on May 11 he sailed for home.
ON THE PEAK OF TENERIFFE
1804[183]
No mean, no human artist laid
The base of this prodigious pile,
The towering peak—but nature said
Let this adorn Tenaria's isle;
And be my work for ages found
The polar star to islands round.
The conic-point that meets the skies
Indebted to volcanic fire,
First from the ocean bid to rise,
To heaven was suffer'd to aspire;
But man, ambitious, did not dare
To plant one habitation there:
For torrents from the mountain came;
What molten floods were seen to glow!
Expanded sheets of vivid flame,
To inundate the world below!
These, older than the historian's page
Once bellow'd forth vext nature's rage.
In ages past, as may again,
Such lavas from those ridges run.
And hastening to the astonish'd main
Exposed earth's entrails to the sun;
These, barren, once, neglected, dead,
Are now with groves and pastures spread.
Upon the verdant, scented lawn
The flowers a thousand sweets disperse,
And pictures, there, by nature drawn,
Inspire some island poet's verse,
While streams through every valley rove
To bless the garden, grace the grove.
To blast a scene above all praise
Should fate, at last, be so severe,
May this not hap' in Julia's[A] days,—
While Barrey[A] dwells all honor'd, here:
While Little[A] lives, of generous mind,
Or Armstrong,[A] social as refined.—
[A] A lady, and gentlemen of the first respectability, then residing at Santa Cruz, san Christoval de Laguna, and Port Oratava in the island of Teneriffe.—Freneau's note.
[183] From the edition of 1815.
ANSWER TO A CARD OF INVITATION
To visit a nunnery at Garrichica, on the north side of Teneriffe[184]
It came to hand, your friendly card,
No doubt, a token of regard;
But time is short, and I must leave
Your pensive town of Oratave,
And, soon departing, well you know,
Have many a weary mile to go.
Then stay and sip Canary wines,
While I return to oaks and pines,
To rail at kings, or court the muse,
To smoke a pipe, or turn recluse,
To think upon adventures past—
To think of what must come at last—
To drive the quill—and—to be brief,
To think no more of Teneriffe.—
How happy you who once a week,
Can storm a fort at Garrichique,
Or talk, familiar with the nuns
Secluded there with Levi's sons;
To see them smile, or hear them prate,
Or chant, and chat behind the grate!
All this is heaven, I half suspect,
And who would such a heaven neglect?
All I can say is what I mean,
May you embrace each Iphigene,
And hug and kiss them all the while,
These fair Calypsoes of the isle:
Then if what Sappho said, be true,
Blest as the immortal gods are you.
For me, not favor'd so by fate,
I venture not behind the grate:
There dragons guard the golden fleece,
And nymphs immured find no release:
Forbidden fruit you weekly see,
Forbidden fruit on every tree,
When he who tastes, may look for strife,
Where he who touches ventures life.
The jealous priests, with threatening eye
Look hard at all approaching nigh:
The monks have charge of brittle ware,
The friar bids you have a care;
That they alone the fruit may eat
That fills religion's last retreat:
The mother abbess looks as sour'd
As if you had the fruit devour'd,
And bids the stranger haste away,—
Not rich enough for fruit to pay.
How much unlike, our western fair,
Who breathe the sweets of freedom's air;
Go where they please, do what they will,
Themselves are their own guardians still:—
Then come, and on our distant shore
Some blooming rural nymph adore;
And do not make the day remote,
For time advances, quick as thought,
When thus some grave rebuke will say
When you approach the maiden gay:
'You should have courted in your prime,
'Our Anastasia's, at that time
'When blood ran quick, and Hymen said,
'Colin! my laws must be obey'd.'
Your card to slight, I'm much distrest,
Your card has robb'd me of my rest:
Should I attempt the nuns to accost
The priests might growl, and all be lost:
My cash might fail me when to pay;
No chance, perhaps, to run away;—
So, I decline the needless task
Return to Charleston, with the cask
Of wine, you send from Teneriffe,
To glad some hearts, and dry up grief:
I add, some dangerous neighbors here
May disappoint my hopes I fear;
The breakers near the vessel roll;
The lee-ward shore, the rocky shoal!
The whitening seas that constant lave
The craggy strand of Oratave;
The expected gale, the adjacent rock
Each moment threatens all our stock,
And Neptune, in his giant cup
Stands lurking near, to gulp it up.
But here's a health to Neptune's sons
Who man the yard—nor dream of nuns.
[184] From the edition of 1815.
ON SENIORA JULIA
Leaving a Dance, under Pretence of Drowsiness[185]
She, at the soul enlivening, ball,
And in the lamp illumined hall
But small amusement found;
She shunn'd the cards' bewitching play,
She shunn'd the noisy and the gay,
Nor cared for music's sound.
No nymph discover'd so much spleen,
Was so reserved as Julia, seen
On that enchanting night:
And yet she had her part to say
When young Almagro shared the play,
Then cards were her delight.
But he retired, amid the dance;
He heard, he said, of news from France,
And of a serious cast:
He wish'd to know beyond all doubt,
What Bonaparte was now about,
How long his sway would last.
Then, Julia made a good retreat,
But left the assembly incomplete;
She was with sleep oppress'd.—
Who shall the midnight dance prolong
Who lead the minuet, raise the song
Where Julia is no guest?
Yet, love declared her judgment right,
And whisper'd, when she bade good night
And feign'd an aching head,
"While some retreat and some advance,
Let them enjoy the festive dance,
You, Julia, go to bed."
[185] From the edition of 1815.
LINES ON SENIORA JULIA
of Port Oratave[186]
Adorn'd with every charm that beauty gives,
That nature lends, or female kind receives,
Good sense and virtue on each feature shine;
She is—she is not—yes, she is divine.
She speaks, she moves with all attracting grace,
And smiles display the angel on the face;
Her aspect all, what female would not share?
What youth but worship, with a mind so fair?
In this famed isle, the cloud-capp'd Teneriffe,
Where health abounds and languor finds relief;
In this bright isle, where Julia treads the plain,
What rapture fires the bosom of the swain!
At her approach, the breast untaught to glow,
Like the vast peak, retains eternal snow.
Feels not the first, best ardors of the mind;
Respect and awe, to love and friendship join'd.
When to Laguna's[A] heights she deigns to stray,
To myrtle bowers, and gardens ever gay,
Where spring eternal on the fragrant grove
Breathes the bright scenes of harmony and love;
All eyes, attracted, by her graceful mein
View her, the unrivall'd favorite of the green,
And when, too soon, she would the garden leave,
See Paradise forsaken by its Eve.
[A] An ancient town once the capital. Four miles from the sea.—Freneau's note.
Return bright nymph, attractive as admired,
And be what Plato from your sex required;
Mild as your clime, that rarely knows a storm,
The angelic nature in a female form.
Canary's[B] towns their splendid halls prepare,
But all is dark, when Julia is not there.
Not Oratava, on the sea-beat shore,
In her gay circles finds one Julia more,
Not high Lavelia[C] boasts so sweet a face;
Not Garrachica could yourself replace;
Not old Laguna can supply your loss,
Nor yet the city of the holy-cross.[D]
[B] Canary, a large island south eastward of Teneriffe.—Ibid.
[C] An old city in the mountains.—Ibid.
[D] Santa Cruz, the Capital; on the southeast quarter of the island.—Ibid.
Where love and passion, from the world conceal'd:
Devotion's winter has to frost congeal'd;
Yet beauty, there, adorns the brilliant dome,
Invites her loves, and bids her votaries come;
Fair Santa-Cruz her beauty, too, commands,
And, was but Julia there, unrivall'd stands.
Flush'd with the blessings of the generous vine,
The island bards, to honor you, combine;
The stranger guest, all tongues, when you appear,
Confess you, lovely, charming, all things dear;
Among the rest, accept my homely lay:
The last respect I can to Julia pay:
A different subject soon my verse awaits,
Contending powers, or disunited states;
Yet shall remembrance renovate the past,
And, when you die, your name unfading last:
Though mists obscure, or oceans round me swell,
To the deep seas I go, the world to tell
That Julia, foremost, does this isle engage,
And moves the first, bright Venus of my page.
[186] From the edition of 1815.
ON A RURAL NYMPH
Descending from one of the Madeira mountains, with a bundle of fuel wood, on her head[187]
Six miles, and more, with nimble foot
She came from some sequestered spot,
A handsome, swarthy, rustic maid
With furze and fern, upon her head:
The burthen hid a bonnet blue,
The only hat, perhaps, she knew,
No slippers on her feet were seen;
Yet every step display'd a mein
As if she might in courts appear,
Though placed by wayward fortune here.
An english man, who saw her, said,
Your burthen is too heavy laid,
Dear girl your lot is rather hard,
And, after all, a poor reward:
This is not labor suiting you,
Come with me home to England go,
And you shall have a coach and four,
A silken gown—and something more.
'Disturb me not (the girl replied)
'I choose to walk—let others ride:
'I would not leave yond' rugged hill
'To have your London at my will—
'You are too great for such as I:—'
When thus the briton made reply:
'Had I but thirty years to spare,
'And you precisely what you are,
'Had seen you thirty years ago
'In style of living, high or low,
'You should have been a lady gay,
'And dizzen'd out as fine as May:
'Why stay you here, to face the sun,
'And drudging till the day is done,
'While little to the purse it brings
'But little store of little things?'
She said, 'before the sun was up
'I finish'd with my chocolate cup:
'A hank of yarn I fairly spun,
'And, when the hank of yarn was done,
'To have a fire, and cook our mess
'I travell'd yonder wilderness;
'I climb'd a mountain very tall,
'Unwearied, and without a fall,
'And gather'd up this little pack
'Which now you see me carrying back;—
'Your northern girls at this might laugh,
'But such a jaunt would kill them half—
'Disturb me not, I must go on;
'Ten minutes, while I talk, are gone.'—
If she grew rich by hanks of yarn,
Is more than we shall ever learn;
If thrive she did by climbing hills,
No history or tradition tells;
But this we know, and this we say,
That where a despot holds the sway,
To pay the tax of king and queen
The common herd are poor and mean.
The slaves of lords the slaves of priests,
And nearly saddled, like the beasts.—
Where liberty erects her reign
Dulcina would have had her swain,
With horse and cow—which she had not,
Nor ever to possess them thought:
She would have had, to save her feet,
A pair of shoes and suit complete.
A decent dress, and not of rags,
A state above the rank of hags;
A language if not over fine,
At least above the beggar's whine.
Yet such attend on fortune's frowns,
And such support the pride of crowns.
[187] From the edition of 1815.
ON GENERAL MIRANDA'S EXPEDITION
Towards the Caraccas, Spanish Provinces in South America, February—1805[188]
To execute a vast design,
The soul, Miranda, was not thine:
With you the fates did not combine
To make an empire free.
We saw you spread Leander's sail,
We saw the adverse winds prevail,
Sad omen that the cause would fail
That led you to the sea.
By feeble winds the sail was fill'd
By feebler hands the helm was held—
We saw you from the port repell'd[A]
You might have made your own.
We saw you leave a manly crew
To the base spaniard, to imbrue
His hands in blood—and not a few
Were on his mercy thrown:
[A] Porto Cavallo, or Cabello, a seaport town of Terra Firma, in South America, on the coast of the Caraccas, and the Caribbean Sea; said to have been the first object of Miranda's expedition.—Freneau's note.
In dungeons vile they pass'd the day,
Far from their country, far away
From pitying friends, from liberty!
That years could scarce retrieve!
Twas thus Miranda play'd his game;
But who with him should share the blame?
Perhaps if we the men did name,
Credulity would not believe!
[188] From the edition of 1815. Miranda was a Spanish-American revolutionist, who devoted his life to the emancipation of Venezuela from Spanish rule. His first expedition was a failure.
ON THE ABUSE OF HUMAN POWER
As exercised over opinion[189]
What human power shall dare to bind
The mere opinions of the mind?
Must man at that tribunal bow
Which will no range to thought allow,
But his best powers would sway or sink,
And idly tells him what to Think?
Yes! there are such, and such are taught
To fetter every power of thought;
To chain the mind, or bend it down
To some mean system of their own,
And make religion's sacred cause
Amenable to human laws.
Has human power the simplest claim
Our hearts to sway, our thoughts to tame;
Shall she the rights of heaven assert,
Can she to falsehood truth convert,
Or truth again to falsehood turn,
And at the test of reason spurn?
All human sense, all craft must fail
And all its strength will nought avail,
When it attempts with efforts blind
To sway the independent mind,
Its spring to break, its pride to awe,
Or give to private judgment, law.
Oh impotent! and vile as vain,
They, who would native thought restrain!
As soon might they arrest the storm
Or take from fire the power to warm,
As man compel, by dint of might,
Old darkness to prefer to light.
No! leave the mind unchain'd and free,
And what they ought, mankind will be,
No hypocrite, no lurking fiend,
No artist to some evil end,
But good and great, benign and just,
As God and nature made them first.
[189] From the edition of 1815.
OCTOBER'S ADDRESS[190]
October came the thirtieth day:
And thus I heard October say;
"The lengthening nights and shortening days
Have brought the year towards a close,
The oak a leafless bough displays
And all is hastening to repose;
To make the most of what remains
Is now to take the greater pains.
"An orange hue the grove assumes,
The indian-summer-days appear;
When that deceitful summer comes
Be sure to hail the winter near:
If autumn wears a mourning coat
Be sure, to keep the mind afloat.
"The flowers have dropt, their blooms are gone,
The herbage is no longer green;
The birds are to their haunts withdrawn,
The leaves are scatter'd through the plain;
The sun approaches Capricorn,
And man and creature looks forlorn.
"Amidst a scene of such a cast,
The driving sleet, or falling snow,
The sullen cloud, the northern blast,
What have you left for comfort now,
When all is dead, or seems to die
That cheer'd the heart or charm'd the eye?
"To meet the scene, and it arrives,
(A scene that will in time retire)
Enjoy the pine—while that remains
You need not want the winter fire.
It rose unask'd for, from the plain,
And when consumed, will rise again.
"Enjoy the glass, enjoy the board,
Nor discontent with fate betray,
Enjoy what reason will afford,
Nor disregard what females say;
Their chat will pass away the time,
When out of cash or out of rhyme.
"The cottage warm and cheerful heart
Will cheat the stormy winter night,
Will bid the glooms of care depart
And to December give delight."—
Thus spoke October—rather gay,
Then seized his staff, and walk'd away.
[190] From the edition of 1815.
TO A CATY-DID[A][191]
[A] A well-known insect, when full grown, about two inches in length, and of the exact color of a green leaf. It is of the genus cicada, or grasshopper kind, inhabiting the green foliage of trees and singing such a song as Caty-did in the evening, towards autumn.—Freneau's note.
In a branch of willow hid
Sings the evening Caty-did:
From the lofty locust bough
Feeding on a drop of dew,
In her suit of green array'd
Hear her singing in the shade
Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did!
While upon a leaf you tread,
Or repose your little head,
On your sheet of shadows laid,
All the day you nothing said:
Half the night your cheery tongue
Revell'd out its little song,
Nothing else but Caty-did.
From your lodgings on the leaf
Did you utter joy or grief—?
Did you only mean to say,
I have had my summer's day,
And am passing, soon, away
To the grave of Caty-did:—
Poor, unhappy Caty-did!
But you would have utter'd more
Had you known of nature's power—
From the world when you retreat,
And a leaf's your winding sheet,
Long before your spirit fled,
Who can tell but nature said,
Live again, my Caty-did!
Live, and chatter Caty-did.
Tell me, what did Caty do?
Did she mean to trouble you?—
Why was Caty not forbid
To trouble little Caty-did?—
Wrong, indeed at you to fling,
Hurting no one while you sing
Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!
Why continue to complain?
Caty tells me, she again
Will not give you plague or pain:—
Caty says you may be hid
Caty will not go to bed
While you sing us Caty-did.
Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!
But, while singing, you forgot
To tell us what did Caty not:
Caty-did not think of cold,
Flocks retiring to the fold,
Winter, with his wrinkles old,
Winter, that yourself foretold
When you gave us Caty-did.
Stay securely in your nest;
Caty now, will do her best,
All she can, to make you blest;
But, you want no human aid—
Nature, when she form'd you, said,
"Independent you are made,
My dear little Caty-did:
Soon yourself must disappear
With the verdure of the year,"—
And to go, we know not where,
With your song of Caty-did.
[191] From the edition of 1815.
ON PASSING BY AN OLD CHURCHYARD[192]
Pensive, on this green turf I cast my eye,
And almost feel inclined to muse and sigh:
Such tokens of mortality so nigh.
But hold,—who knows if these who soundly sleep,
Would not, alive, have made some orphan weep,
Or plunged some slumbering victim in the deep.
There may be here, who once were virtue's foes,
A curse through life, the cause of many woes,
Who wrong'd the widow, and disturb'd repose.
There may be here, who with malicious aim
Did all they could to wound another's fame,
Steal character, and filch away good name.
Perhaps yond' solitary turf invests
Some who, when living, were the social pests,
Patrons of ribands, titles, crowns and crests.
Can we on such a kindred tear bestow?
They, who, in life, were every just man's foe,
A plague to all about them!—oh, no, no.
What though sepultured with the funeral whine;
Why, sorrowing on such tombs should we recline,
Where truth, perhaps, has hardly penn'd a line.
—Yet, what if here some honest man is laid
Whom nature of her best materials made,
Who all respect to sacred honor paid.
Gentle, humane, benevolent, and just,
(Though now forgot and mingled with the dust,
There may be such, and such there are we trust.)
Yes—for the sake of that one honest man
We would on knaves themselves bestow a tear,
Think nature form'd them on some crooked plan,
And say, peace rest on all that slumber here.
[192] From the edition of 1815.
STANZAS OCCASIONED BY A MELANCHOLY
SURVEY OF AN OLD ENGLISH TOBACCO BOX INSCRIBED 1708[193]
Written in a dearth of tobacco, by Hezekiah Salem.
Had I but what this box contained
Since good Queen Anne in Britain reigned,
My happiness would be increased
To more, perhaps, than she possessed.
This box, in many a pocket worn
(And to be used by some unborn)
Has been unfilled a week or more,
And curses the tobacco store,
Which now has had its turn to fail;
The door shut up, the man in jail
Who late behind the counter stood
And vended what was pretty good.
("And are you here?—the turnkey said,
"I rather would have seen you dead!"—
—Yes! I am here—the man replied—
And better so than to have died!)
This box again, in spite of that,
Shall be repackt with—I know what—
Again I'll fill its empty chest
With old Virginia's very best.
The fragrance of that mild perfume
Again shall cheer the reading room,
Again delight your men of wit
Who have the taste to relish it.
This box I deem a small estate
Where all my prospects are complete,
Whose oval round, and clasp, confines
The riches of Potosi's mines.
My best ideas here are sown,
(And best expressed when most alone)
Here, every muse can find a place
Yet take no atom of its space.
Tobacco! what to thee we owe,
Is what alone true smokers know:
To thee they owe the lively thought,
And joys without repentance bought.
To thee they owe the moral song,
The night that never seems too long,
The pleasant dream, refreshing sleep,
And sense that all should strive to keep.
It cures the pride of self-debate,
And pensive care, and deadly hate;
And love itself would nearer bring,
Did females love this coaxing thing.—
But they, the slaves of custom's rule,
Are ever to the smoker cool,
And hate the plant, whose gentle sway
Bids us their noisy tongues obey.
The happy days I would recall
When Jane to me was all in all!
The firm we to the town did show
Was, Salem, Jane, Segar, and Co.
The sanded box was near us placed
Which held the dregs we chose to waste;
Thus pleased to pass the winter's eve,
And thus the lingering hours deceive.
No wrangling was permitted there—
'Twas friendship all, and love sincere;
And they received affronts enough
Who entered with the Cloven Hoof.
The social whiff went cheerly on!—
But Jane is to that people gone
Where dear tobacco!—strong and sound—
Is not upon their invoice found!—
It sheds a magic on my pen
To deaden all despotic men,
A charm that can the soul command,
Nor kings, nor courtiers shall withstand:
Such, vested with imperial sway,
O'er bodies reign, dull, stupid, blind;
But us the nobler powers obey,
We reign, despotic, o'er the mind!
It aids us in the tuneful art
To catch the ear, or move the heart;
An hour with Nancy can beguile,
But meets not her approving smile.
Of northern pine her floors were made,
A carpet on the boards was spread;
And who shall dare this floor prophane,
Which Nancy keeps without a stain?
The watchful demon in her eye
The smallest speck can there espy;
And he shall curse his natal hour
Who spits upon this velvet floor:
I saw her anger waxing hot,
I heard her threaten, Do it not,
Or, instant, quit these doors of mine,
And be converted into swine.—
This powerful plant, if fortune frown,
Can make the bitter draught go down;
It keeps me warm in Greenland's frost,
And gives me more than all I lost.
The joys of wine, without its bane,
That kindles frenzy in the brain;
All these are here—and more than these
In this tobacco box I'll squeeze.
It holds a part of all I prize
Within this world that bounded lies;
And when the ashes only shows,
The spirit into aether goes.
Dismissed to that Serene Abode,
Where no tobacco is allowed!——
The comfort is, that free from care,
We neither wish, nor want it There.
[193] From the edition of 1809.
ON THE DEATH OF A MASTER BUILDER
Or Free Mason of High Rank[194]
(Written by Request.)
Assembled this day on occasion of grief,
We mourn the occasion, the loss of our chief;
A Mason, our master, that built up a pile
By the compass and square in the masonic style.
At the word of the Builder, who built All at first,
Turned chaos to order, and darkness dispersed,
Our architect leaves us, that mason so skilled,
The fabric of virtue and freedom to build.
As far as this nature, called human, can go,
A pattern he was of perfection below;
By the line and the plummet he built up a wall,
As firm as old time, and, we trust, not to fall.
By science enlightened, a friend to mankind,
He came, for the purpose exactly designed;
Like the Baptist of old, in the annals of fate,
Precursor of all that is noble and great.
He thought it an honour the trowel to hold,
And to be with the craft, as a brother enrolled:
To the practice of virtue he knew they were bound
Wherever a lodge or a mason is found.
Designed as he was, to excel and transcend,
Yet he courted the titles of brother and friend,
And these in the fabric of masons are more
Than monarchs can give,—and which tyrants abhor.
With a patron like this, we are proud to prepare
The stone and the mortar, our building to rear,
And copy, from Him, who can make it endure,
Who raised the first building, and keeps all secure.
In such a grand master all masons were blessed;
The world and all masons his merits confessed;
But now he is gone in new orbits to move
And join the first builder of all things above.
[194] From the edition of 1809.
ON THE DEATH OF A MASONIC GRAND SACHEM[195]
This day we unite
And all Brethren invite
To honour a man of our nation;
Who, honest as brave,
Is gone to his grave
And takes an unchangeable station.
In our subject we view
(To Liberty true)
The officer firm in all danger;
Who stood to his post
At the head of a host
His country to save, and avenge her.
By compass and square
This artisan rare
Defeated all foreign invasion,
Then returned to his farm
When no longer alarm
Distracted the mind of the nation.
In all that he did,
In all that he said
The bliss of mankind was intended;—
He rose for their good,
To support them he stood,
And Liberty ever defended.
The foundation he laid,
And the fabric he made
No mason but he could pretend to;
It will stand, we foresee,
'Till that era shall be
When the globe of the world there's an end to.
So, fame to the man
Who the building began,
Whose model all nations will take
When kingdoms are fled,
Standing armies are dead,
And monarchs—no longer awake.
[195] From the edition of 1809.
ON A HONEY BEE
Drinking from a Glass of Wine and Drowned Therein[196]
(By Hezekiah Salem.)
Thou, born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come on vagrant wing?—
Does Bacchus tempting seem—
Did he, for you, this glass prepare?—
Will I admit you to a share?
Did storms harass or foes perplex,
Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay—
Did wars distress, or labours vex,
Or did you miss your way?—
A better seat you could not take
Than on the margin of this lake.
Welcome!—I hail you to my glass:
All welcome, here, you find;
Here, let the cloud of trouble pass,
Here, be all care resigned.—
This fluid never fails to please,
And drown the griefs of men or bees.
What forced you here, we cannot know,
And you will scarcely tell—
But cheery we would have you go
And bid a glad farewell:
On lighter wings we bid you fly,
Your dart will now all foes defy.
Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink,
And in this ocean die;
Here bigger bees than you might sink,
Even bees full six feet high.
Like Pharoah, then, you would be said
To perish in a sea of red.
Do as you please, your will is mine;
Enjoy it without fear—
And your grave will be this glass of wine,
Your epitaph—a tear—
Go, take your seat in Charon's boat,
We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.
[196] From the edition of 1809.
ON THE FALL OF AN ANCIENT OAK TREE[197]
While onward moves each circling year
Thy mandates, Nature, all obey,
As with this moving, changeful sphere
The seasons change and never stay;
Old Oak, I to your place return,
Where late you stood, and viewing mourn,
For the great loss my heart sustained
When you declined, long will I sigh,
That hour when you no more remained
To cheer the summer, passing by;
No longer blessed my eager view,
But like some dying friend withdrew.
Though frequent, by that nipping frost,
The blast which cold November sends,
I saw your leafy honours lost;
Hope, for such losses, made amends:
The spring again beheld them grow,
And we were pleased, and so was you.
Since I your fatal fall survive,
Remembrance long shall hold you dear,
And bid some young successor live;
By sad Amyntor planted here;
Its buds to swell, its leaves to spread,
And shade the place when he is dead.
A prince among your towering race,
What more your vanished form endears
Is that your presence in this place
Had been at least one hundred years;
And men that long in dust have laid,
When boys, beneath your shadow played.
You had your time to feel the sun,
To wanton in his cheering ray;—
That time is past, your race is run,
And we have nothing more to say,
Than, may your oaken spirit go
Among Elysian oaks below.
[197] From the edition of 1809.
STANZAS ON THE DECEASE OF THOMAS PAINE
Who died at New-York, on the 8th of June, 1809[198]
Princes and kings decay and die
And, instant, rise again:
But this is not the case, trust me,
With men like Thomas Paine.
In vain the democratic host
His equal would attain:
For years to come they will not boast
A second Thomas Paine.
Though many may his name assume;
Assumption is in vain;
For every man has not his plume—
Whose name is Thomas Paine.
Though heaven bestow'd on all its sons
Their proper share of brain,
It gives to few, ye simple ones,
The mind of Thomas Paine.
To tyrants and the tyrant crew,
Indeed, he was the bane;
He writ, and gave them all their due,
And signed it,—Thomas Paine.
Oh! how we loved to see him write
And curb the race of Cain!
They hope and wish that Thomas P——
May never rise again.
What idle hopes!—yes—such a man
May yet appear again.—
When they are dead, they die for aye:
—Not so with Thomas Paine.
[198] From the edition of 1815.