"Such persons as are disposed to encourage American authors (particularly at a time when we are surfeited with stale publications retailed to us from British presses) and are not unwilling to be known as promoters of polite literature and the fine arts in these Republican States are requested to deliver in their names."
One bit of contemporary praise, however, has been preserved. On June 8th, one week after the appearance of Freneau's first volume, Col. Parke of Philadelphia composed the following, which was first published in the Journal of June 21st, and afterward included in his volume of "The Lyric Works of Horace, ... to which are added a Number of Original Poems," issued later in the year:
"To Mr. Philip Freneau, on his Volume of excellent Poems,
Printed by Mr. Bailey.
"Difficile est Satiram non Scribere."—Juv.
"Tho' I know not your person, I well know your merit,
Your satires admire—your muse of true spirit;
Who reads them must smile at poetical story
Except the k—g's printer, or some such like tory;
Sir William, sir Harry, and would-be sir John,
Cornwallis, the devil, those bucks of the ton;
Black Dunmore and Wallace with sun-setting nose,
Who steak hogs and sheep, secure—under the Rose.[A]
But a fig for the anger of such petty rogues,
To the devil we pitch them without shoes or brogues!
[A] He commanded the Rose sloop.
"Pythag'ras' choice scheme my belief now controuls,
I sign to his creed—transmigration of souls;
Euphorbas's shield he no doubt did employ,
And bravely let blood on the plains of old Troy:
The souls of great Marlbro' and warlike Eugene
Conspicuous in Washington's glory are seen:
Sage Pluto beams wisdom from Franklin's rich brain,
And sky-taught sir Isaac[B] is seen here again.
But Hugh when he migrates may daily be found
Cracking bones in a kitchen in form of a hound;
When his compeer shall die—while no Christian shall weep him,
Old Pluto, below, for a devil will keep him;
Unless he's sent up on some hasty dispatch,
The whigs to abuse, and more falsehoods to hatch.
Thou red-jerkin'd fops, whom your muse I've heard sing
From Hounslow's bold heroes successively spring;
From Tyburn they tumble as supple as panders,
Then migrate straightway into knights and commanders.
But you, worthy poet, whose soul-cutting pen
In gall paints the crimes of all time-serving men,
The fiend of corruption, the wretch of an hour,
The star-garter'd villain, the scoundrel in pow'r,
From souls far unlike may announce your ascension,
The patriot all-worthy, above bribe or pension,
The martyr who suffered for liberty's sake
Grim dungeons, more horrid than hell's bitter lake:
Your name to bright honor, the spirits shall lift,
That glow'd in the bosoms of Churchill and Swift.
[B] David Rittenhouse, Esq., the Ingenious inventor of the celebrated perpendicular Orrery.
"And when you are number'd, alas! with the dead,
Your works by true wits will forever be read,
Who, pointing the finger, shall pensively shew
The lines that were written, alas! by Freneau."
Philadelphia, June 8, 1786.