Chapter XII: Epilogue: 31 (1)

Well!--strange it is, that men will still apply
Things to themselves, that authors never meant:
Each country merchant asks me, "Is it I
On whom your rhyming ridicule is spent?"
Friends, hold your tongues--such myriads of your race
Adorn Columbia's fertile, favour'd climes,
A man might rove seven years from place to place
Ere he would know the subject of my rhymes.--
Perhaps in Jersey is this creature known,
Perhaps New-England claims him for her own:
And if from Fancy's world this wight I drew,
What is the imagin'd character to you?"

[30] From the 1809 edition of Freneau's poems. This piece does not appear in the editions of 1786 and 1788. It ran as a serial for several weeks in the _National Gazette_, beginning May 17, 1792, and it was immediately reprinted by Bache in his _Aurora_. I can find no earlier trace of it. It was printed, together with "The Country Printer," in 1794 by Hoff and Derrick, Philadelphia, as a 16-page pamphlet, under the title, "The Village Merchant," and it was given a place in the 1795 edition, dated "Anno 1768." In the 1809 edition it was first divided into sections with sub-titles.

[31] The epilogue was first added in 1795.

_Debemur morti nos nostraque!_

THE PYRAMIDS OF EGYPT[32]

A Dialogue. Written in 1770.

_Scene._--Egypt. _Persons._--Traveller, Genius, Time.

_Traveller_

Where are those famed piles of human grandeur,
Those sphinxes, pyramids, and Pompey's pillar,
That bid defiance to the arm of Time--
Tell me, dear Genius: for I long to see them.

_Genius_

At Alexandria rises Pompey's pillar,
Whose birth is but of yesterday, compar'd
With those prodigious fabricks that you see
O'er yonder distant plain--upon whose breast
Old Nile hath never roll'd his swelling streams,
The only plain so privileg'd in Egypt.
These pyramids may well excite your wonder,
They are of most remote antiquity,
Almost co-eval with those cloud-crown'd hills
That westward from them rise--'twas the same age
That saw old Babel's tower aspiring high,
When first the sage Egyptian architects
These ancient turrets to the heavens rais'd;--
But Babel's tower is gone, and these remain!

_Traveller_

Old Rome I thought unrivall'd in her years,
At least the remnants that we find of Rome,
But these, you tell me, are of older date.

_Genius_

Talk not of Rome!--before they lopt a bush
From the seven hills where Rome, earth's empress, stood,
These pyramids were old--their birth day is
Beyond tradition's reach, or history.

_Traveller_

Then let us haste toward those piles of wonder
That scorn to bend beneath this weight of years--
Lo! to my view, the aweful mansions rise
The pride of art, the sleeping place of death!
Are these the four prodigious monuments
That so astonish every generation--
Let us examine this, the first and greatest--
A secret horror chills my breast, dear Genius,
To touch these monuments that are so ancient,
The fearful property of ghosts and death!--
Yet of such mighty bulk that I presume
A race of giants were the architects.--
Since these proud fabricks to the heavens were rais'd
How many generations have decay'd,
How many monarchies to ruin pass'd!
How many empires had their rise and fall!
While these remain--and promise to remain
As long as yonder sun shall gild their summits,
Or moon or stars their wonted circles run.

_Genius_

The time will come
When these stupendous piles you deem immortal,
Worn out with age, shall moulder on their bases,
And down, down, low to endless ruin verging,
O'erwhelm'd by dust, be seen and known no more!--
Ages ago, in dark oblivion's lap
Had they been shrouded, but the atmosphere
In these parch'd climates, hostile to decay,
Is pregnant with no rain, that by its moisture
Might waste their bulk in such excess of time,
And prove them merely mortal.
'Twas on this plain the ancient Memphis stood,
Her walls encircled these tall pyramids--
But where is Pharoah's palace, where the domes
Of Egypt's haughty lords?--all, all are gone,
And like the phantom snows of a May morning
Left not a vestige to discover them!

_Traveller_

How shall I reach the vortex of this pile--
How shall I clamber up its shelving sides?
I scarce endure to glance toward the summit,
It seems among the clouds--When was't thou rais'd,
O work of more than mortal majesty--
Was this produc'd by persevering man,
Or did the gods erect this pyramid?

_Genius_

Nor gods, nor giants rais'd this pyramid--
It was the toil of mortals like yourself
That swell'd it to the skies--
See'st thou yon' little door? Through that they pass'd,
Who rais'd so high this aggregate of wonders!
What cannot tyrants do,
When they have subject nations at their will,
And the world's wealth to gratify ambition!
Millions of slaves beneath their labours fainted
Who here were doom'd to toil incessantly,
And years elaps'd while groaning myriads strove
To raise this mighty tomb--and but to hide
The worthless bones of an Egyptian king.--
O wretch, could not a humbler tomb have done,
Could nothing but a pyramid inter thee!

_Traveller_

Perhaps old Jacob's race, when here oppress'd,
Rais'd, in their years of bondage this dread pile.

_Genius_

Before the Jewish patriarchs saw the light,
While yet the globe was in its infancy
These were erected to the pride of man--
Four thousand years have run their tedious round
Since these smooth stones were on each other laid,
Four thousand more may run as dull a round
Ere Egypt sees her pyramids decay'd.

_Traveller_

But suffer me to enter, and behold
The interior wonders of this edifice.

_Genius_

'Tis darkness all, with hateful silence join'd--
Here drowsy bats enjoy a dull repose,
And marble coffins, vacant of their bones,
Show where the royal dead in ruin lay!
By every pyramid a temple rose
Where oft in concert those of ancient time
Sung to their goddess Isis hymns of praise;
But these are fallen!--their columns too superb
Are levell'd with the dust--nor these alone--
Where is thy vocal statue, Memnon, now,
That once, responsive to the morning beams,
Harmoniously to father Phoebus sung!
Where is the image that in past time stood
High on the summit of yon' pyramid?--
Still may you see its polish'd pedestal--
Where art thou ancient Thebes?----all bury'd low,
All vanish'd! crumbled into mother dust,
And nothing of antiquity remains
But these huge pyramids, and yonder hills.

_Time_

Old Babel's tower hath felt my potent arm
I ruin'd Ecbatan and Babylon,
Thy huge Colossus, Rhodes, I tumbled down,
And on these pyramids I smote my scythe;
But they resist its edge--then let them stand.
But I can boast a greater feat than this,
I long ago have shrouded those in death
Who made those structures rebels to my power--
But, O return!--These piles are not immortal!
This earth, with all its balls of hills and mountains,
Shall perish by my hand--then how can these,
These hoary headed pyramids of Egypt,
That are but dwindled warts upon her body,
That on a little, little spot of ground
Extinguish the dull radiance of the sun,
Be proof to Death and me?----Traveller return--
There's nought but God immortal----He alone
Exists secure, when Man, and Death, and Time,
(Time not immortal, but a fancied point
In the vast circle of eternity)
Are swallow'd up, and, like the pyramids,
Leave not an atom for their monument!

[32] The text is from the edition of 1786. The 1795 edition has the note "anno 1769."

THE MONUMENT OF PHAON[33]

Written 1770.

Phaon, the admirer of Sappho, both of the isle of Lesbos, privately
forsook this first object of his affections, and set out to visit
foreign countries. Sappho, after having long mourned his absence
(which is the subject of one of Ovid's finest epistles), is here
supposed to fall into the company of Ismenius a traveller, who
informs her that he saw the tomb of a certain Phaon in Sicily,
erected to his memory by a lady of the island, and gives her the
inscriptions, hinting to her that, in all probability, it belonged
to the same person she bemoans. She thereupon, in a fit of rage and
despair, throws herself from the famous Leucadian rock, and
perishes in the gulph below.

_Sappho_

No more I sing by yonder shaded stream,
Where once intranc'd I fondly pass'd the day,
Supremely blest, when Phaon was my theme,
But wretched now, when Phaon is away!

Of all the youths that grac'd our Lesbian isle
He, only he, my heart propitious found,
So soft his language, and so sweet his smile,
Heaven was my own when Phaon clasp'd me round!

But soon, too soon, the faithless lover fled
To wander on some distant barbarous shore--
Who knows if Phaon is alive or dead,
Or wretched Sappho shall behold him more.

_Ismenius_

As late in fair Sicilia's groves I stray'd,
Charm'd with the beauties of the vernal scene
I sate me down amid the yew tree's shade,
Flowers blooming round, with herbage fresh and green.

Not distant far a monument arose
Among the trees and form'd of Parian stone,
And, as if there some stranger did repose,
It stood neglected, and it stood alone.

Along its sides dependent ivy crept,
The cypress bough, Plutonian green, was near,
A sculptur'd Venus on the summit wept,
A pensive Cupid dropt the parting tear.

Strains deep engrav'd on every side I read,
How Phaon died upon that foreign shore--
Sappho, I think your Phaon must be dead,
Then hear the strains that do his fate deplore:

Thou swain that lov'st the morning air,
To those embowering trees repair,
Forsake thy sleep at early dawn.
And of this landscape to grow fonder,
Still, O still persist to wander
Up and down the flowery lawn;
And as you there enraptur'd rove
From hill to hill, from grove to grove,
Pensive now and quite alone,
Cast thine eye upon this stone,
Read its melancholy moan;
And if you can refuse a tear
To the youth that slumbers here,
Whom the Lesbians held so dear,
Nature calls thee not her own.
Echo, hasten to my aid!
Tell the woods and tell the waves,
Tell the far off mountain caves
(Wrapt in solitary shade);
Tell them in high tragic numbers,
That beneath this marble tomb,
Shrouded in unceasing gloom
Phaon, youthful Phaon, slumbers,
By Sicilian swains deplor'd--
That a narrow urn restrains
Him who charm'd our pleasing plains,
Him, whom every nymph ador'd.
Tell the woods and tell the waves,
Tell the mossy mountain caves,
Tell them, if none will hear beside,
How our lovely Phaon died.
In that season when the sun
Bids his glowing charioteer
Phoebus, native of the sphere,
High the burning zenith run;
Then our much lamented swain,
O'er the sunny, scorched plain,
Hunting with a chosen train,
Slew the monsters of the waste
From those gloomy caverns chac'd
Round stupendous Etna plac'd.--
Conquer'd by the solar beam
At last he came to yonder stream;
Panting, thirsting there he lay
On this fatal summer's day,
While his locks of raven jett
Were on his temples dripping wet;
The gentle stream ran purling by
O'er the pebbles, pleasantly,
Tempting him to drink and die--
He drank indeed--but never thought
Death was in the gelid draught!--
Soon it chill'd his boiling veins,
Soon this glory of the plains
Left the nymphs and left the swains,
And has fled with all his charms
Where the Stygian monarch reigns,
Where no sun the climate warms!--
Dread Pluto then, as once before,
Pass'd Avernus' waters o'er;
Left the dark and dismal shore,
And strait enamour'd, as he gloomy stood,
Seiz'd Phaon by the waters of the wood.
Now o'er the silent plain
We for our much lov'd Phaon call again,
And Phaon! Phaon! ring the woods amain--
From beneath this myrtle tree,
Musidora, wretched maid,
How shall Phaon answer thee,
Deep in vaulted caverns laid!--
Thrice the myrtle tree hath bloom'd
Since our Phaon was entomb'd,
I, who had his heart, below,
I have rais'd this turret high,
A monument of love and woe
That Phaon's name may never die.--
With deepest grief, O muse divine,
Around his tomb thy laurels twine
And shed thy sorrow, for to morrow
Thou, perhaps, shalt cease to glow--
My hopes are crost, my lover lost,
And I must weeping o'er the mountains go!

_Sappho_

Ah, faithless Phaon, thus from me to rove,
And bless my rival in a foreign grove!
Could Sicily more charming forests show
Than those that in thy native Lesbos grow--
Did fairer fruits adorn the bending tree
Than those that Lesbos did present to thee!
Or didst thou find through all the changing fair
One beauty that with Sappho could compare!
So soft, so sweet, so charming and so kind,
A face so fair, such beauties of the mind--
Not Musidora can be rank'd with me
Who sings so well thy funeral song for thee!--[34]
I'll go!--and from the high Leucadian steep
Take my last farewell in the lover's leap,
I charge thee, Phaon, by this deed of woe
To meet me in the Elysian shades below,
No rival beauty shall pretend a share,
Sappho alone shall walk with Phaon there.
She spoke, and downward from the mountain's height
Plung'd in the plashy wave to everlasting night.

[33] Text from the edition of 1786. For the edition of 1795 Freneau cut out the song of Ismenius, beginning "Thou swain that lov'st the morning air," and extending to the speech of Sappho, "Ah, faithless Phaon."

[34] This and the preceding line omitted from the later versions.

THE POWER OF FANCY[35]

Written 1770.

Wakeful, vagrant, restless thing,
Ever wandering on the wing,
Who thy wondrous source can find,
Fancy, regent of the mind;
A spark from Jove's resplendent throne,
But thy nature all unknown.
This spark of bright, celestial flame,
From Jove's seraphic altar came,
And hence alone in man we trace,
Resemblance to the immortal race.
Ah! what is all this mighty whole,
These suns and stars that round us roll!
What are they all, where'er they shine,
But Fancies of the Power Divine!
What is this globe, these lands, and seas,
And heat, and cold, and flowers, and trees,
And life, and death, and beast, and man,
And time--that with the sun began--
But thoughts on reason's scale combin'd,
Ideas of the Almighty mind!
On the surface of the brain
Night after night she walks unseen,
Noble fabrics doth she raise
In the woods or on the seas,
On some high, steep, pointed rock,
Where the billows loudly knock
And the dreary tempests sweep
Clouds along the uncivil deep.
Lo! she walks upon the moon,
Listens to the chimy tune
Of the bright, harmonious spheres,
And the song of angels hears;
Sees this earth a distant star,[A]
Pendant, floating in the air;
Leads me to some lonely dome,
Where Religion loves to come,
Where the bride of Jesus dwells,
And the deep ton'd organ swells
In notes with lofty anthems join'd,
Notes that half distract the mind.
Now like lightning she descends
To the prison of the fiends,
Hears the rattling of their chains,
Feels their never ceasing pains--
But, O never may she tell
Half the frightfulness of hell.
Now she views Arcadian rocks,
Where the shepherds guard their flocks,
And, while yet her wings she spreads,
Sees chrystal streams and coral beds,
Wanders to some desert deep,
Or some dark, enchanted steep,
By the full moonlight doth shew
Forests of a dusky blue,
Where, upon some mossy bed,
Innocence reclines her head.
Swift, she stretches o'er the seas
To the far off Hebrides,
Canvas on the lofty mast
Could not travel half so fast--
Swifter than the eagle's flight
Or instantaneous rays of light!
Lo! contemplative she stands
On Norwegia's rocky lands--
Fickle Goddess, set me down
Where the rugged winters frown
Upon Orca's howling steep,
Nodding o'er the northern deep,
Where the winds tumultuous roar,
Vext that Ossian sings no more.
Fancy, to that land repair,
Sweetest Ossian slumbers there;
Waft me far to southern isles
Where the soften'd winter smiles,
To Bermuda's orange shades,
Or Demarara's lovely glades;
Bear me o'er the sounding cape,
Painting death in every shape,
Where daring Anson spread the sail
Shatter'd by the stormy gale--
Lo! she leads me wide and far,
Sense can never follow her--
Shape thy course o'er land and sea,
Help me to keep pace with thee,
Lead me to yon' chalky cliff,
Over rock and over reef,
Into Britain's fertile land,
Stretching far her proud command.
Look back and view, thro' many a year,
Cæsar, Julius Cæsar, there.
Now to Tempe's verdant wood,
Over the mid-ocean flood
Lo! the islands of the sea--
Sappho, Lesbos mourns for thee:
Greece, arouse thy humbled head,
Where are all thy mighty dead,
Who states to endless ruin hurl'd
And carried vengeance through the world?--
Troy, thy vanish'd pomp resume,
Or, weeping at thy Hector's tomb,
Yet those faded scenes renew,
Whose memory is to Homer due.
Fancy, lead me wandering still
Up to Ida's cloud-topt hill;
Not a laurel there doth grow
But in vision thou shalt show,--
Every sprig on Virgil's tomb
Shall in livelier colours bloom,
And every triumph Rome has seen
Flourish on the years between.
Now she bears me far away
In the east to meet the day,
Leads me over Ganges' streams,
Mother of the morning beams--
O'er the ocean hath she ran,
Places me on Tinian;
Farther, farther in the east,
Till it almost meets the west,
Let us wandering both be lost
On Taitis sea-beat coast,
Bear me from that distant strand,
Over ocean, over land,
To California's golden shore--
Fancy, stop, and rove no more.
Now, tho' late, returning home,
Lead me to Belinda's tomb;
Let me glide as well as you
Through the shroud and coffin too,
And behold, a moment, there,
All that once was good and fair--
Who doth here so soundly sleep?
Shall we break this prison deep?--
Thunders cannot wake the maid,
Lightnings cannot pierce the shade,
And tho' wintry tempests roar,
Tempests shall disturb no more.
Yet must those eyes in darkness stay,
That once were rivals to the day?--
Like heaven's bright lamp beneath the main
They are but set to rise again.
Fancy, thou the muses' pride,
In thy painted realms reside
Endless images of things,
Fluttering each on golden wings,
Ideal objects, such a store,
The universe could hold no more:
Fancy, to thy power I owe
Half my happiness below;
By thee Elysian groves were made,
Thine were the notes that Orpheus play'd;
By thee was Pluto charm'd so well
While rapture seiz'd the sons of hell--
Come, O come--perceiv'd by none,
You and I will walk alone.

[A] Milton's Paradise Lost, B. II, V. 1052.--_Freneau's note._

[35] From the edition of 1786. The later editions omitted all but the first twenty and the last fourteen lines of the poem, and gave to this fragment the title "Ode to Fancy." The omitted lines, much changed, were then made a separate poem, under the title "Fancy's Ramble."

THE PRAYER OF ORPHEUS

Sad monarch of the world below,
Stern guardian of this drowsy shade,
Through these unlovely realms I go
To seek a captive thou hast made.
O'er Stygian waters have I pass'd,
Contemning Jove's severe decree,
And reached thy sable court at last
To find my lost Eurydicè.

Of all the nymphs so deckt and drest
Like Venus of the starry train,
She was the loveliest and the best,
The pride and glory of the plain.
O free from thy despotic sway
This nymph of heaven-descended charms,
Too soon she came this dusky way--
Restore thy captive to my arms!

As by a stream's fair verdant side
In myrtle shades she roved along,
A serpent stung my blooming bride,
This brightest of the female throng--
The venom hastening thro' her veins
Forbade the freezing blood to flow.
And thus she left the Thracian plains
For these dejected groves below.

Even thou may'st pity my sad pain,
Since Love, as ancient stories say,
Forced thee to leave thy native reign,
And in Sicilian meadows stray:
Bright Proserpine thy bosom fired,
For her you sought unwelcome light,
Madness and love in you conspired
To seize her to the shades of night.

But if, averse to my request,
The banished nymph, for whom I mourn,
Must in Plutonian chambers rest,
And never to my arms return----
Take Orpheus too--his warm desire
Can ne'er be quench'd by your decree:
In life or death he must admire,
He must adore Eurydicè!

THE DESERTED FARM-HOUSE[36]

This antique dome the insatiate tooth of time
Now level with the dust has almost laid;--
Yet ere 'tis gone, I seize my humble theme
From these low ruins, that his years have made.

Behold the unsocial hearth!--where once the fires
Blazed high, and soothed the storm-stay'd traveller's woes;
See! the weak roof, that abler props requires,
Admits the winds, and swift descending snows.

Here, to forget the labours of the day,
No more the swains at evening hours repair,
But wandering flocks assume the well known way
To shun the rigours of the midnight air.

In yonder chamber, half to ruin gone,
Once stood the ancient housewife's curtained bed--
Timely the prudent matron has withdrawn,
And each domestic comfort with her fled.

The trees, the flowers that her own hands had reared,
The plants, the vines, that were so verdant seen,--
The trees, the flowers, the vines have disappear'd,
And every plant has vanish'd from the green.

So sits in tears on wide Campania's plain
Rome, once the mistress of a world enslaved;
That triumph'd o'er the land, subdued the main,
And Time himself, in her wild transports, braved.

So sits in tears on Palestina's shore
The Hebrew town, of splendour once divine--
Her kings, her lords, her triumphs are no more;
Slain are her priests, and ruin'd every shrine.

Once, in the bounds of this deserted room,
Perhaps some swain nocturnal courtship made,
Perhaps some Sherlock mused amidst the gloom;
Since Love and Death forever seek the shade.

Perhaps some miser, doom'd to discontent,
Here counted o'er the heaps acquired with pain;
He to the dust--his gold, on traffick sent,
Shall ne'er disgrace these mouldering walls again.

Nor shall the glow-worm fopling, sunshine bred,
Seek, at the evening hour this wonted dome--
Time has reduced the fabrick to a shed,
Scarce fit to be the wandering beggar's home.

And none but I its dismal case lament--
None, none but I o'er its cold relics mourn,
Sent by the muse--(the time perhaps misspent)--
To write dull stanzas on this dome forlorn.

[36] The first trace that I can find of this poem is in the _Freeman's Journal_ of May 18, 1785. I have little doubt that it is the "Stanzas on an Ancient Dutch House on Long Island," mentioned in 1773 in a letter to Madison as forming a part of Freneau's publication, "_The American Village_," now lost. After its appearance in the _Freeman's Journal_, it was widely copied. The _Independent Gazetteer_ printed it in 1787, introduced as follows: "The following is copied from Perryman's _London Morning Herald_ of July 22, 1787: 'The Deserted Farm House,' written in America by Mr. Freneau, whose political productions tended considerably to keep alive the spirit of independence during the late civil war." I have followed the text of 1809. The poet constantly emended this poem; he seldom reprinted it without minor changes, usually for the better.

THE CITIZEN'S RESOLVE[37]

"Far be the dull and heavy day
"And toil, and restless care, from me--
"Sorrow attends on loads of gold,
"And kings are wretched, I am told.
"Soon from the noisy town removed
"To such wild scenes as Plato[38] lov'd,
"Where, placed the leafless oaks between,
"Less haughty grows the wintergreen,
"There, Night, will I (lock'd in thy arms,
"Sweet goddess of the sable charms)
"Enjoy the dear, delightful dreams
"That fancy prompts by shallow[39] streams,
"Where wood nymphs walk their evening round,
"And fairies haunt the moonlight ground.
"Beneath some mountain's towering height
"In cottage low I hail the night,
"Where jovial swains with heart sincere
"Welcome the new returning year;--
"Each tells a tale or chaunts a song
"Of her, for whom he sigh'd so long,
"Of Cynthia[40] fair, or Delia coy,
"Neglecting still her love-sick boy--
"While, near, the hoary headed sage
"Recalls the feats of youth's gay age,
"All that in past time e'er was seen,
"And many a frolic on the green,
"How champion he with champions met,
"And fiercely they did combat it--
"Or how, full oft, with horn and hound
"They chaced the deer the forest round--
"The panting deer as swiftly flies,
"Yet by the well-aimed musquet dies!
"Thus pass the evening hours away,
"Unnoticed dies the parting day;
"Unmeasured flows that happy juice,
"Which mild October did produce,
"No surly sage, too frugal found,
"No niggard housewife deals it round:
"And deep they quaff the inspiring bowl
"That kindles gladness in the soul.--[41]
"But now the moon, exalted high,
"Adds lustre to the earth and sky,
"And in the mighty ocean's glass
"Admires the beauties of her face--
"About her orb you may behold
"The circling stars that freeze with cold--
"But they in brighter seasons please,
"Winter can find no charms in these,
"While less ambitious, we admire,
"And more esteem domestic fire.
"O could I there a mansion find
"Suited exactly to my mind
"Near that industrious, heavenly train
"Of rustics honest, neat, and plain;
"The days, the weeks, the years to pass
"With some good-natured, longing lass,
"With her the cooling spring to sip,
"And seize, at will, her damask lip;
"The groves, the springs, the shades divine,
"And all Arcadia should be mine!
"Steep me, steep me, some poppies deep
"In beechen bowl, to bring on sleep;
"Love hath my soul in fetters bound,
"Through the dull night no sleep I found;--
"O gentle sleep! bestow thy dreams
"Of fields, and woods, and murmuring streams,
"Dark, tufted groves, and grottoes rare,
"And Flora, charming Flora, there.
"Dull Commerce, hence, with all thy train
"Of debts, and dues, and loss, and gain;
"To hills, and groves, and purling streams,
"To nights of ease, and heaven-born dreams,
"While wiser Damon hastes away,
"Should I in this dull city stay,
"Condemn'd to death by slow decays
"And care that clouds my brightest days?
"No--by Silenus' self I swear,
"In rustic shades I'll kill that care."
So spoke Lysander, and in haste
His clerks discharg'd, his goods re-cased,
And to the western forests flew
With fifty airy schemes in view;
His ships were set to public sale--
But what did all this change avail?--
In three short months, sick of the heavenly train,
In three short months--he moved to town again.

[37] From the edition of 1809. The 1786 edition has the note, "Written 1770."

[38] Shenstone.--_Ed. 1786._

[39] Sylvan.--_Ed. 1786._

[40] Dolly.--_Ed. 1786._

[41]

"But swift as changing goblets pass,
They bless the virtues of the glass."--_Ed. 1786._

THE DYING ELM[42]

Sweet, lovely Elm, who here dost grow
Companion of unsocial care,
Lo! thy dejected branches die
Amidst this torrid air--
Smit by the sun or blasting moon,
Like fainting flowers, their verdure gone.

Thy withering leaves, that drooping hang,
Presage thine end approaching nigh;
And lo! thy amber tears distill,
Attended with that parting sigh--
O charming tree! no more decline,
But be thy shades and love-sick whispers mine.

Forbear to die--this weeping eye
Shall shed her little drops on you,
Shall o'er thy sad disaster grieve,
And wash thy wounds with pearly dew,
Shall pity you, and pity me,
And heal the languor of my tree!

Short is thy life, if thou so soon must fade,
Like angry Jonah's gourd at Nineveh,
That, in a night, its bloomy branches spread,
And perish'd with the day.--
Come, then, revive, sweet lovely Elm, lest I,
Thro' vehemence of heat, like Jonah, wish to die.

[42] First published in the June number of the _United States Magazine_, 1779, under the title, "The Dying Elm: An Irregular Ode." This earliest version was much changed in its later editions; the third stanza was added for the edition of 1786. It may be doubted if Freneau much improved the poem from its first draft, save by the additional stanza. Following are some of the lines as they stood originally: "Companion of my musing care;" "Like fainting flowers that die at noon;" "O gentle tree, no more decline;" "And flourish'd for a day;" "Come, then, revive, sweet shady elm, lest I." With two minor exceptions the text was unvaried for the later editions.

COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND[43]

Columbus was a considerable number of years engaged in soliciting
the Court of Spain to fit him out, in order to discover a new
continent, which he imagined existed somewhere in the western parts
of the ocean. During his negotiations, he is here supposed to
address king Ferdinand in the following Stanzas.

Illustrious monarch of Iberia's soil,
Too long I wait permission to depart;
Sick of delays, I beg thy list'ning ear--
Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.

While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,
Grant his request to pass the western main:
Reserve this glory for thy native soil,
And what must please thee more--for thy own reign.

Of this huge globe, how small a part we know--
Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny?--
How disproportion'd to the mighty deep
The lands that yet in human prospect lie!

Does Cynthia, when to western skies arriv'd,
Spend her sweet beam upon the barren main,
And ne'er illume with midnight splendor, she,
The natives dancing on the lightsome green?--

Should the vast circuit of the world contain
Such wastes of ocean, and such scanty land?--
'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so,
I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.

Does yon' fair lamp trace half the circle round
To light the waves and monsters of the seas?--
No--be there must beyond the billowy waste
Islands, and men, and animals, and trees.

An unremitting flame my breast inspires
To seek new lands amidst the barren waves,
Where falling low, the source of day descends,
And the blue sea his evening visage laves.

Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage:[A]
"_The time shall come, when numerous years are past,
"The ocean shall dissolve the bands of things,
"And an extended region rise at last;_

[A] Seneca the poet, native of Cordova in Spain.--_Freneau's
note_ (_1786_). _Venient annis secula seris, quibus
oceanus vincula rerum laxet, et ingens pateat tellus,
Typhisque novos detegat orbes; nec sit terris Ultima
Thule._--Seneca, Med., Act. III, V. 375. (_Ibid. Ed.
1795 et seq._)

"_And Typhis shall disclose the mighty land
"Far, far away, where none have rov'd before;
"Nor shall the world's remotest region be
"Gibraltar's rock, or Thule's[B] savage shore._"[44]

[B] Supposed by many to be the Orkney or Shetland
Isles.--_Freneau's note._

Fir'd at the theme, I languish to depart,
Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,
He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep;
Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.

Nor does he dread to lose the intended course,
Though far from land the reeling galley stray,
And skies above, and gulphy seas below
Be the sole objects seen for many a day.

Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vain
The mystic magnet to the mortal eye:
So late have we the guiding needle plann'd
Only to sail beneath our native sky?

Ere this was found, the ruling power of all
Found for our use an ocean in the land,
Its breadth so small we could not wander long,
Nor long be absent from the neighbouring strand.

Short was the course, and guided by the stars,
But stars no more shall point our daring way;
The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drown'd,
And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,

When southward we shall steer--O grant my wish.
Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,
He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep,
Reason shall steer, and shall disarm the gale.

[43] According to the edition of 1786, this poem was "written 1770." The first trace that I find of it is in the June number of the _United States Magazine_, 1779. The 1786 text, which I have followed, was changed but little in the later editions.

[44] This is a translation of the passage from Seneca used on the title page of _The Rising Glory of America_.

THE RISING GLORY OF AMERICA[45]

Being part of a Dialogue pronounced on a public occasion.

ARGUMENT

The subject proposed.--The discovery of America by Columbus.--
A philosophical enquiry into the origin of the savages of
America.--The first planters from Europe.--Causes of their
migration to America.--The difficulties they encountered from the
jealousy of the natives.--Agriculture descanted on.--Commerce and
navigation.--Science.--Future prospects of British usurpation,
tyranny, and devastation on this side the Atlantic.--The more
comfortable one of Independence, Liberty and Peace.--Conclusion.

_Acasto_

Now shall the adventurous muse attempt a theme
More new, more noble and more flush of fame
Than all that went before--
Now through the veil of ancient days renew
The period famed when first Columbus touched 5
These shores so long unknown--through various toils,
Famine, and death, the hero forced his way,
Through oceans pregnant with perpetual storms,
And climates hostile to adventurous man.
But why, to prompt your tears, should we resume, 10
The tale of Cortez, furious chief, ordained
With Indian blood to dye the sands, and choak,
Famed Mexico, thy streams with dead? or why
Once more revive the tale so oft rehearsed
Of Atabilipa, by thirst of gold, 15
(Too conquering motive in the human breast,)
Deprived of life, which not Peru's rich ore
Nor Mexico's vast mines could then redeem?
Better these northern realms demand our song,
Designed by nature for the rural reign, 20
For agriculture's toil.--No blood we shed
For metals buried in a rocky waste.--
Cursed be that ore, which brutal makes our race
And prompts mankind to shed their kindred blood.

_Eugenio_

But whence arose 25
That vagrant race who love the shady vale,
And choose the forest for their dark abode?--
For long has this perplext the sages' skill
To investigate.--Tradition lends no aid
To unveil this secret to the human eye, 30
When first these various nations, north and south,
Possest these shores, or from what countries came;
Whether they sprang from some primæval head
In their own lands, like Adam in the east,--
Yet this the sacred oracles deny, 35
And reason, too, reclaims against the thought:
For when the general deluge drowned the world
Where could their tribes have found security,
Where find their fate, but in the ghastly deep?--
Unless, as others dream, some chosen few 40
High on the Andes 'scaped the general death,
High on the Andes, wrapt in endless snow,
Where winter in his wildest fury reigns,
And subtile æther scarce our life maintains.
But here philosophers oppose the scheme: 45
This earth, say they, nor hills nor mountains knew
Ere yet the universal flood prevailed;
But when the mighty waters rose aloft,
Roused by the winds, they shook their solid base,
And, in convulsions, tore the deluged world, 50
'Till by the winds assuaged, again they fell,
And all their ragged bed exposed to view.
Perhaps far wandering toward the northern pole
The streights of Zembla, and the frozen zone,
And where the eastern Greenland almost joins 55
America's north point, the hardy tribes
Of banished Jews, Siberians, Tartars wild
Came over icy mountains, or on floats,
First reached these coasts, hid from the world beside.--
And yet another argument more strange, 60
Reserved for men of deeper thought, and late,
Presents itself to view:--In Peleg's days,
(So says the Hebrew seer's unerring pen)
This mighty mass of earth, this solid globe,
Was cleft in twain,--"divided" east and west, 65
While then perhaps the deep Atlantic roll'd,--
Through the vast chasm, and laved the solid world;
And traces indisputable remain
Of this primæval land now sunk and lost.--
The islands rising in our eastern main 70
Are but small fragments of this continent,
Whose two extremities were Newfoundland
And St. Helena.--One far in the north,
Where shivering seamen view with strange surprize
The guiding pole-star glittering o'er their heads; 75
The other near the southern tropic rears
Its head above the waves--Bermuda's isles,
Cape Verd, Canary, Britain, and the Azores,
With fam'd Hibernia, are but broken parts
Of some prodigious waste, which once sustain'd 80
Nations and tribes, of vanished memory,
Forests and towns, and beasts of every class,
Where navies now explore their briny way.

_Leander_

Your sophistry, Eugenio, makes me smile;
The roving mind of man delights to dwell 85
On hidden things, merely because they're hid:
He thinks his knowledge far beyond all limit,
And boldly fathoms Nature's darkest haunts;--
But for uncertainties, your broken isles,
Your northern Tartars, and your wandering Jews, 90
(The flimsy cobwebs of a sophist's brain)
Hear what the voice of history proclaims:--
The Carthagenians, ere the Roman yoke
Broke their proud spirits, and enslaved them too,
For navigation were renowned as much 95
As haughty Tyre with all her hundred fleets.
Full many a league their venturous seamen sailed
Through streight Gibraltar, down the western shore
Of Africa, to the Canary isles:
By them called Fortunate; so Flaccus sings. 100
Because eternal spring there clothes the fields
And fruits delicious bloom throughout the year.--
From voyaging here, this inference I draw,
Perhaps some barque with all her numerous crew
Falling to leeward of her destined port, 105
Caught by the eastern Trade, was hurried on
Before the unceasing blast to Indian isles,
Brazil, La Plata, or the coasts more south--
There stranded, and unable to return,
Forever from their native skies estranged. 110
Doubtless they made these virgin climes their own,
And in the course of long revolving years
A numerous progeny from these arose,
And spread throughout the coasts--those whom we call
Brazilians, Mexicans, Peruvians rich, 115
The tribes of Chili, Patagon, and those
Who till the shores of Amazon's long stream.--
When first the power of Europe here attained,
Vast empires, kingdoms, cities, palaces
And polished nations stock'd the fertile land. 120
Who has not heard of Cusco, Lima, and
The town of Mexico--huge cities form'd
From Indian architecture; ere the arms
Of haughty Spain disturb'd the peaceful soil?--
But here, amid this northern dark domain, 125
No towns were seen to rise.--No arts were here;
The tribes unskill'd to raise the lofty mast,
Or force the daring prow thro' adverse waves,
Gazed on the pregnant soil, and craved alone
Life from the unaided genius of the ground,-- 130
This indicates they were a different race;
From whom descended, 'tis not ours to say--
That power, no doubt, who furnish'd trees, and plants,
And animals to this vast continent,
Spoke into being man among the rest,-- 135
But what a change is here!--what arts arise!
What towns and capitals! how commerce waves
Her gaudy flags, where silence reign'd before!

_Acasto_

Speak, learned Eugenio, for I've heard you tell
The dismal story, and the cause that brought 140
The first adventurers to these western shores!
The glorious cause that urged our fathers first
To visit climes unknown, and wilder woods
Than e'er Tartarian or Norwegian saw,
And with fair culture to adorn a soil 145
That never felt the industrious swain before.

_Eugenio_

All this long story to rehearse, would tire;
Besides, the sun towards the west retreats,
Nor can the noblest theme retard his speed,
Nor loftiest verse--not that which sang the fall 150
Of Troy divine, and fierce Achilles' ire.--
Yet hear a part:--By persecution wronged
And sacerdotal rage, our fathers came
From Europe's hostile shores to these abodes,
Here to enjoy a liberty in faith, 155
Secure from tyranny and base controul.
For this they left their country and their friends,
And plough'd the Atlantic wave in quest of peace;
And found new shores, and sylvan settlements,
And men, alike unknowing and unknown. 160
Hence, by the care of each adventurous chief
New governments (their wealth unenvied yet)
Were form'd on liberty and virtue's plan.
These searching out uncultivated tracts
Conceived new plans of towns, and capitals, 165
And spacious provinces.--Why should I name
Thee, Penn, the Solon of our western lands;
Sagacious legislator, whom the world
Admires, long dead: an infant colony,
Nursed by thy care, now rises o'er the rest 170
Like that tall pyramid in Egypt's waste
O'er all the neighbouring piles, they also great.
Why should I name those heroes so well known,
Who peopled all the rest from Canada
To Georgia's farthest coasts, West Florida, 175
Or Apalachian mountains?--Yet what streams
Of blood were shed! what Indian hosts were slain,
Before the days of peace were quite restored!

_Leander_

Yes, while they overturn'd the rugged soil
And swept the forests from the shaded plain 180
'Midst dangers, foes, and death, fierce Indian tribes
With vengeful malice arm'd, and black design,
Oft murdered, or dispersed, these colonies--
Encouraged, too, by Gallia's hostile sons,
A warlike race, who late their arms display'd, 185
At Quebec, Montreal, and farthest coasts
Of Labrador, or Cape Breton, where now
The British standard awes the subject host.
Here, those brave chiefs, who, lavish of their blood,
Fought in Britannia's cause, in battle fell!-- 190
What heart but mourns the untimely fate of Wolfe,
Who, dying, conquered!--or what breast but beats
To share a fate like his, and die like him!

_Acasto_

But why alone commemorate the dead,
And pass those glorious heroes by, who yet 195
Breathe the same air, and see the light with us?--
The dead, Leander, are but empty names,
And they who fall to-day the same to us
As they who fell ten centuries ago!--
Lost are they all that shined on earth before; 200
Rome's boldest champions in the dust are laid,
Ajax and great Achilles are no more,
And Philip's warlike son, an empty shade!--
A Washington among our sons of fame
Will rise conspicuous as the morning star 205
Among the inferior lights:--
To distant wilds Virginia sent him forth--
With her brave sons he gallantly opposed
The bold invaders of his country's rights,
Where wild Ohio pours the mazy flood, 210
And mighty meadows skirt his subject streams.--
But now delighting in his elm tree's shade,
Where deep Potowmac laves the enchanting shore,
He prunes the tender vine, or bids the soil
Luxuriant harvests to the sun display.-- 215
Behold a different scene--not thus employed
Were Cortez, and Pizarro, pride of Spain,
Whom blood and murder only satisfied,
And all to glut their avarice and ambition!--

_Eugenio_

Such is the curse, Acasto, where the soul 220
Humane is wanting--but we boast no feats
Of cruelty like Europe's murdering breed:--
Our milder epithet is merciful,
And each American, true hearted, learns
To conquer, and to spare; for coward souls 225
Alone seek vengeance on a vanquished foe.
Gold, fatal gold, was the alluring bait
To Spain's rapacious tribes--hence rose the wars
From Chili to the Caribbean sea,
And Montezuma's Mexican domains: 230
More blest are we, with whose unenvied soil
Nature decreed no mingling gold to shine,
No flaming diamond, precious emerald,
No blushing sapphire, ruby, chrysolite,
Or jasper red--more noble riches flow 235
From agriculture, and the industrious swain,
Who tills the fertile vale, or mountain's brow.
Content to lead a safe, a humble life,
Among his native hills, romantic shades
Such as the muse of Greece of old did feign, 240
Allured the Olympian gods from chrystal skies,
Envying such lovely scenes to mortal man.

_Leander_

Long has the rural life been justly fam'd,
And bards of old their pleasing pictures drew
Of flowery meads, and groves, and gliding streams: 245
Hence, old Arcadia--wood-nymphs, satyrs, fauns;
And hence Elysium, fancied heaven below!--
Fair agriculture, not unworthy kings,
Once exercised the royal hand, or those
Whose virtues raised them to the rank of gods. 250
See old Laertes in his shepherd weeds
Far from his pompous throne and court august,
Digging the grateful soil, where round him rise,
Sons of the earth, the tall aspiring oaks,
Or orchards, boasting of more fertile boughs, 255
Laden with apples red, sweet scented peach,
Pear, cherry, apricot, or spungy plumb;
While through the glebe the industrious oxen draw
The earth-inverting plough.--Those Romans too,
Fabricius and Camillus, loved a life 260
Of neat simplicity and rustic bliss,
And from the noisy Forum hastening far,
From busy camps, and sycophants, and crowns,
'Midst woods and fields spent the remains of life,
Where full enjoyment still awaits the wise. 265
How grateful, to behold the harvests rise,
And mighty crops adorn the extended plains!--
Fair plenty smiles throughout, while lowing herds
Stalk o'er the shrubby hill or grassy mead,
Or at some shallow river slake their thirst.-- 270
The inclosure, now, succeeds the shepherd's care,
Yet milk-white flocks adorn the well stock'd farm,
And court the attention of the industrious swain.--
Their fleece rewards him well, and when the winds
Blow with a keener blast, and from the north 275
Pour mingled tempests through a sunless sky
(Ice, sleet, and rattling hail) secure he sits
Warm in his cottage, fearless of the storm,
Enjoying now the toils of milder moons,
Yet hoping for the spring.--Such are the joys, 280
And such the toils of those whom heaven hath bless'd
With souls enamoured of a country life.

_Acasto_

Such are the visions of the rustic reign--
But this alone, the fountain of support,
Would scarce employ the varying mind of man; 285
Each seeks employ, and each a different way:
Strip Commerce of her sail, and men once more
Would be converted into savages;--
No nation e'er grew social and refined
'Till Commerce first had wing'd the adventurous prow, 290
Or sent the slow-paced caravan, afar,
To waft their produce to some other clime,
And bring the wished exchange--thus came, of old,
Golconda's golden ore, and thus the wealth
Of Ophir, to the wisest of mankind. 295

_Eugenio_

Great is the praise of Commerce, and the men
Deserve our praise, who spread the undaunted sail,
And traverse every sea--their dangers great,
Death still to combat in the unfeeling gale,
And every billow but a gaping grave:-- 300
There, skies and waters, wearying on the eye,
For weeks and months no other prospect yield
But barren wastes, unfathomed depths, where not
The blissful haunt of human form is seen
To cheer the unsocial horrors of the way.-- 305
Yet all these bold designs to Science owe
Their rise and glory.--Hail, fair Science! thou,
Transplanted from the eastern skies, dost bloom
In these blest regions.--Greece and Rome no more
Detain the Muses on Citheron's brow, 310
Or old Olympus, crowned with waving woods,
Or Hæmus' top, where once was heard the harp,
Sweet Orpheus' harp, that gained his cause below,
And pierced the souls of Orcus and his bride;
That hush'd to silence by its voice divine 315
Thy melancholy waters, and the gales
O Hebrus! that o'er thy sad surface blow.--
No more the maids round Alpheus' waters stray,
Where he with Arethusa's stream doth mix,
Or where swift Tiber disembogues his waves 320
Into the Italian sea, so long unsung;
Hither they wing their way, the last, the best
Of countries, where the arts shall rise and grow,
And arms shall have their day;--even now we boast
A Franklin, prince of all philosophy, 325
A genius piercing as the electric fire,
Bright as the lightning's flash, explained so well,
By him, the rival of Britannia's sage.--
This is the land of every joyous sound,
Of liberty and life, sweet liberty! 330
Without whose aid the noblest genius fails,
And Science irretrievably must die.

_Leander_

But come, Eugenio, since we know the past--
What hinders to pervade with searching eye
The mystic scenes of dark futurity? 335
Say, shall we ask what empires yet must rise,
What kingdoms, powers and states, where now are seen
Mere dreary wastes and awful solitude,
Where Melancholy sits, with eye forlorn,
And time anticipates, when we shall spread 340
Dominion from the north, and south, and west,
Far from the Atlantic to Pacific shores,
And people half the convex of the main!--
A glorious theme!--but how shall mortals dare
To pierce the dark events of future years 345
And scenes unravel, only known to fate?
This might we do, if warmed by that bright coal
Snatch'd from the altar of cherubic fire
Which touched Isaiah's lips--or if the spirit
Of Jeremy and Amos, prophets old, 350
Might swell the heaving breast--I see, I see
Freedom's established reign; cities, and men,
Numerous as sands upon the ocean shore,
And empires rising where the sun descends!--
The Ohio soon shall glide by many a town 355
Of note; and where the Mississippi stream,
By forests shaded, now runs weeping on,
Nations shall grow, and states not less in fame
Than Greece and Rome of old!--we too shall boast
Our Scipios, Solons, Catos, sages, chiefs 360
That in the lap of time yet dormant lie,
Waiting the joyous hour of life and light.--
O snatch me hence, ye muses, to those days
When, through the veil of dark antiquity,
A race shall hear of us as things remote, 365
That blossomed in the morn of days.--Indeed,
How could I weep that we exist so soon,
Just in the dawning of these mighty times,
Whose scenes are painting for eternity!
Dissentions that shall swell the trump of fame, 370
And ruin hovering o'er all monarchy!

_Eugenio_

Nor shall these angry tumults here subside
Nor murder cease, through all these provinces,
Till foreign crowns have vanished from our view
And dazzle here no more--no more presume 375
To awe the spirit of fair Liberty;--
Vengeance must cut the thread,--and Britain, sure
Will curse her fatal obstinacy for it!
Bent on the ruin of this injured country,
She will not listen to our humble prayers. 380
Though offered with submission:
Like vagabonds and objects of destruction,
Like those whom all mankind are sworn to hate,
She casts us off from her protection,
And will invite the nations round about, 385
Russians and Germans, slaves and savages,
To come and have a share in our perdition.--
O cruel race, O unrelenting Britain,
Who bloody beasts will hire to cut our throats,
Who war will wage with prattling innocence, 390
And basely murder unoffending women!--
Will stab their prisoners when they cry for quarter,
Will burn our towns, and from his lodging turn
The poor inhabitant to sleep in tempests!--
These will be wrongs, indeed, and all sufficient 395
To kindle up our souls to deeds of horror,
And give to every arm the nerves of Samson--
These are the men that fill the world with ruin,
And every region mourns their greedy sway,--
Not only for ambition---- 400
But what are this world's goods, that they for them
Should exercise perpetual butchery?
What are these mighty riches we possess,
That they should send so far to plunder them?--
Already have we felt their potent arm-- 405
And ever since that inauspicious day,
When first Sir Francis Bernard
His ruffians planted at the council door,
And made the assembly room a home for vagrants,
And soldiers, rank and file--e'er since that day 410
This wretched land, that drinks its children's gore,
Has been a scene of tumult and confusion!--
Are there not evils in the world enough?
Are we so happy that they envy us?
Have we not toiled to satisfy their harpies, 415
Kings' deputies, that are insatiable;
Whose practice is to incense the royal mind
And make us despicable in his view?--
Have we not all the evils to contend with
That, in this life, mankind are subject to, 420
Pain, sickness, poverty, and natural death--
But into every wound that nature gave
They will a dagger plunge, and make them mortal!

_Leander_

Enough, enough!--such dismal scenes you paint,
I almost shudder at the recollection.-- 425
What! are they dogs that they would mangle us?--
Are these the men that come with base design
To rob the hive, and kill the industrious bee!--
To brighter skies I turn my ravished view,
And fairer prospects from the future draw:-- 430
Here independent power shall hold her sway,
And public virtue warm the patriot breast:
No traces shall remain of tyranny,
And laws, a pattern to the world beside,
Be here enacted first.---- 435

_Acasto_