Chapter XVI: Part II: , and made to refer to the Tories (1)

[261] "That I acted."--_Ed. 1795._

[262] "Rul'd me."--_Ib._

[263] "My PENSION is lost!"--_Ed. 1795._

[264] See page 120.

[265] See page 190.

[266]

"When all the town knew (and a number confess'd)
That papers, like these, were no cause of arrest."--_Ed. 1795._

[267] "My struggles and strife."--_Ib._

[268] "To worry."--_Ib._

[269] In place of these lines, the edition of 1795 has the following:

"Old Argo the ship,--in a peep at her star,
I found they were scraping her bottom for TAR."

[270] "A boy with a feather-bed troubled my rest."--_Ed. 1795._

[271] Royal Governor of New York. He arrived in the city March 21, 1780. He was considered harsh and arbitrary by the patriots.

A NEWS-MAN'S ADDRESS[272]

What tempests gloom'd the by-past year--
What dismal prospects then arose!
Scarce at your doors I dar'd appear,
So many were our griefs and woes:
But time at length has chang'd the scene,
Our prospects, now, are more serene.

Bad news we brought you every day,
Your seamen slain, your ships on shore,
The army fretting for their pay--
('Twas well they had not fretted more!)
'Twas wrong indeed to wear out shoes,
To bring you nothing but bad news.

Now let's be joyful for the change--
The folks that guard the English throne
Have given us ample room to range,
And more, perhaps, than was their own;
To western lakes they stretch our bounds,
And yield the Indian hunting grounds.

But pray read on another year,
Remain the humble newsman's friend;
And he'll engage to let you hear
What Europe's princes next intend.--
Even now their brains are all at work
To rouse the Russian on the Turk.

Well--if they fight, then fight they must,
They are a strange contentious breed;
One good effect will be, I trust,
The more are kill'd, the more you'll read;
For past experience clearly shews,
That Wrangling is the Life of News.

[272] From the edition of 1795. The poem was first published as a broadside in 1784, with the title, "New-Year Verses, For those who carry the Pennsylvania Gazette To the Customers. January 1, 1784," and was reproduced almost verbatim in the 1786 edition.

NEW YEAR'S VERSES[273]

Addressed to the customers of the _Freeman's Journal_, by the Lad who carries it

January 7, 1784

Blest be the man who early prov'd
And first contriv'd to make it clear
That Time upon a dial mov'd,
And trac'd that circle call'd a year;

Ere he arose, the savage, man,
No bounds to years or seasons knew,
On Nature's book his reckoning ran,
And social festivals were few.

In after days, when folks grew wise
New wonderments were daily found,
Systems they built on pumpkin pies,
And prov'd that every thing went round.

Experience shows they reason'd right,
(With laurels we their tombs should crown)
For half the world is in such plight
That one would swear it upside down.

Now I am one, (and pray attend)
Who, marching in a smaller sphere,
To set you right, my service lend,
By bringing Papers through the year,

Which to your Honours may impart
A thousand new invented schemes,
The works of wit, and toils of art,
News, commerce, politics, and dreams:

Though in a sheet, at random cast,
Our motley knowledge we dispose,
From such a mass, in ages past,
Have less substantial fabrics rose;

The Sybil wise, as Virgil says,
Her writings to the leaves consign'd,
Which soon were borne a thousand ways,
Derang'd and scatter'd by the wind.

Not such neglect in me is seen--
Soon as my leaves have left the press
I haste to bring them, neat and clean,
At all times in a New Year's dress.

Though winds their ancient spite retain,
And strive to tear them from my hold,
I bear them safe through wind and rain,
Despising heat, despising cold.

While thus employ'd, from week to week,
You surely will not think it hard
If, with the rest, I come to seek
Some humble token of regard.

Nor will you deem my conduct strange
If what I long have thought be true--
That life itself is constant change,
And death, the want of something new.

[273] Text from the 1786 edition. The poem appears in the 1795 edition under the title "A News-Carrier's Petition."

THE HAPPY PROSPECT[274]

Though clad in winter's gloomy dress all Nature's works appear,
Yet other prospects rise to bless the new returning year:
The active sail again is seen to greet our western shore,
Gay plenty smiles with brow serene, and wars distract no more.

No more the vales, no more the plains an iron harvest yield;
Peace guards our doors, impells our swains to till the grateful field:
From distant climes, no longer foes (their years of misery past)
Nations arrive, to find repose in these domains at last.

And, if a more delightful scene attracts the mortal eye,
Where clouds nor darkness intervene, behold, aspiring high,
On Freedom's soil those Fabrics plann'd, on virtue's basis laid,
That make secure our native land, and prove our toils repaid.

Ambitious aims and pride severe, would you at distance keep,
What wanderer would not tarry here, here charm his cares to sleep!
O, still may health her balmy wings o'er these fair fields expand,
While commerce from all climates brings the products of each land.

Through toiling care and lengthen'd views, that share alike our span,
Gay, smiling hope her heaven pursues, the eternal friend of man:
The darkness of the days to come she brightens with her ray,
And smiles o'er Nature's gaping tomb, when sickening to decay!

[274] This is Freneau's hymn of thanksgiving at the close of the war. Text from the 1795 edition, where, as far as I can discover, it was first published.

THE DYING INDIAN[275]

TOMO-CHEQUI

"On yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
Vigour, and youth, and active days are past--
Relentless demons urge me to that shore
On whose black forests all the dead are cast:--
Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
For I must go to shades below,
Where all is strange and all is new;
Companion to the airy throng!--
What solitary streams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy, must I rove along!

To what strange lands must Chequi take his way!
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace:
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chace,
But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend,
But sickly orchards there
Do fruits as sickly bear,
And apples a consumptive visage shew,
And withered hangs the hurtle-berry blue.

Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!
Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and sad deluding waters flow--
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales, indeed, they tell
Of shades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the western hills,
But when did ghost return his state to shew;
Or who can promise half the tale is true?

I too must be a fleeting ghost!--no more--
None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
For emptier groves below!
Ye charming solitudes,
Ye tall ascending woods,
Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,
Whose aspect still was sweet,
Whether the sun did greet,
Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams--
Adieu to all!

To all, that charmed me where I strayed,
The winding stream, the dark sequestered shade;
Adieu all triumphs here!
Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And seas, and stars, and skies--farewell,
For some remoter sphere!

Perplexed with doubts, and tortured with despair,
Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?
Nature at last these ruins may repair,
When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep
Some real world once more may be assigned,
Some new born mansion for the immortal mind!
Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods,
To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray,
Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!
Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trusty bow and arrows by my side,
The cheerful bottle and the venison store;
For long the journey is that I must go,
Without a partner, and without a guide."
He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep,
Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!

[275] Text from the edition of 1809. First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 17, 1784. It was inserted without change into the edition of 1786, where it bore the title: "The Dying Indian, or Last Words of Shalum. _March, 1784._ Debemur morti nos, nostraque." The two later editions were unchanged save in title.

LINES[276]

Intended for Mr. Peale's Exhibition

May 10, 1784

1

Toward the skies
What columns rise
In Roman style, profusely great!
What lamps ascend,
What arches bend,
And swell with more than Roman state!

2

High o'er the central arch display'd
Old Janus shuts his temple door,
And shackles war in darkest shade;
Saturnian times in view once more.

3

Pride of the human race, behold
In Gallia's king the virtues glow,
Whose conduct prov'd, whose goodness told,
That kings can feel for human woe.
Thrice happy France in Louis blest,
Thy genius droops her head no more;
In the calm virtues of the mind
Equal to him no Titus shin'd--
No Trajan--whom mankind adore.

4

Another scene too soon displays!
Griefs have their share, and claim their part,
They monuments to ruin raise,
And shed keen anguish o'er the heart:
Those heroes that in battle fell
Demand a sympathetic tear,
Who fought, our tyrants to repell--
Memory preserves their laurels here.
In vernal skies
Thus tempests rise,
And clouds obscure the brightest sun--
Few wreathes are gain'd
With blood unstain'd,
No honours without ruin won.

5

The arms of France three lillies mark--
In honour's dome with these enroll'd
The plough, the sheaf, the gliding barque
The riches of our State unfold.

6

Ally'd in Heaven, a sun and stars
Friendship and peace with France declare--
The branch succeeds the spear of Mars,
Commerce repairs the wastes of war:
In ties of concord ancient foes engage
Proving the day-spring of a brighter age.

7

These States defended by the brave,
Their military trophies, see!
The virtue that of old did save
Shall still maintain them great and free:
Arts shall pervade the western wild,
And savage hearts become more mild.

8

Of science proud, the source of sway,
Lo! emblematic figures shine;
The arts their kindred forms display,
Manners to soften and refine:
A stately tree to heaven its summit sends
And cluster'd fruit from thirteen boughs depends.

9

With laurel crown'd
A chief renown'd
(His country sav'd) his faulchion sheaths;
Neglects his spoils
For rural toils
And crowns his plough with laurel wreaths:
While we this Roman chief survey,
What apt resemblance strikes the eye!
Those features to the soul convey
A Washington in fame as high,
Whose prudent, persevering mind
Patience with manly courage join'd,
And when disgrace and death were near,
Look'd through the black distressing shade,
Struck hostile Britons with unwonted fear
And blasted their best hopes, and pride in ruin laid.

10

Victorious virtue! aid me to pursue
The tributary verse to triumphs due--
Behold the peasant leave his lowly shed,
Where tufted forests round him grow;--
Tho' clouds the dark sky overspread,
War's dreadful art his arm essays,
He meets the hostile cannon's blaze,
And pours redoubled vengeance on the foe.

11

Born to protect and guard our native land,
Victorious virtue! still preserve us free;
Plenty--gay child of peace, thy horn expand,
And, Concord, teach us to agree!
May every virtue that adorns the soul
Be here advanc'd to heights unknown before;
Pacific ages in succession roll,
'Till Nature blots the scene,
Chaos resumes her reign
And heaven with pleasure views its works no more.

[276] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, May 19, 1784, which the text follows. Practically unchanged for the later editions. The following description of this arch appeared in the _Journal_, May 12th:

"Monday at noon, the sheriff, attended by the proper officers, made proclamation of the Definitive Treaty of Peace concluded between America and Great-Britain. At the same time the state flag was hoisted on Market street wharf, and in the evening the transparent paintings which were designed in celebration of the general peace, and were to have been shewn on the 22d January last, but prevented by an unfortunate accident; being revived by subscription, and executed by the ingenious Mr. Peale, were exhibited, and afforded great satisfaction to many thousands of spectators.

The following is a Description of the Triumphal Arch and its ornaments:

THE Arch is fifty Feet and six Inches wide, and thirty-five Feet and six Inches high, exclusive of the Ballustrade, which is three Feet and nine Inches in height. The Arch is fourteen Feet wide in the clear, and each of the smaller Arches nine feet. The Pillars are of the _Ionic_ Order. The Entablature, all the other Parts, and the Proportions correspond with that Order; and the whole Edifice is finished in the Style of Architecture proper for such a Building, and used by the _Romans_. The Pillars are adorned with spiral Festoons of Flowers in their natural Colours.... [Then follows a half-column description of the various ornaments and devices.]

The whole Building illuminated by about twelve hundred Lamps."

THE HURRICANE[277]

Happy the man who, safe on shore,
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmov'd, he hears the tempests roar,
That on the tufted groves expire:
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble barque must bear them all.

Now to their haunts the birds retreat,
The squirrel seeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,
All, all are blest but wretched we--
Foredoomed a stranger to repose,
No rest the unsettled ocean knows.

While o'er the dark abyss[A] we roam,
Perhaps, with last departing gleam,
We saw the sun descend in gloom,
No more to see his morning beam;
But buried low, by far too deep,
On coral beds, unpitied, sleep!

[A] Near the east end of Jamaica, July 30, 1784.--_Freneau's
note._

But what a strange, uncoasted strand
Is that, where fate permits no day--
No charts have we to mark that land,
No compass to direct that way--
What Pilot shall explore that realm,
What new Columbus take the helm!

While death and darkness both surround,
And tempests rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no sound,
No comfort in this dreadful hour--
What friendship can in tempests be,
What comfort on this raging sea?

The barque, accustomed to obey,
No more the trembling pilots guide:
Alone she gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burst on either side--
Thus, skill and science both must fall;
And ruin is the lot of all.

[277] First published in the April 13, 1785, issue of the _Freeman's Journal_, under the title, "Verses, made at Sea, in a Heavy Gale," and reprinted verbatim in the 1786 edition. In the August 20, 1788, issue of the _Journal_ the poem was republished in connection with the following note (in italics): "In that violent hurricane at Jamaica, on the night of the 30th of July, 1784, in which, no more than eight, out of 150 sail of vessels, in the ports of Kingston and Port-Royal, were saved, capt. Freneau was at sea, and arrived at Kingston next morning, a mere wreck. On that occasion, the following beautiful lines, extracted from the first volume of his writings, were penned." Text from the edition of 1809.

TO THE KEEPER OF THE KING'S WATER WORKS[278]

Near Kingston,[279] in the island of Jamaica, on being refused a puncheon of water

Written August, 1784

"_The celestial Deities protect and relieve strangers in every
country, as long as those strangers respect and submit to the
laws of the country._"
--KIEN-LHI, _alias_ JOHN TUCK, _Viceroy of Canton_.

Can he, who o'er two Indies holds the sway,
Where'er the ocean flows, whose fleets patrole,
Who bids Hibernia's rugged sons obey,
And at whose nod (you say) shakes either pole:--

Can he, whose crown a thousand jewels grace
Of worth untold--can he, so rich, deny
One wretched puncheon from this ample waste,
Begg'd by his quondam subject--very dry?

Vast are the springs in yonder cloud-capt hill:
Why, then, refuse the abundant flowing wave?
Where hogs, and dogs, and keepers drink their fill,
May we not something from such plenty crave?

Keeper!--must we with empty cask return!
Just view the limpid stream that runs to waste!--
Denied the stream that flows from Nature's urn,
By locks and bolts secur'd from rebel taste?

Well!--if we must, inform the royal ear,
Poor are some kings that now in Britain live:
Tell him, that Nature is no miser here;
Tell him--that he withholds--what beggars give.

[278] From the edition of 1809. The poem seems first to have appeared in the _National Gazette_ of January 12, 1792, with the following note: "The following lines were written some years ago (Sept. 1784) on board the brig _Dromilly_, in Kingston harbour, Jamaica; and sent to the keeper of the King's waterworks, near Rock fort; who had refused the writer a puncheon of water from a reservoir that was, by royal order, appropriated to the use of the royal navy." The present text is somewhat varied from that in the edition of 1795.

[279] "Rock-Fort."--_Ed. 1795._

LINES[280]

Written at Port-Royal, in the Island of Jamaica

Here, by the margin of the murmuring main,
While her proud remnants I explore in vain,
And lonely stray through these dejected lands
Fann'd by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands,
Where the dull Spaniard once possess'd these shades,
And ports defended by his Pallisades[A]--
Tho' lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh,
Nor shall the Muse the unenvied gift deny.
Of all the towns that grac'd Jamaica's isle
This was her glory, and the proudest pile,
Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise,
And commerce swell'd her glory to the skies:
St. Jago, seated on a distant plain,
Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main,
Unnotic'd streams her Cobra's[B] margin lave
Where yond' tall plantains shade her glowing wave,
And burning sands or rock surrounded hill
Confess its founder's fears--or want of skill.
While o'er these wastes with wearied step I go,
Past scenes of death return, in all their woe,[281]
O'er these sad shores in angry pomp he pass'd,
Mov'd in the winds, and rag'd with every blast--
Here,[C] opening gulphs confess'd the almighty hand,
Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land,
Here, piles on piles an instant tore away,
Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay,
Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast,
Or time to call the sexton, or the priest.
Where yond' tall barque, with all her ponderous load,
Commits her anchor to its dark abode,
Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow
To quench the sulphur of the caves below,
Here midnight sounds torment the sailor's ear,
And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts here,[282]
Sad songs of woe prevent the hours of sleep,
And Fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep;
Dull Superstition hears the ghostly hum,
Smit with the terrors of the world to come.
What now is left of all thy boasted pride!
Lost are thy glories that were spread so wide,
A spit of sand is thine, by heaven's decree,
And wasting shores that scarce resist the sea:
Is this Port-Royal on Jamaica's coast,
The Spaniard's envy, and the Briton's boast!
A shatter'd roof o'er every hut appears,
And mouldering brick-work prompts the traveller's fears;
A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see,
Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!--
One only inn with tiresome search I found
Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round;--
His was the part to wait the impatient call,
He was our landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all;
His wary eyes on every side were cast,
Beheld the present, and revolv'd the past,
Now here, now there, in swift succession stole,
Glanc'd at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl.
No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids[283]
Walk on these wastes or wander in these shades;
To other shores past times beheld them go,
And some are slumbering in the caves below;
A negro tribe but ill their place supply,
With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;[284]
A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town,
Where banish'd Tories come to seek renown,
Where worn-out slaves their bowls of beer retail,
And sun-burnt strumpets watch the approaching sail.
Here (scarce escap'd the wild tornado's rage)
Why sail'd I here to swell my future page!
To these dull scenes with eager haste I came
To trace the reliques of their ancient fame,
Not worth the search!--what domes are left to fall,
Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all--
All shall be lost!--tho' hosts their aid implore,
The Twelve Apostles[D] shall protect no more,
Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain;
No priest shall mutter, and no saint remain,
Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade,
Where the dark negro his dull music play'd,
Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand
And points, still grieving, to his native land,
Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore,
And pants for countries he must see no more--
Where shall I go, what Lethe shall I find
To drive these dark ideas from my mind!
No buckram heroes can relieve the eye,
And George's honours only raise a sigh--
Not even these walls a glad remembrance claim,[285]
Where grief still wastes a half deluded dame,
Whom to these coasts a British Paris bore,
And basely left, lost virtue to deplore.--
In foreign climes detain'd from all she lov'd,
By friends neglected, long by fortune prov'd,
While sad and solemn pass'd the unwelcome day,
What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay!
Deceiv'd in all--for meanness could deceive--
Expecting still, and still condemn'd to grieve,
She scarcely saw, to different hearts allied,
That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride.--
Are griefs like thine to Florio's bosom known?
Must these, alas, be ceaseless in your own?--
Life is a dream--its varying shades I see,
But this base wanderer hardly dreams of thee.
Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain,
Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain;
Where Nature still the toils of art transcends--
In this dull spot the fine delusion ends,
Where burning sands are borne by every blast
And these mean fabrics still bewail the past;
Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside,
And threatening moons advance the imperious tide:--
Ye stormy winds, awhile your wrath suspend,
Who leaves the land, a bottle, and a friend,
Quits this bright isle for yon' blue seas and sky,
Or even Port-Royal quits--without a sigh!

_Sept. 1784._

[A] Pallisades a narrow strip of land about seven miles in
length, running nearly from north to south, and forming
the harbours of Port Royal and Kingston.--_Freneau's
note, 1809 edition._

[B] A small river falling into Kingston Bay, nearly opposite
Port Royal--and which has its source in the hills beyond
Spanish Town.--_Freneau's note, 1809 edition._

[C] Old Port-Royal contained more than 1500 buildings, and these
for the most part large and elegant. This unfortunate town
was for a long time reckoned the most considerable mart of
trade in the West Indies. It was destroyed on the 17th of
June, 1692, by an earthquake which in two minutes sunk the
far greater part of the buildings; in which disaster near
3000 people lost their lives.--_Freneau's note._

[D] A Battery so called, on the side of the harbour opposite
to Port-Royal.--_Freneau's note._

[280] First published in the 1788 edition, the text of which I have followed. For the 1809 edition Freneau made numerous verbal changes. On an average, he changed a word in every line. No poem of Freneau's shows more clearly his peculiar mania for revision. In the 1795 edition the title is "Port Royal," in the 1809 edition it is "Written at Port Royal, in the Island of Jamaica--September, 1784."

[281] The edition of 1809 adds:

"Here _for their crimes_ (_perhaps_) in ages fled,
Some vengeful fiend, familiar with the dead--"

[282] The edition of 1809 adds:

"Of ghosts all restless!--(cease they to complain--
More than a century should relieve their pain--)."

A footnote adds the comment: "A superstition, at present, existing only among the ignorant."

[283] "Handsome _Yankee_ maids."--_Ed. 1809._

[284] The edition of 1809 adds:

"That gloomy race lead up the evening dance,
Skip on the sands, or dart the alluring glance:
Sincere are they?--no--on your gold they doat--
And in one hour--for that would cut your throat.
All is deceit--half hell is in their song
And from the silent thought?--_You have done us wrong!_"

[285] This line and the fifteen following omitted from the later editions.

TO SIR TOBY[286]

A Sugar Planter in the interior parts of Jamaica, near the City of San Jago de la Vega, (Spanish Town) 1784

"_The motions of his spirit are black as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus._"
--SHAKESPEARE.

If there exists a hell--the case is clear--
Sir Toby's slaves enjoy that portion here:
Here are no blazing brimstone lakes--'tis true;
But kindled Rum too often burns as blue;
In which some fiend, whom nature must detest,
Steeps Toby's brand, and marks poor Cudjoe's breast.[A]
Here whips on whips excite perpetual fears,
And mingled howlings vibrate on my ears:
Here nature's plagues abound, to fret and teaze,
Snakes, scorpions, despots, lizards, centipees--
No art, no care escapes the busy lash;
All have their dues--and all are paid in cash--
The eternal driver keeps a steady eye
On a black herd, who would his vengeance fly,
But chained, imprisoned, on a burning soil,
For the mean avarice of a tyrant, toil!
The lengthy cart-whip guards this monster's reign--
And cracks, like pistols, from the fields of cane.
Ye powers! who formed these wretched tribes, relate,
What had they done, to merit such a fate!
Why were they brought from Eboe's[B] sultry waste,
To see that plenty which they must not taste--
Food, which they cannot buy, and dare not steal;
Yams and potatoes--many a scanty meal!--
One, with a gibbet wakes his negro's fears,
One to the windmill nails him by the ears;
One keeps his slave in darkened dens, unfed,
One puts the wretch in pickle ere he's dead:
This, from a tree suspends him by the thumbs,
That, from his table grudges even the crumbs!
O'er yond' rough hills a tribe of females go,
Each with her gourd, her infant, and her hoe;
Scorched by a sun that has no mercy here,
Driven by a devil, whom men call overseer--
In chains, twelve wretches to their labours haste;
Twice twelve I saw, with iron collars graced!--
Are such the fruits that spring from vast domains?
Is wealth, thus got, Sir Toby, worth your pains!--
Who would your wealth on terms, like these, possess,
Where all we see is pregnant with distress--
Angola's natives scourged by ruffian hands,
And toil's hard product shipp'd to foreign lands.
Talk not of blossoms, and your endless spring;
What joy, what smile, can scenes of misery bring?--
Though Nature, here, has every blessing spread,
Poor is the labourer--and how meanly fed!--
Here Stygian paintings light and shade renew,
Pictures of hell, that Virgil's[C] pencil drew:
Here, surly Charons make their annual trip,
And ghosts arrive in every Guinea ship,
To find what beasts these western isles afford,
Plutonian scourges, and despotic lords:--
Here, they, of stuff determined to be free,
Must climb the rude cliffs of the Liguanee;[D]
Beyond the clouds, in sculking haste repair,
And hardly safe from brother traitors there.--[E]

[A] This passage has a reference to the West India custom
(sanctioned by law) of branding a newly imported slave on
the breast, with a red hot iron, as an evidence of the
purchaser's property.--_Freneau's note._

[B] A small negro kingdom near the river Senegal.--_Freneau's
note._

[C] See Eneid, Book 6th.--and Fenelon's Telemachus, Book
18.--_Ib._

[D] The mountains northward of Kingston.--_Freneau's note._

[E] Alluding to the _Independent_ negroes in the blue mountains,
who for a stipulated reward, deliver up every fugitive that
falls into their hands, to the English Government.--_Ib._

[286] Text from the edition of 1809. The poem seems first to have been published in the _National Gazette_ of July 21, 1792, under the title, "The Island Field Hand," with the note: "Written some years ago at a sugar plantation in Jamaica." The present text contains numerous minor variations from the edition of 1795. The four lines beginning "The eternal driver" are original in the 1809 edition.

ELEGY ON MR. ROBERT BELL[287]

The celebrated humourist, and truly philanthropic Book-seller formerly of Philadelphia, written, 1786

By schools untaught, from Nature's source he drew
That flow of wit which wits with toil pursue,
Above dependence, bent to virtue's side;
Beyond the folly of the folio's pride;
Born to no power, he took no splendid part,
Yet warm for freedom glowed his honest heart
Foe to all baseness, not afraid to shame
The little tyrant that usurped his claim:
Bound to no sect, no systems to defend,
He loved his jest, a female, and his friend:--
The tale well told, to each occasion fit,
In him was nature--and that nature wit:
Alike to pride and wild ambition dumb,
He saw no terrors in the world to come.
But, slighting sophists and their flimsy aid,
To God and Reason left the works they made.
In chace of fortune, half his life was whim,
Yet fortune saw no sycophant in him;
Bold, open, free, the world he called his own,
But wished no wealth that cost a wretch a groan--
Too social Bell! in others so refined,
One sneaking virtue ne'er possessed your mind--
Had Prudence only held her share of sway,
Still had your cup been full, yourself been gay!
But while we laughed, and while the glass went round,
The lamp was darkened--and no help was found;
On distant shores you died, where none shall tell,
"Here rest the virtues and the wit of Bell."

[287] First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, February 28, 1787, with the explanation, "Written more than two years ago." The date in the title above, taken from the 1809 edition, is doubtless wrong.

"It is believed that Robert Bell, an Englishman or a Scotchman, who came to Philadelphia about 1772 or 1773, was the first person who kept a circulating library in this city. He had his place of business in Third street below Walnut. He was also one of the first to establish book auctions here, in which effort he met very serious opposition from the booksellers. He published several works prior to the Revolutionary War, but during that struggle he seems to have left the city. He died in Richmond, Va., Sept. 26, 1784."--_Watson's Annals._

He published Freneau's _American Independence_ in Philadelphia in 1778.

ON THE FIRST AMERICAN SHIP[288]

_Empress of China_, Capt. Greene

That explored the rout to China, and the East-Indies, after the
Revolution, 1784

With clearance from Bellona won
She spreads her wings to meet the Sun,
Those golden regions to explore
Where George forbade to sail before.

Thus, grown to strength, the bird of Jove,
Impatient, quits his native grove,
With eyes of fire, and lightning's force
Through the blue aether holds his course.

No foreign tars are here allowed
To mingle with her chosen crowd,
Who, when returned, might, boasting, say
They shewed our native oak the way.

To that old track no more confined,
By Britain's jealous court assigned,
She round the Stormy Cape[A] shall sail,
And, eastward, catch the odorous gale.

[A] _Cabo Tormentosa_ (The Cape of Storms) so called by _Vasco
da Gama_, and by the earliest Portuguese adventurers to
India--now called the cape of Good Hope.--_Freneau's note._

To countries placed in burning climes
And islands of remotest times
She now her eager course explores,
And soon shall greet Chinesian shores.

From thence their fragrant teas to bring
Without the leave of Britain's king;
And Porcelain ware, enchased in gold,
The product of that finer mould.

Thus commerce to our world conveys
All that the varying taste can please;
For us, the Indian looms are free,
And Java strips her spicy tree.

Great pile proceed!--and o'er the brine
May every prosperous gale be thine,
'Till freighted deep with Asia's stores,
You reach again your native shores.

[288] Text from the edition of 1809.

THE NEWSMONGER[289]

A Character

An insect lives among mankind
For what wise ends by fate designed
'Tis hard, 'tis very hard, to find.

In pain for all, but thanked by few
Not twice a year he gets his due--
Yet, patiently he struggles through.

Beneath some garret roof restrained
To one dull place forever chained
His word is, "little money gained."

The flowers that deck the summer field,
The bloom of spring, too long concealed,
To him no hour of pleasure yield.

His life is everlasting whim;
The seasons change--but scarce for him--
On sheets of news his eyes grow dim.

He life maintains on self-esteem,
He plans, contrives, and lives by--scheme--
And blots good paper--many a ream.

Distrest for those he never saw--
Of kings and nobles not in awe,
He scorns their mandates, and their law.

Relief he finds for others' woes--
The wants of all the world he knows--
His boots are only out at toes.

Now, Europe's feuds distract his brains:
Now, Asia's news his head contains--
But still his labour for his pains.

The river Scheldt he opens wide,
And Joseph's ships in triumph ride,--
The Dutchmen are not on his side.

On great affairs condemned to fret,--
The interest on our foreign debt,
He hopes good Louis may forget.

He fears the banks will hurt our trade;
And fall they must--without his aid--
Meanwhile his taylor goes unpaid.

Our western posts, which Britons keep
In spite of treaties, break his sleep--
He plans their capture--at one sweep.

He grumbles at the price of flour,
And mourns and mutters, many an hour,
That congress have so little power,

Although he has no ships to lose,
The Algerines he loves to abuse--
And hopes to hear--some bloody news.

The French (he thinks) will soon prepare
To undertake some grand affair--
So 'tis but war "we need not care."

Where Mississippi laves the plain
He hopes the bold Kentucky swain,
Will seize the forts, and plague Old Spain:

Such morning whims, such evening dreams!
Through wakeful nights he plans odd schemes,
To dispossess her of those streams.

He prophesies, the time must come
When few will drink West India rum--
Our spirits will be proof at home.

The Tories on New Scotland's coast,
He thinks may of full bellies boast
In half a century--at most.

Then shakes his head, and shifts the scene--
Talks much about the "Empress Queen"--
And wonders what the Austrians mean?

He raves, and scolds and seems afraid
The States will break by China trade,
"Since specie for their tea is paid."

Then tells, that, "just about next June,
Lunardi in his new balloon
Will make a journey--to the moon."

Thus, all the business of mankind,
And all the follies we might find
Are huddled in his shattered mind.

'Till taught to think of new affairs,
At last, with death, he walks down stairs,
And leaves--the wide world to his heirs.

[289] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, February 21, 1787. In the 1809 edition, which the text follows, 1784 is given as the date of composition.

SKETCHES OF AMERICAN HISTORY[290]

This American world, all our histories say,
Secluded from Europe, long centuries lay,
And peopled by beings whom white-men detest,
The sons of the Tartars, that came from the west.

These Indians, 'tis certain, were here long before ye all,
And dwelt in their wigwams from time immemorial;
In a mere state of nature, untutored, untaught,
They did as they pleased, and they spoke as they thought--

No priests they had then for the cure of their souls,
No lawyers, recorders, or keepers of rolls;
No learned physicians vile nostrums concealed--
Their druggist was Nature--her shop was the field.

In the midst of their forests how happy and blest,
In the skin of a bear or buffalo drest!
No care to perplex, and no luxury seen
But the feast, and the song, and the dance on the green.

Some bowed to the moon, and some worshipped the sun,
And the king and the captain were centered in one;
In a cabin they met, in their councils of state,
Where age and experience alone might debate.

With quibbles they never essayed to beguile,
And Nature had taught them the orator's style;
No pomp they affected, not quaintly refined
The nervous idea that glanced on the mind.

When hunting or battle invited to arms,
The women they left to take care of their farms--
The toils of the summer did winter repay,
While snug in their cabins they snored it away.

If death came among them his dues to demand,
They still had some prospects of comfort at hand--
The dead man they sent to the regions of bliss,
With his bottle and dog, and his fair maids to kiss.

* * * * *

Thus happy they dwelt in a rural domain,
Uninstructed in commerce, unpractised in gain,
'Till, taught by the loadstone to traverse the seas,
Columbus came over, that bold Genoese.

From records authentic, the date we can shew,
One thousand four hundred and ninety and two
Years, borne by the seasons, had vanished away,
Since the babe in the manger at Bethlehem lay.

What an aera was this, above all that had passed,
To yield such a treasure, discovered at last--
A new world, in value exceeding the old,
Such mountains of silver, such torrents of gold!

Yet the schemes of Columbus, however well planned
Were scarcely sufficient to find the main land;
On the islands alone with the natives he spoke,
Except when he entered the great Oronoque:

In this he resembled old Moses, the Jew,
Who, roving about with his wrong-headed crew,
When at length the reward was no longer denied,
From the top of Mount Pisgah he saw it, and died.

These islands and worlds in the watery expanse,
Like most mighty things, were the offspring of chance,
Since steering for Asia, Columbus they say,
Was astonished to find such a world in his way!

No wonder, indeed, he was smit with surprize--
This empire of Nature was new to their eyes--
Cut short in their course by so splendid a scene,
Such a region of wonders intruding between!

Yet great as he was, and deserving no doubt,
We have only to thank him for finding the rout;
These climes to the northward, more stormy and cold,
Were reserved for the efforts of Cabot the bold.

* * * * *

Where the sun in December appears to decline
Far off to the southward, and south of the line,
A merchant[A] of Florence, more fortunate still,
Explored a new track, and discovered Brazil:

[A] Americus Vespucius.--_Freneau's note._

Good Fortune, Vespucius, pronounced thee her own,
Or else to mankind thou hadst scarcely been known--
By giving thy name, thou art ever renowned--
Thy name to a world that another had found!

Columbia, the name was, that merit decreed,
But Fortune and Merit have never agreed--
Yet the poets, alone, with commendable care
Are vainly attempting the wrong to repair.

The bounds I prescribe to my verse are too narrow
To tell of the conquests of Francis Pizarro;
And Cortez 'tis needless to bring into view,
One Mexico conquered, the other Peru.

Montezuma with credit in verse might be read,
But Dryden has told you the monarch[B] is dead!
And the woes of his subjects--what torments they bore,
Las Casas, good bishop, has mentioned before:

[B] Indian Emperor, a tragedy.--_Freneau's note._

Let others be fond of their stanzas of grief--
I hate to descant on the fall of the leaf--
Two scenes are so gloomy, I view them with pain,
The annals of death, and the triumphs of Spain.

Poor Atahualpa we cannot forget--
He gave them his utmost--yet died in their debt,
His wealth was a crime that they could not forgive,
And when they possessed it, forbade him to live.

Foredoomed to misfortunes (that come not alone)
He was the twelfth Inca that sat on the throne,
Who fleecing his brother[C] of half his domains,
At the palace of Cusco confined him in chains.

[C] Huascar, who was legal heir to the throne.--_Ib._

* * * * *

But what am I talking--or where do I roam?
'Tis time that our story was brought nearer home--
From Florida's cape did Cabot explore
To the fast frozen region of cold Labradore.

In the year fourteen hundred and ninety and eight
He came, as the annals of England relate,
But finding no gold in the lengthy domain,
And coasting the country, he left it again.

Next Davis--then Hudson adventured, they say,
One found out a streight, and the other a bay,
Whose desolate region, or turbulent wave
One present bestowed him--and that was a grave.

* * * * *

In the reign of a virgin (as authors discover)
Drake, Hawkins, and Raleigh in squadrons came over
While Barlow and Grenville succeeded to these,
Who all brought their colonies over the seas.

These, left in a wilderness teeming with woes,
The natives, suspicious, concluded them foes,
And murdered them all without notice or warning,
Ralph Lane, with his vagabonds, scarcely returning.

In the reign of king James (and the first of the name,)
George Summers, with Hacluit, to Chesapeake came,
Where far in the forests, not doomed to renown,
On the river Powhatan[D] they built the first town.[E]

[D] James River, Virginia.--_Freneau's note._

[E] James Town.--_Ib._

Twelve years after this, some scores of dissenters
To the northernmost district came seeking adventures;
Outdone by the bishops, those great faggot fighters;
They left them to rule with their cassocks and mitres.

Thus banished forever, and leaving the sod,
The first land they saw was the pitch of Cape Cod,
Where famished with hunger and quaking with cold
They planned their New-Plymouth--so called from the old.

They were, without doubt, a delightful collection;--
Some came to be rid of a Stuart's direction,
Some sailed with a view to dominion and riches,
Some to pray without book, and a few to hang witches.

Some, came on the Indians to shed a new light,
Convinced long before that their own must be right,
And that all who had died in the centuries past
On the devil's lee shore were eternally cast.

These exiles were formed in a whimsical mould,
And were awed by their priests, like the Hebrews of old;
Disclaimed all pretences to jesting and laughter,
And sighed their lives through, to be happy hereafter.

On a crown immaterial their hearts were intent,
They looked towards Zion, wherever they went,
Did all things in hopes of a future reward,
And worried mankind--for the sake of the Lord.

With rigour excessive they strengthened their reign,
Their laws were conceived in the ill-natured strain,
With mystical meanings the saint was perplext,
And the flesh and the devil were slain by a text.

The body was scourged, for the good of the soul,
All folly discouraged by peevish controul,
A knot on the head was the sign of no grace,
And the Pope and his comrade were pictured in lace.

A stove in their churches, or pews lined with green,
Were horrid to think of, much more to be seen,
Their bodies were warmed with the linings of love,
And the fire was sufficient that flashed from above.

'Twas a crime to assert that the moon was opaque,
To say the earth moved, was to merit the stake;
And he that could tell an eclipse was to be,
In the college of Satan had took his degree.

On Sundays their faces were dark as a cloud--
The road to the meeting was only allowed,
And those they caught rambling, on business or pleasure,
Were sent to the stocks, to repent at their leisure.

This day was the mournfullest day in the week--
Except on religion, none ventured to speak--
This day was the day to examine their lives,
To clear off old scores, and to preach to their wives.

Their houses were forts, that seemed proof against light;
Their parlours, all day, were the blackness of night:
And, as if at their thresholds a cannon did roar,
The animals hardly dared open their door
'Till the sun disappeared--then, like a mole's snout
In the dusk of the evening, their noses popped out.

In the school of oppression though woefully taught,
'Twas only to be the oppressors they sought;
All, all but themselves were be-deviled and blind,
And their narrow-souled creed was to serve all mankind.

This beautiful system of nature below
They neither considered, nor wanted to know,
And called it a dog-house wherein they were pent,
Unworthy themselves, and their mighty descent.

They never perceived that in Nature's wide plan
There must be that whimsical creature called Man,
Far short of the rank he affects to attain,
Yet a link in its place, in creation's vast chain.

* * * * *

Whatever is foreign to us and our kind
Can never be lasting, though seemingly joined--
The hive swarmed at length, and a tribe that was teazed
Set out for Rhode-Island to think as they pleased.

Some hundreds to Britain ran murmuring home--
While others went off in the forests to roam,
When they found they had missed what they looked for at first,
The downfall of sin, and the reign of the just.

Hence, dry controversial reflections were thrown,
And the old dons were vexed in the way they had shown;
So those that are held in the work-house all night
Throw dirt the next day at the doors, out of spite.

Ah pity the wretches that lived in those days,
(Ye modern admirers of novels and plays)
When nothing was suffered but musty, dull rules,
And nonsense from Mather and stuff from the schools!

No story, like Rachel's, could tempt them to sigh,
Susanna and Judith employed the bright eye--
No fine spun adventures tormented the breast,
Like our modern Clarissa, Tom Jones, and the rest.

Those tyrants had chosen the books for your shelves,
(And, trust me, no other than writ by themselves,
For always by this may a bigot be known,
He speaks well of nothing but what is his own.)

From indwelling evil these souls to release,
The Quakers arrived with their kingdom of peace--
But some were transported and some bore the lash,
And four they hanged fairly, for preaching up trash.

The lands of New-England (of which we now treat)
Were famous, ere that, for producing of wheat;
But the soil (or tradition says strangely amiss)
Has been pestered with pumpkins from that day to this.

* * * * *

Thus, feuds and vexations distracted their reign,
(And perhaps a few vestiges still may remain)
But time has presented an offspring as bold,
Less free to believe, and more wise than the old.

Their phantoms, their wizzards, their witches are fled,
Matthew Paris's[F] story with horror is read--
His daughters, and all the enchantments they bore--
And the demon, that pinched them, is heard of no more.

[F] See Neale's History of New England.--_Freneau's note._

Their taste for the fine arts is strangely increased,
And Latin's no longer a mark of the beast:
Mathematics, at present, a farmer may know,
Without being hanged for connections below.

Proud, rough, Independent, undaunted and free,
And patient of hardships, their task is the sea,
Their country too barren their wish to attain,
They make up the loss by exploring the main.

Wherever bright Phoebus awakens the gales
I see the bold Yankees expanding their sails,
Throughout the wide ocean pursuing their schemes,
And chacing the whales on its uttermost streams.

No climate, for them, is too cold or too warm,
They reef the broad canvass, and fight with the storm;
In war with the foremost their standards display,
Or glut the loud cannon with death, for the fray.

No valour in fable their valour exceeds,
Their spirits are fitted for desperate deeds;
No rivals have they in our annals of fame,
Or if they are rivalled, 'tis York has the claim.

Inspired at the sound, while the name she repeats,
Bold Fancy conveys me to Hudson's retreats--
Ah, sweet recollection of juvenile dreams
In the groves, and the forests that skirted his streams!

How often, with rapture, those streams were surveyed,
When, sick of the city, I flew to the shade--
How often the bard, and the peasant shall mourn
Ere those groves shall revive, or those shades shall return!

Not a hill, but some fortress disfigures it round!
And ramparts are raised where the cottage was found!
The plains and the vallies with ruin are spread,
With graves in abundance, and bones of the dead.

The first that attempted to enter the streight
(In anno one thousand six hundred and eight)
Was Hudson (the same that we mentioned before,
Who was lost in the gulph that he went to explore.)

For a sum that they paid him (we know not how much)
This captain transferred all his right to the Dutch;
For the time has been here, (to the world be it known,)
When all a man sailed by, or saw, was his own.

The Dutch on their purchase sat quietly down,
And fixed on an island to lay out a town;
They modelled their streets from the horns of a ram,
And the name that best pleased them was, New Amsterdam.

They purchased large tracts from the Indians for beads,
And sadly tormented some runaway Swedes,
Who (none knows for what) from their country had flown,
To live here in peace, undisturbed and alone.

New Belgia, the Dutch called their province, be sure,
But names never yet made possession secure,
For Charley (the second that honoured the name)
Sent over a squadron, asserting his claim:

(Had his sword and his title been equally slender,
In vain had they summoned Mynheer to surrender)
The soil they demanded, or threatened their worst,
Insisting that Cabot had looked at it first.

The want of a squadron to fall on their rear
Made the argument perfectly plain to Mynheer--
Force ended the contest--the right was a sham,
And the Dutch were sent packing to hot Surinam.

'Twas hard to be thus of their labours deprived,
But the age of Republics had not yet arrived--
Fate saw--though no wizzard could tell them as much--
That the crown, in due time, was to fare like the Dutch.

[290] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, December 15, 1784, under the pseudonym "K." Republished in the editions of 1795 and 1809. Text from the latter edition.

THE PROGRESS OF BALLOONS[291]

"_Perdomita tellus, tumida cesserunt freta,_
"_Inferna nostros regna sensere impetus;_
"_Immune coelum est, degnus Alcidae labor,_
"_In alta mundi spatia sublimes feremur._"
--_Senec. Herc. Furens._