Chapter XVII: Part II: , and made to refer to the Tories (2)

Assist me, ye muses, (whose harps are in tune)
To tell of the flight of the gallant balloon!
As high as my subject permit me to soar
To heights unattempted, unthought of before,
Ye grave learned Doctors, whose trade is to sigh,
Who labour to chalk out a road to the sky,
Improve on your plans--or I'll venture to say,
A chymist, of Paris, will show us the way.
The earth on its surface has all been survey'd,
The sea has been travell'd--and deep in the shade
The kingdom of Pluto has heard us at work,
When we dig for his metals wherever they lurk.
But who would have thought that invention could rise
To find out a method to soar to the skies,
And pierce the bright regions, which ages assign'd
To spirits unbodied, and flights of the mind.
Let the gods of Olympus their revels prepare--
By the aid of some pounds of inflammable air
We'll visit them soon--and forsake this dull ball
With coat, shoes and stockings, fat carcase and all!
How France is distinguish'd in Louis's reign!
What cannot her genius and courage attain?
Thro'out the wide world have her arms found the way,
And art to the stars is extending her sway.
At sea let the British their neighbours defy--
The French shall have frigates to traverse the sky,
In this navigation more fortunate prove,
And cruise at their ease in the climates above.
If the English should venture to sea with their fleet,
A host of balloons in a trice they shall meet.
The French from the zenith their wings shall display,
And souse on these sea-dogs and bear them away.
Ye sages, who travel on mighty designs,
To measure meridians and parallel lines--
The task being tedious--take heed, if you please--
Construct a balloon--and you'll do it with ease.
And ye who the heav'n's broad concave survey,
And, aided by glasses, its secrets betray,
Who gaze, the night through, at the wonderful scene,
Yet still are complaining of vapours between,
Ah, seize the conveyance and fearlesly rise
To peep at the lanthorns that light up the skies,
And floating above, on our ocean of air,
Inform us, by letter, what people are there.
In Saturn, advise us if snow ever melts,
And what are the uses of Jupiter's belts;
(Mars being willing) pray send us word, greeting,
If his people are fonder of fighting than eating.
That Venus has horns we've no reason to doubt,
(I forget what they call him who first found it out)
And you'll find, I'm afraid, if you venture too near,
That the spirits of cuckolds inhabit her sphere.
Our folks of good morals it wofully grieves,
That Mercury's people are villains and thieves,
You'll see how it is--but I'll venture to shew
For a dozen among them, twelve dozens below.
From long observation one proof may be had
That the men in the moon are incurably mad;
However, compare us, and if they exceed
They must be surprizingly crazy indeed.
But now, to have done with our planets and moons--
Come, grant me a patent for making balloons--
For I find that the time is approaching--the day
When horses shall fail, and the horsemen decay.
Post riders, at present (call'd Centaurs of old)
Who brave all the seasons, hot weather and cold,
In future shall leave their dull poneys behind
And travel, like ghosts, on the wings of the wind.
The stagemen, whose gallopers scarce have the power
Through the dirt to convey you ten miles in an hour,
When advanc'd to balloons shall so furiously drive
You'll hardly know whether you're dead or alive.
The man who at Boston sets out with the sun,
If the wind should be fair, may be with us at one,
At Gunpowder Ferry drink whiskey at three
And at six be at Edentown, ready for tea.
(The machine shall be order'd, we hardly need say,
To travel in darkness as well as by day)
At Charleston by ten he for sleep shall prepare,
And by twelve the next day be the devil knows where[292].
When the ladies grow sick of the city in June,
What a jaunt they shall have in the flying balloon!
Whole mornings shall see them at toilets preparing,
And forty miles high be their afternoon's airing.
Yet more with its fitness for commerce I'm struck;
What loads of tobacco shall fly from Kentuck,
What packs of best beaver--bar-iron and pig,
What budgets of leather from Conocoheague!
If Britain should ever disturb us again,
(As they threaten to do in the next George's reign)
No doubt they will play us a set of new tunes,
And pepper us well from their fighting balloons.
To market the farmers shall shortly repair
With their hogs and potatoes, wholesale, thro' the air,
Skim over the water as light as a feather,
Themselves and their turkies conversing together.
Such wonders as these from balloons shall arise--
And the giants of old, that assaulted the skies
With their Ossa on Pelion, shall freely confess
That all they attempted was nothing to this.

[291] _Freeman's Journal_, December 22, 1784. The year 1782, in which Cavallo made his memorable experiments, may be taken as the initial date in the history of aerial navigation. In October, 1753, Rozier ventured upon the first balloon ascension, though he ventured only fifty feet from the ground. On November 21st of the same year, with the Marquis d'Arlandes, he made the first aerial expedition, ascending from the castle la Muette in the presence of a vast multitude and remaining in the air twenty-five minutes. Text follows the edition of 1786 which bears the date "1785."

[292] Freneau's wild dream has been realized, but not in the way which he indicated.

ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA[293]

And Peopling the Western Country

To western woods, and lonely plains,
Palemon from the crowd departs,
Where Nature's wildest genius reigns,
To tame the soil, and plant the arts--
What wonders there shall freedom show,
What mighty states successive grow!

From Europe's proud, despotic shores
Hither the stranger takes his way,
And in our new found world explores
A happier soil, a milder sway,
Where no proud despot holds him down,
No slaves insult him with a crown.

What charming scenes attract the eye,
On wild Ohio's savage stream!
There Nature reigns, whose works outvie
The boldest pattern art can frame;
There ages past have rolled away,
And forests bloomed but to decay.

From these fair plains, these rural seats,
So long concealed, so lately known,
The unsocial Indian far retreats,
To make some other clime his own,
When other streams, less pleasing, flow,
And darker forests round him grow.

Great Sire[A] of floods! whose varied wave
Through climes and countries takes its way,
To whom creating Nature gave
Ten thousand streams to swell thy sway!
No longer shall they useless prove,
Nor idly through the forests rove;

[A] Mississippi.--_Freneau's note._

Nor longer shall your princely flood
From distant lakes be swelled in vain,
Nor longer through a darksome wood
Advance, unnoticed, to the main,
Far other ends, the heavens decree--
And commerce plans new freights for thee.

While virtue warms the generous breast,
There heaven-born freedom shall reside,
Nor shall the voice of war molest,
Nor Europe's all-aspiring pride--
There Reason shall new laws devise,
And order from confusion rise.

Forsaking kings and regal state,
With all their pomp and fancied bliss,[294]
The traveller owns, convinced though late,
No realm so free, so blest as this--
The east is half to slaves consigned,
Where kings and priests enchain the mind.[295]

O come the time, and haste the day,
When man shall man no longer crush,
When Reason shall enforce her sway,
Nor these fair regions raise our blush,
Where still the African complains,
And mourns his yet unbroken chains.

Far brighter scenes a future age,
The muse predicts, these States will hail,
Whose genius may the world engage,
Whose deeds may over death prevail,
And happier systems bring to view,
Than all the eastern sages knew. [1784.]

[293] First published in Bailey's _Pocket Almanac_ for 1785, and reprinted almost without change in the later editions of Freneau. Text from the edition of 1809.

[294] (A debt that reason deems amiss).--_Ed. 1786._

[295] And half to slavery more refin'd.--_Ib._

THE SEASONS MORALIZED[296]

They who to warmer regions run,
May bless the favour of the sun,
But seek in vain what charms us here,
Life's picture, varying with the year.

Spring, and her wanton train advance
Like Youth to lead the festive dance,
All, all her scenes are mirth and play,
And blushing blossoms own her sway.

The Summer next (those blossoms blown)
Brings on the fruits that spring had sown,
Thus men advance, impelled by time,
And Nature triumphs in her prime.

Then Autumn crowns the beauteous year,
The groves a sicklier aspect wear;
And mournful she (the lot of all)
Matures her fruits, to make them fall.

Clad in the vestments of a tomb,
Old age is only Winter's gloom--
Winter, alas! shall spring restore,
But youth returns to man no more.

[296] First published in Bailey's _Pocket Almanac_ for 1785. The edition of 1809 is used.

ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL LAURENS[297]

Since on her plains this generous chief expired,
Whom sages honoured, and whom France admired;[298]
Does Fame no statues to his memory raise,
Nor swells one column to record his praise
Where her palmetto shades the adjacent deeps,
Affection sighs, and Carolina weeps!
Thou, who shalt stray where death this chief confines,
Revere the patriot, subject of these lines:
Not from the dust the muse transcribes his name,
And more than marble shall declare his fame
Where scenes more glorious his great soul engage,
Confest thrice worthy in that closing page
When conquering Time to dark oblivion calls,
The marble totters, and the column falls.
LAURENS! thy tomb while kindred hands adorn,
Let northern muses, too, inscribe your urn.--
Of all, whose names on death's black list appear,
No chief, that perished, claimed more grief sincere,
Not one, Columbia, that thy bosom bore,
More tears commanded, or deserved them more!
Grief at his tomb shall heave the unwearied sigh,
And honour lift the mantle to her eye:
Fame through the world his patriot name shall spread,
By heroes envied and by monarchs read:
Just, generous, brave--to each true heart allied:
The Briton's terror, and his country's pride;
For him the tears of war-worn soldiers ran,
The friend of freedom, and the friend of man.
Then what is death, compared with such a tomb,
Where honour fades not, and fair virtues bloom;
When silent grief on every face appears,
The tender tribute of a nation's tears;
Ah! what is death, when deeds like his, thus claim
The brave man's homage, and immortal fame!

[297] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, October 17, 1787, introduced as follows:

"Mr. BAILEY,

The subsequent lines were written two or three years after the
event that occasioned them, but have never been printed. If you
think them in any degree worthy of the memory of the patriotic
young officer they attempt to celebrate (and whose death has been
so deeply regretted throughout America) I must request you to
insert them in your Journal.
A. B."

The 1788 edition prints the poem with this title: "To the Memory of the brave, accomplished and patriotic Col. JOHN LAURENS, Who in the 27th year of his age, was killed in an engagement with a detachment of the British from Charleston, near the river Cambahee, in South Carolina, _August 1782_." The text follows the edition of 1809.

[298] In 1780 Laurens was sent by Congress on a mission to France for a loan and supplies, in which he was successful.

ON THE VICISSITUDES OF THINGS[299]

"The constant lapse of rolling years
Awakes our hopes, provokes our fears
Of something yet unknown;
We saw the last year pass away,
But who, that lives can safely say,
The next shall be his own?"

So hundreds talk--and thousands more
Descant their moral doctrines o'er;
And when the preaching's done,
Each goes his various, wonted way,
To labour some, and some to play--
So goes the folly on.

How swift the vagrant seasons fly;
They're hardly born before they die,
Yet in their wild career,
Like atoms round the rapid wheel,
We seem the same, though changing still,
Mere reptiles of a year.

Some haste to seek a wealthy bride,
Some, rhymes to make on one that died;
And millions curse the day,
When first in Hymen's silken bands
The parson joined mistaken hands,
And bade the bride obey.

While sad Amelia vents her sighs,
In epitaphs and elegies,
For her departed dear,
Who would suppose the muffled bell,
And mourning gowns, were meant to tell,
Her grief will last--a year?

In folly's path how many meet--
What hosts will live to lie and cheat--
How many empty pates
May, in this wise, eventful year,
In native dignity appear
To manage Rising States!

How vain to sigh!--the wheel must on
And straws are to the whirlpool drawn,
With ships of gallant mien--
What has been once, may time restore;
What now exists, has been before--
Years only change the scene.

In endless circles all things move;
Below, about, far off, above,
This motion all attain--
If Folly's self should flit away,
She would return some New year's day,
With millions in her train.

Sun, moon, and stars, are each a sphere,
The earth the same, (or very near),
Sir Isaac has defined--
In circles each coin is cast,
And hence our cash departs so fast,
Cash--that no charm can bind.

From you to us--from us it rolls
To comfort other cloudy souls:--
If again we make it square,[A]
Perhaps the uneasy guest will stay
To cheer us in some wintry day,
And smooth the brow of care.

[A] The old Continental.--_Freneau's note._

[299] This appeared first as the regular New Year's sheet of the _Freeman's Journal_, January 1, 1785. Its original title was, "New Year's Verses, addressed to the Customers of the Freeman's Journal by the Lad who carries it." Text from the edition of 1809.

PEWTER-PLATTER ALLEY[300]

In Philadelphia

(As it appeared in January, 1784)

From Christ-Church graves, across the way,
A dismal, horrid place is found,
Where rushing winds exert their sway,
And Greenland winter chills the ground:
No blossoms there are seen to bloom,
No sun pervades the dreary gloom!

The people of that gloomy place
In penance for some ancient crime
Are held in a too narrow space,
Like those beyond the bounds of time,
Who darkened still, perceive no day,
While seasons waste, and moons decay.

Cold as the shade that wraps them round,
This icy region prompts our fear;
And he who treads this frozen ground
Shall curse the chance that brought him here--
The slippery mass predicts his fate,
A broken arm, a wounded pate.

When August sheds his sultry beam,
May Celia never find this place,
Nor see, upon the clouded stream,
The fading summer in her face;
And may she ne'er discover there
The grey that mingles with her hair.

The watchman sad, whose drowsy call
Proclaims the hour forever fled,
Avoids this path to Pluto's hall;
For who would wish to wake the dead!--
Still let them sleep--it is no crime--
They pay no tax to know the time.

No coaches here, in glittering pride,
Convey their freight to take the air,
No gods nor heroes here reside,
Nor powdered beau, nor lady fair--
All, all to warmer regions flee,
And leave the glooms to Towne[A] and me.

[A] BENJAMIN TOWNE, then Printer of the EVENING
POST.--_Freneau's note._

[300] _Freeman's Journal_, February 23, 1795.

ON THE DEATH OF THE REPUBLICAN PATRIOT AND STATESMAN, GENERAL JOSEPH REED[A]

[A] First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 9, 1785,
with the following introduction:

"On Saturday morning last [March 5] departed this life in
the forty-third year of his age, GENERAL JOSEPH REED, Esq.,
formerly President of this State; and on Sunday his remains
were interred in the Presbyterian burying ground in Arch
Street. His funeral was attended by his excellency the
President and the Superior Executive Council, the Honourable
the Speaker and the General Assembly, the Militia Officers
and a greater number of citizens than we've ever seen here
on any similar occasion." Text follows the edition of 1809.

Reed was one of the leading figures of the Revolutionary era.
As delegate to the Continental Congress, aide and secretary
to Washington, Adjutant General, volunteer soldier, and
Governor of Pennsylvania, he was an active and able man,
and his early death was much regretted.

Soon to the grave[301] descends each honoured name
That raised their country to this blaze[302] of fame:
Sages, that planned, and chiefs that led the way
To Freedom's temple, all too soon decay,
Alike submit to one impartial[303] doom,
Their glories closing in perpetual gloom,
Like the pale[304] splendours of the evening, fade,
While night advances, to complete the shade.
REED, 'tis for thee we shed the unpurchased tear,
Bend o'er thy tomb, and plant our laurels there:
Your acts, your life,[305] the noblest pile transcend,
And Virtue, patriot Virtue, mourns her friend,
Gone to those realms, where worth may claim regard,
And gone where virtue meets her best reward.
No single art engaged his vigorous[306] mind,
In every scene his active genius shined:
Nature in him, in honour to our age,
At once composed the soldier and the sage--
Firm to his purpose, vigilant, and bold,
Detesting traitors, and despising gold,
He scorned all bribes from Britain's hostile throne
For all his country's wrongs he held[307] his own.
REED, rest in peace: for time's impartial page
Shall raise the blush on[308] this ungrateful age:
Long in these climes thy name shall flourish fair,
The statesman's pattern, and the poet's care;
Long in these climes[309] thy memory shall remain,
And still new tributes from new ages gain,
Fair to the eye that injured honour rise--
Nor traitors triumph while the patriot dies.

The following are the variations in the 1786 edition:

[301] Swift to the dust.

[302] These heights.

[303] Unalter'd.

[304] Dim.

[305] Thy own brave deeds.

[306] Manly.

[307] Were _thrice_.

[308] Blast the wrongs of.

[309] On these plains.

A RENEGADO EPISTLE[310]

To the Independent Americans

We Tories, who lately were frightened away,
When you marched into York all in battle array,
Dear Whigs, in our exile have somewhat to say.

From the clime of New Scotland we wish you to know
We still are in being--mere spectres of woe,
Our dignity high, but our spirits are low.

Great people we are, and are called the king's friends;
But on friendships like these what advantage attends?
We may stay and be starved[311] when we've answered his ends!

The Indians themselves, whom no treaties can bind,
We have reason to think are perversely inclined--
And where we have friends is not easy to find.

From the day we arrived on this desolate shore
We still have been wishing to see you once more,
And your freedom enjoy, now the danger is o'er.

Although we be-rebelled you up hill and down,
It was all for your good--and to honour a crown
Whose splendours have spoiled better eyes than our own.

That traitors we were, is no more than our due,
And so may remain for a century through,
Unless we return, and be tutored by you.

Although with the dregs of the world we are classed,
We hope your resentment will soften at last,
Now your toils are repaid, and our triumphs are past.

When a matter is done, 'tis a folly to fret--
But your market-day mornings we cannot forget,
With your coaches to lend, and your horses to let.

Your dinners of beef, and your breakfasts of toast!
But we have no longer such blessings to boast,
No cattle to steal, and no turkies to roast.

Such enjoyments as these, we must tell you with pain,
'Tis odds we shall only be wishing in vain
Unless we return, and be brothers again.

We burnt up your mills and your meetings, 'tis true,
And many bold fellows we crippled and slew--
(Aye! we were the boys that had something to do!)

Old Huddy[312] we hung on the Neversink shore--
But, Sirs, had we hung up a thousand men more,
They had all been avenged in the torments we bore,

When Asgill to Jersey you foolishly fetched,
And each of us feared that his neck would be stretched,
When you were be-rebelled, and we were be-wretched.

In the book of destruction it seems to be written
The Tories must still be dependent on Britain--
The worst of dependence that ever was hit on.

Now their work is concluded--that pitiful jobb--
They send over convicts to strengthen our mob--
And so we do nothing but snivel and sob.

The worst of all countries has fallen to our share,
Where winter and famine provoke our despair,
And fogs are for ever obscuring the air.

Although there be nothing but sea dogs to feed on,
Our friend Jemmy Rivington made it an Eden--
But, alas! he had nothing but lies to proceed on.

Deceived we were all by his damnable schemes--
When he coloured it over with gardens and streams,
And grottoes and groves, and the rest of his dreams.

Our heads were so turned by that conjuror's spell,
We swallowed the lies he was ordered to tell--
But his "happy retreats" were the visions of hell.

We feel so enraged we could rip up his weazon,
When we think of the soil he described with its trees on,
And the plenty that reigned, and the charms of each season.

Like a parson that tells of the joys of the blest
To a man to be hanged--he himself thought it best
To remain where he was, in his haven of rest.

Since he helped us away by the means of his types,
His precepts should only have lighted our pipes,
His example was rather to honour your stripes.

Now, if we return, as we're bone of your bone,
We'll renounce all allegiance to George and his throne
And be the best subjects that ever were known.

In a ship, you have seen (where the duty is hard)
The cook and the scullion may claim some regard,
Though it takes a good fellow to brace the main yard.

Howe'er you despise us, because you are free,
The world's at a loss for such people as we,
Who can pillage on land, and can plunder at sea.

So long for our rations they keep us in waiting--
The Lords and the Commons, perhaps, are debating
If Tories can live without drinking or eating.

So we think it is better to see you, by far--
And have hinted our meaning to governor Parr[A]--
The worst that can happen is--feathers and tar.

[A] Then Governor of Nova-Scotia.--_Freneau's note._

_Nova-Scotia, Feb. 1784._

[310] Text from the edition of 1809. First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 30, 1785, under the title, "A New York Tory's Epistle."

[311] "We may starve and be damn'd."--_Ed. 1786._

[312] See note to poem "On Gen. Robertson's Proclamation," Vol. II, p. 162.

THE AMERICAN SIBERIA[313]

When Jove from darkness smote the sun,
And Nature earth from chaos won,
One part she left a barren waste
By stormy seas and fogs embraced.

Jove saw her vile neglect, and cried,
"What madness did your fancy guide--
Why have you left so large a space
With winter brooding o'er its face?

No trees of stately growth ascend,
Eternal fogs their wings expand--
My favorite--man--I placed not there,
But spirits of a darker sphere.

If Nature's self neglects her trade
What strange confusion will be made:
Such climes as these I doomed to fall
On Saturn's cold unsocial ball:

But such a blemish, here, to see--
How can it else but anger me?
Where chilling winds forever freeze,
What fool will fix on lands like these?"

Nature, abashed, thus made reply:
"When earth I formed, I don't deny,
Some parts I portioned out for pain,
Hard storms, dull skies, and--little gain.

Mankind are formed with different souls:
Some will be suited near the poles,
Some pleased beneath the scorching line,
And some, New Scotland, will be thine.

Yet, in due time, my plastic hand
Shall mould it o'er, if you command;
By you I act--if you stand still
The world comes tumbling down the hill!"

Untouched--(said Jove)--remain the place!
In days to come I'll form a race,
Born to betray their country's cause,
And aid an alien monarch's laws.

When traitors to their country die,
To lands, like this, their phantoms fly;
But when the brave by death decay
The mind explores a different way.

Then, Nature, hold your aiding hand--
Let fogs and tempests chill the land;
While this degenerate work of thine
To knaves and knapsacks I resign.

[313] Text follows the edition of 1809.

EPISTLE TO SYLVIUS[314]

On the Folly of Writing Poetry

Of all the fools that haunt our coast
The scribbling tribe I pity most:
Their's is a standing scene of woes,
And their's no prospect of repose.

Then, Sylvius, why this eager claim
To light your torch at Clio's flame?
To few she shews sincere regard,
And none, from her, should hope reward.

A garret high, dark dismal room,
Is still the pensive poet's doom:
Hopes raised to heaven must be their lot,
Yet bear the curse, to be forgot.

Hourly they deal with Grecian Jove,
And draw their bills on banks above:
Yet stand abashed, with all their fire,
When brought to face some country 'squire.

To mend the world, is still their aim:
The world, alas! remains the same,
And so must stand to every age,
Proof to the morals of the page!

The knave that keeps a tippling inn,
The red-nosed boy that deals out gin,
If aided by some paltry skill
May both be statesmen when they will.

The man that mends a beggar's shoes,
The quack that heals your negro's bruise,
The wretch that turns a cutler's stone,
Have wages they can call their own:

The head, that plods in trade's domains,
Gets something to reward its pains;
But Wit--that does the world beguile,
Takes for its pay--an empty smile!

Yet each presumes his works will rise,
And gain a name that never dies;
From earth, and cold oblivion freed,
Immortal, in the poets' creed!

Can Reason in that bosom reign
Which fondly feeds a hope so vain,
When every age that passes by
Beholds a crowd of poets die!

Poor Sappho's fate shall Milton know--
His scenes of grief and tales of woe
No honours, that all Europe gave,
No merit--shall from ruin save.

To all that write and all that read
Fate shall, with hasty step, succeed!
Even Shakespeare's page, his mirth, his tears
May sink beneath this weight of years.

Old Spenser's doom shall, Pope, be thine
The music of each moving line
Scarce bribes an age or two to stay,
Admire your strain--then flit away.

The people of old Chaucer's times
Were once in raptures with his rhymes,
But Time--that over verse prevails,
To other ears tells other tales.

Why then so sad, dear rhyming friends--
One common fate on both attends,
The bards that sooth the statesman's ear,
And him--who finds no audience there.

Mere structures formed of common earth,
Not they from heaven derive their birth,
Or why through life, like vagrants, pass
To mingle with the mouldering mass?--

Of all the souls, from Jove that came
To animate this mortal frame,
Of all the myriads, on the wing,
How few can taste the Muse's spring!

Sejanus, of mercantile skill,
Without whose aid the world stands still,
And by whose wonder-working play
The sun goes round--(his flatterers say)

Sejanus has in house declared
"These States, as yet, can boast no bard,
And all the sing-song of our clime
Is merely nonsense, fringed with rhyme."

With such a bold, conceited air
When such assume the critic's chair,
Low in the dust is genius laid,
The muses with the man in trade.

Then, Sylvius, come--let you and I
On Neptune's aid, once more rely:
Perhaps the muse may still impart
Her balm to ease the aching heart.

Though cold might chill and storms dismay,
Yet Zoilus will be far away:
With us at least, depart and share
No garret--but resentment there.

[314] On Nov. 24, 1785, Freneau sailed from Middletown Point as Master of the sloop _Monmouth_ bound for southern ports. This lyric, first published in the edition of 1788, seems to have been his valedictory to the muse for a season. His conflict with Oswald and other critics had much embittered him. The text is from the edition of 1809.

THE DEPARTURE[315]

1785

From Hudson's cold, congealing streams
As winter comes, I take my way
Where other suns prompt other dreams,
And shades, less willing to decay,
Beget new raptures in the heart,
Bid spleen's dejective crew depart,
And wake the sprightly lay.

Good-natur'd Neptune, now so mild,
Like rage asleep, or madness chain'd,
By dreams amus'd or love beguil'd,
Sleep on 'till we our port have gain'd.
The gentle breeze that curls the deep,
Shall paint a finer dream on sleep!--
Ye nymphs, that haunt his grottoes low,
Where sea green trees on coral grow,
No tumults make
Lest he should wake,
And thus the passing shade betray
The sails that o'er his waters stray.

Sunk is the sun from yonder hill,
The noisy day is past;
The breeze decays, and all is still,
As all shall be at last;
The murmuring on the distant shore,
The dying wave is all I hear,
The yellow fields now disappear,
No painted butterflies are near,
And laughing folly plagues no more.

The woods that deck yon' fading waste,
That every wanton gale embrac'd,
Ere summer yet made haste to fly;
How smit with frost the pride of June!
How lost to me! how very soon
The fairy prospects die!
Condemn'd to bend to winter's stroke,
Low in the dust the embowering oak
Has bid the fading leaf descend,
Their short liv'd verdure at an end;
How desolate the forests seem,
Beneath whose shade
The enamour'd maid
Was once so fond to dream.

What now is left of all that won
The eye of mirth while summer stay'd--
The birds that sported in the sun,
The sport is past, the song is done;
And nature's naked forms declare,
The rifled groves, the vallies bare,
Persuasively, tho' silent, tell,
That at the best they were but drest
Sad mourners for the funeral bell!

Now while I spread the venturous sail
To catch the breeze from yonder hill,
Say, what does all this folly mean?
Why grieve to pass the wat'ry scene?
Is fortitude to heaven confin'd?--
No--planted also in the mind,
She smooths the ocean when she will.

But life is pain--what ills must try,
What malice dark and calumny,
Indifference, with her careless eye,
And slander, with her tale begun;
Bold ignorance, with forward air,
And cowardice, that has no share
In honours gain'd, or trophies won.

To these succeed, (and these are few
Of nature's dark, unseemly crew)
Unsocial pride, and cold disgust,
Servility, that licks the dust;
Those harpies that disgrace the mind;
Unknown to haunt the human breast
When pleasure her first garden dress'd--
But vanish'd is the shade so gay,
And lost in gloom the summer day
That charm'd the soul to rest.

What season shall restore that scene
When all was calm and all serene,
And happiness no empty sound,
The golden age, that pleas'd so well?--
The Mind that made it shall not tell
To those on life's uncertain road;
Where lost in folly's idle round,
And seeking what shall ne'er be found
We press to one abode.

[315] This poem was first published in the _Freeman's Journal_, April 18, 1787, with a note "Written at leaving Sandy Hook on a voyage to the West Indies." It is dated Nov. 26, 1785; it was, therefore, written at sea. It was published in the 1788 edition, which the text follows, and omitted from the 1809 edition.

A NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS[316]

Old Eighty-Five discharg'd and gone,
Another year comes hastening on
To quit us in its turn:
With outspread wings and running glass
Thus Time's deluding seasons pass,
And leave mankind to mourn.

But strains like this add grief to grief;--
We are the lads that give relief
With sprightly wit and merry lay:
Our various page to all imparts
Amusement fit for social hearts,
And drives the monster, spleen, away.

Abroad our leaves of knowledge fly,
And twice a week they live and die;
Short seasons of repose!
Fair to your view our toils display
The monarch's aim, what patriots say,
Or sons of art disclose:

Whate'er the barque of commerce brings
From sister States, or foreign kings,
No atom we conceal:
All Europe's prints we hourly drain,
All Asia's news our leaves contain,
And round our world we deal.

If falsehoods sometimes prompt your fears,
And horrid news from proud Algiers,
That gives our tars such pain;
Remember all must have their share,
And all the world was made for care,
The monarch and the swain.

If British isles (that once were free,
In Indian seas, to you and me)
All entrance still restrain,
Why let them starve with all their host
When British pride gives up the ghost,
And courts our aid in vain.

We fondly hope some future year
Will all our clouded prospects clear,
And commerce stretch her wings;
New tracks of trade new wealth disclose,
While round the globe our standard goes
In spite of growling kings.

Materials thus together drawn
To tell you how the world goes on
May surely claim regard;
One simple word we mean to say,
This is our jovial New Year's day,
And now, our toils reward.

[316] Freneau arrived in Charleston Dec. 8, and remained there until Jan. 23, when he cleared for Sunbury. On Jan. 1st, he wrote the above verses for the carriers of the Charleston _Columbian Herald_. They were republished in the editions of 1788 and 1795, which later edition the text follows.

LITERARY IMPORTATION[317]

However we wrangled with Britain awhile
We think of her now in a different stile,
And many fine things we receive from her isle;
Among all the rest,
Some demon possessed
Our dealers in knowledge and sellers of sense
To have a good bishop imported from thence.

The words of Sam Chandler[A] were thought to be vain,
When he argued so often and proved it so plain
"That Satan must flourish till bishops should reign:"
Though he went to the wall
With his project and all,
Another bold Sammy[B], in bishop's array,
Has got something more than his pains for his pay.

[A] "Who laboured for the establishment of an American Episcopacy,
previously to the revolutionary war."--_Freneau's note._

[B] Bishop Samuel Seabury, of Connecticut.--_Ib._

It seems we had spirit to humble a throne,
Have genius for science inferior to none,
But hardly encourage a plant of our own:
If a college be planned,
'Tis all at a stand
'Till to Europe we send at a shameful expense,
To send us a book-worm to teach us some sense.

Can we never be thought to have learning or grace
Unless it be brought from that horrible[318] place
Where tyranny reigns with her impudent face;
And popes and pretenders,
And sly faith-defenders
Have ever been hostile to reason and wit,
Enslaving a world that shall conquer them yet.

'Tis a folly to fret at the picture I draw:
And I say what was said by a Doctor Magraw;[C]
"If they give us their Bishops, they'll give us their law."
How that will agree
With such people as we,
Let us leave to the learned to reflect on awhile,
And say what they think in a handsomer stile.

[C] A noted practitioner in physic, formerly of
N. York.--_Freneau's note, Ed. 1788._

[317] First published, as far as can be learned, in the 1788 edition, and dated Charleston, S. C., 1786. The text is taken from the edition of 1809.

[318] "Damnable."--_Ed. 1788._

THE ENGLISHMAN'S COMPLAINT[319]

In Carolina

Arriving from Britain with cargo so nice
Once more have I touched at these regions of rice!
Dear Ashley, with pleasure thy stream I review:
But how changed are these plains that we wished to subdue.

If through the wild woods he extended his reign,
And death and the hangman were both in his train,
Cornwallis no longer disturbs your repose,
His lordship is dead or at least in a doze.

By Sullivan's island how quiet we pass;
Fort Johnson no longer salutes us, alas!--
The season has been you did nothing but mourn,
But now you will laugh at a Briton's return!

Instead of gay soldiers that walked the parade,
Here is nothing but draymen and people in trade;
Instead of our navy that thundered around,
Here is nothing but ships without guns to be found.

Instead of Lord Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour,
Whose names and whose notions you cannot endure,
But whom in their glory you could not forget
When puffed by the froth of the Royal Gazette:

Instead of those tyrants, who homewards have flown,
This country is ruled by a race of its own,
Whom once we could laugh at--but now we must say
Seem rising to be in a handsomer way.

To us and our island eternally foes,
How tedious you are in forgetting your woes,
Your plundered plantations you still will remember,
Although we have left you--three years last December!

[319] This first appeared in the 1788 edition. The date of composition is indicated by the last line. The British evacuated the city in 1782. The edition of 1809 has been followed.

THE WILD HONEY SUCKLE[320]

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died--nor were those flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
The space between, is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.

[320] Freneau doubtless wrote this poem in Charleston, S. C., in July, 1786. It appeared first in the _Freeman's Journal_, August 2, 1786, and was republished in the edition of 1788, and in the later editions, almost without change. The poet probably refers to the _Rhododendron Viscosum_, or as some call it the _Asalia viscosun_ since it is the only flower popularly known as the wild honeysuckle that is both white and fragrant. According to Chapman's _Southern Flora_, it flowers in the latitude of Charleston in July and August. The text is from the edition of 1809.

ON A BOOK CALLED UNITARIAN THEOLOGY[321]

In this choice work, with wisdom penned, we find
The noblest system to reform mankind,
Bold truths confirmed, that bigots have denied,
By most perverted, and which some deride.
Here, truths divine in easy language flow,
Truths long concealed, that now all climes shall know
Here, like the blaze of our material sun,
Enlightened Reason proves, that God is One--
As that, concentered in itself, a sphere,
Illumes all Nature with its radiance here,
Bids towards itself all trees and plants aspire,
Awakes the winds, impels the seeds of fire,
And still subservient to the Almighty plan,
Warms into life the changeful race of man;
So--like that sun--in heaven's bright realms we trace
One Power of Love, that fills unbounded space,
Existing always by no borrowed aid,
Before all worlds--eternal, and not made--
To That indebted, stars and comets burn,
Owe their swift movements, and to That return!
Prime source of wisdom, all-contriving mind,
First spring of Reason, that this globe designed;
Parent of order, whose unwearied hand
Upholds the fabric that his wisdom planned,
And, its due course assigned to every sphere,
Revolves the seasons, and sustains the year!--
Pure light of Truth! where'er thy splendours shine,
Thou art the image of the power divine;
Nought else, in life, that full resemblance bears,
No sun, that lights us through our circling years,
No stars, that through yon' charming azure stray,
No moon, that glads us with her evening ray,
No seas, that o'er their gloomy caverns flow,
No forms beyond us, and no shapes below!
Then slight--ah slight not, this instructive page,
For the mean follies of a dreaming age:
Here to the truth, by Reason's aid aspire,
Nor some dull preacher of romance admire;
See One, Sole God, in these convincing lines,
Beneath whose view perpetual day-light shines;
At whose command all worlds their circuits run,
And night, retiring, dies before the sun!
Here, Man no more disgraced by Time appears,
Lost in dull slumbers through ten thousand years;
Plunged in that gulph, whose dark unfathomed wave
Men of all ages to perdition gave;
An empty dream, or still more empty shade,
The substance vanished, and the form decayed:--
Here Reason proves, that when this life decays,
Instant, new life in the warm bosom plays,
As that expiring, still its course repairs
Through endless ages, and unceasing years.
Where parted souls with kindred spirits meet,
Wrapt to the bloom of beauty all complete;
In that celestial, vast, unclouded sphere,
Nought there exists but has its image here!
All there is Mind!--That Intellectual Flame,
From whose vast stores all human genius came,
In which all Nature forms on Reason's plan--
Flows to this abject world, and beams on Man!

[321] This was published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Oct 4, 1786, under the title "On the Honourable Emanuel Swedenborg's Universal Theology." A column advertisement of the book appeared in the _Journal_ Oct. 25. The poem was reprinted in the 1788 collection and in the later edition of 1809, which the text follows.

TO ZOILUS[322]

[A Severe Critic]

Six sheets compos'd, struck off, and dry
The work may please the world (thought I)--
If some impell'd by spleen or spite,
Refuse to read, then let them write:
I too, with them, shall have my turn,
And give advice--to tear or burn.

Now from the binder's, hurried home,
In neat array my leaves are come:
Alas, alas! is this my all?
The volume is so light and small,
That, aim to save it as I can,
'Twill fly before Myrtilla's fan.

Why did I no precautions use?
To curb these frolics of the Muse?
Ah! why did I invoke the nine
To aid these humble toils of mine--
That now forebode through every page
The witling's sneer, the critic's rage.

Did I, for this, so often rise
Before the sun illum'd the skies,
And near my Hudson's mountain stream
Invoke the Muses' morning dream,
And scorn the winds that blew so cool!
I did--and I was more the fool.

Yet slender tho' the book, and small,
And harmless, take it all in all,
I see a monstrous wight appear,
A quill suspended from his ear;
Its fate depends on his decree,
And what he says must sacred be!

A brute of such terrific mien
At wild Sanduski ne'er was seen,
And in the dark Kentuckey groves
No beast, like this, for plunder roves,
Nor dwells in Britain's lowering clime
A reptile, so severe on rhyme.

The monster comes, severe and slow,
His eyes with arrowy lightnings glow,
Takes up the book, surveys it o'er,
Exclaims, "damn'd stuff!"--but says no more:
The book is damn'd by his decree,
And what he says must gospel be!

But was there nothing to his taste?--
Was all my work a barren waste--
Was not one bright idea sown,
And not one image of my own?--
Its doom was just, if this be true:
But Zoilus shall be sweated too.

Give me a cane of mighty length,
A staff proportion'd to my strength,
Like that, by whose destructive aid
The man of Gath his conquests made;
Like that, which once on Etna's shore
The shepherd of the mountain bore:

For wit traduc'd at such a rate
To other worlds I'll send him, straight,
Where all the past shall nothing seem,
Or just be imag'd, like a dream;
Where new vexations are design'd,
No dull quietus for the mind!

Arm'd with a staff of such a size
Who would not smite this man of lies:
Here, scribbler, help me! seize that pen
With which he blasts all rhyming men:
His goose-quill must not with him go
To persecute the bards below.--

How vast a change an hour may bring!
How abject lies this snarling thing!
No longer wit to him shall bow,
To him the world is nothing now;
And all he writ, and all he read
Is, with himself, in silence laid!

Dead tho' he be--(not sent to rest)
No keen remorse torments my breast:
Yet, something in me seems to tell
I might have let him live, as well;--
'Twas his to snarl, and growl, and grin,
And life had, else, a burthen been.

[322] This was first published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Oct 11, 1786, though it undoubtedly was written before the poet left Philadelphia. It was republished in the 1788 edition under the title "The Pamphleteer and the Critic." The text follows the 1795 edition.

ON THE LEGISLATURE OF GREAT-BRITAIN PROHIBITING THE SALE, IN LONDON, OF

Doctor David Ramsay's History of the Revolutionary war in South Carolina[323]

Some bold bully Dawson, expert in abusing,
Having passed all his life in the practice of bruising;
At last, when he thinks to reform and repent,
And wishes his days had been soberly spent,
Though a course of contrition in earnest begins,
He scarcely can bear to be told of his sins.
So the British, worn out with their wars in the west
(Where burning and murder their prowess confessed)
When, at last, they agreed 'twas in vain to contend
(For the days of their thieving were come to an end)
They hired some historians to scribble and flatter,
And foolishly thought they could hush up the matter.
But Ramsay[324] arose, and with Truth on his side,
Has told to the world what they laboured to hide;
With his pen of dissection, and pointed with steel,
If they ne'er before felt he has taught them to feel,
Themselves and their projects has truly defined,
And dragged them to blush at the bar of mankind.
As the author, his friends, and the world might expect,
They find that the work has a damning effect--
In reply to his Facts they abuse him and rail,
And prompted by malice, prohibit the sale.
But, we trust, their chastisement is only begun;
Thirteen are the States--and he writes but of one;
Ere the twelve that are silent their story have told,
The king will run mad, and the book will be sold.

[323] _Freeman's Journal_, Oct. 11, dated Philadelphia, Oct. 9. The text follows the edition of 1809.

[324] David Ramsay's "History of the Revolution in South Carolina," was published at Trenton, New Jersey, in 1785.

THE DEATH SONG OF A CHEROKEE INDIAN[325]

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, ye tormentors: your threats are in vain
For the son of Alknomock can never complain.

Remember the woods, where in ambush he lay,
And the scalps which he bore from your nation away!
Why do ye delay?--'till I shrink from my pain?
Know the son of Alknomock can never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low
The flame rises high, you exult in my pain?
Know the son of Alknomock will never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone:
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son
Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain
And thy son, O Alknomock, has scorned to complain.

[325] The first trace I can find of this poem is in the initial number of Matthew Carey's _American Museum_, Jan. 1, 1787, where it is placed among the selected poetry and assigned to P. Freneau. This testimony of Carey's as to its genuineness carries with it considerable weight. Knapp, who in 1829 reviewed the poem as Freneau's, doubtless had before him a copy of the _Museum_. The poem, however, is not included in any of the poet's collections and I can find no earlier newspaper appearance, although my search has not been exhaustive. The authenticity of a poem suspected to be Freneau's may always be gravely doubted if it is not found to be included in his collected works, for he hoarded his poetic product, especially in his earlier period, with miserly care.

The poem appeared in 1806 among the poems of Mrs. John Hunter with the title "The Death Song, written for and adapted to, an original Indian air." Several of Mrs. Hunter's best poems had been long in circulation before she was induced to collect them. In 1822 Maria Edgeworth introduced the poem into her book "Rosamond," ascribing it to her. She added the following note: "The idea of this ballad was suggested several years ago by hearing a gentleman who resided many years among the tribe called the Cherokees, sing a wild air, which he assured me was customary for these people to chant with a barbarous jargon implying contempt for their enemies in the moments of torture and death. I have endeavored to give something of the characteristic spirit and sentiment of those brave savages."

STANZAS

Written at the foot of Monte Souffriere, near the Town of
Basseterre, Guadaloupe[326]

These Indian isles, so green and gay
In summer seas by nature placed--
Art hardly told us where they lay,
'Till tyranny their charms defaced:
Ambition here her efforts made,
And avarice rifled every shade.

Their genius wept, his sons to see
By foreign arms untimely fall,
And some to distant climates flee,
Where later ruin met them all:
He saw his sylvan offspring bleed,
That envious natures might succeed.

The Chief, who first o'er untried waves
To these fair islands found his way,
Departing, left a race of slaves,
Cortez, your mandate to obey,
And these again, if fame says true,
To extirpate the vulgar crew.

No more to Indian coasts confined,
The Patron, thus, indulged his grief;
And to regret his heart resigned,
To see some proud European chief,
Pursue the harmless Indian race,
Torn by his dogs in every chace.[327]

Ah, what a change! the ambient deep
No longer hears the lover's sigh;
But wretches meet, to wail and weep
The loss of their dear liberty:
Unfeeling hearts possess these isles,
Man frowns--and only nature smiles.

Proud of the vast extended shores
The haughty Spaniard calls his own,
His selfish heart restrains his stores,
To other climes but scarcely known:[328]
His Cuba lies a wilderness,
Where slavery digs what slaves possess.

Jamaica's sweet, romantic vales
In vain with golden harvests teem;
Her endless spring, her fragrant gales
More than Elysian magic seem:[329]
Yet what the soil profusely gave
Is there denied the toiling slave.

Fantastic joy and fond belief
Through life support the galling chain;
Hope's airy prospects banish griefs,
And bring his native lands again:
His native groves a heaven display,
The funeral is the jocund day.

For man oppressed and made so base,
In vain from Jove fair virtue fell;
Distress be-glooms the toiling race,
They have no motive to excel:
In death alone their miseries end,
The tyrant's dread--is their best friend.

How great their praise let truth declare,
Who touched with honour's sacred flame,
Bade freedom to some coasts repair
To urge the slave's neglected claim;
And scorning interest's swinish plan,
Gave to mankind the rights of man.

Ascending there, may freedom's sun
In all his force serenely clear,
A long, unclouded circuit run,
Till little tyrants disappear;
And a new race, not bought or sold,
Rise from the ashes of the old.

[326] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_ of Jan. 31, 1787, with the introduction "The following verses, wrote by Mr. Freneau are subjoined to a short and accurate account of the West Indies in the printer's _Pocket Almanac_ for the present year." The title of the poem suffered many variations in later editions. In the 1788 edition, where it was reprinted from the _Journal_, it was entitled "Stanzas written In a blank leaf of Burke's History of the West India Islands," and it was signed "Pennsylvania, 1786." In the 1795 edition it was entitled "Caribbeana," and in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed, it received the title above given. The poem was carefully revised for the edition of 1795.

[327]

"While he to tears his heart resign'd
With pain he saw the falling leaf;
'And thus (he cry'd) our reign must end,
We, like the leaves, must now descend.'"
_Ed. 1788._

[328]

"No other world may share those stores
To other worlds so little known." _Ed. 1788._

[329]

"Did more to me than magic seem." _Ib._

ON THE CREW OF A CERTAIN VESSEL[330]

Several of whom happened to be of similar names to Celebrated
Foreign Clergymen

In life's unsettled, odd career
What changes every day appear
To please or plague the eye:
A goodly brotherhood of priests
Are here transformed to swearing beasts
Who heaven and hell defy.