Chapter XIX: Part II: , and made to refer to the Tories (4)

Coop'd up in a waggon, the curtains let down,
At three in the morning we drove out of town:
A morning more dark I ne'er saw in my life,
And the fog you might almost have cut with a knife,
It was a fit season for murders and rapes,
For drunken adventures and narrow escapes:--
So, with something to think of, but little to say,
The driver drove on, looking out for the way,
'Till we came to the brow of a horrible hill,
Six miles on our road, when the cattle stood still--
"Are you sure you have took the right road?"--queried Snip;
"I am"--said the driver--and crack'd with his whip.
Then away ran the horses, but took the wrong road,
And away went the waggon, with all its full load;
Down, deep in a valley, roll'd over and over,
Fell the flying-machine, with its curtains and cover,
Where shatter'd and shiver'd--no glimpse yet of day,
A mass of destruction, together we lay!
Then howlings were heard, that would frighten a stone,
And screeching, and screaming, and many a groan,
The bruising of heads, and the breaking of shins,
Contrition of heart, and confession of sins.
First rose from his ruins tall captain O'Keef,
And call'd to Ezekiel, and begg'd for his brief:[J]
A writ he demanded, as soon as 'twas day,
And ask'd his advice, if a suit would not lay?
Then felt for his sword, but chanc'd on a cane,
And rush'd at the stageman, to cleave him in twain.
As fortune would have it, the stageman had fled,
And Snip the whole vengeance receiv'd on his head;
The staff had been whirl'd with so deadly a sweep
Poor Will in a moment was all in a heap:
There was room to surmise that his senses were hurt,
For, in spite of our bruises, he made us some sport:
His head, he conceited, was made of new cheese;
And ask'd, if the sexton would give up his fees?--
Then, rolling away on the side of the hill,
With his head in a horse-pond, he lay very still:
At last he bawl'd out--"I'm sick at my heart!
Come hither, companions, and see me depart!
Snipinda, Snipinda!--alas, I must leave her--
And all, for the sake of this villainous weaver,
Who never would give me a moment of rest
'Till I left my dear shop-board, and thus am distrest!
But a time will arrive (if I deem not amiss)
When Slender, the weaver, will suffer for this--
May his breeches, be always too big for his wear,
Or so narrow and scant as to torture his rear;
May his waistcoat be ever too long or too short,
And the skirts of his tunic not both of a sort;--
And, when from this sorrowful jaunt you return,
Tell Doctor Sangrado 'tis needless to mourn:
Ah! tell him I firmly believ'd I was going
Where people no longer are wed-ding and wooing,
Where white linen stockings will ever be clean,
And sky-men are clad in the best of nankeen;
Where with old Continental our debts we can pay,
And a suit of best broad-cloth will last but a day;
Where with pretty brass thimbles the streets are all pav'd,
And a remnant--if not a whole piece--shall be sav'd,
Where cloth may be cabbag'd--and that without fear--
And journeymen work--thirteen months to the year!"
Snipinda was mov'd at so dismal a yell,
And groping about to find where he fell,
Exclaim'd, "I have got a sad bruise on one hip,
But matters, I fear, are much worse with poor Snip."
"Yes, yes"--answer'd Snip--"I'm preparing to go--
Be speedy, Snipinda, my pulse is so low!"
Then she went where he lay, and took hold of his head,
And whisper'd the captain, "how much he has bled!"
(For she thought, as he lay with his nose in the puddle,
That the water was blood, that had flow'd from his noddle.)
"Ah! where is the doctor, to give him a pill;
And where is the Lawyer, to write his last-will?
Ezekiel! Ezekiel! attend to his words;
If I am his widow, I must have my thirds!
But can you"--and here she reclin'd on his breast--
"And can you resolve to forsake me distrest,
Is it thus you would quit me, my joy and my love,
And leave me alone for the shop-boards above:
Is it thus you consign me to trouble and woe?--
When you are departed, ah! where shall I go?
I shall then be a widow--forsaken and sad--
And where shall I find such another sweet lad?
Who then will afford me a mint-water dram,
Gallant me to meeting--and who will flog Sam?"
By this time the story was currently spread,
And most were convinc'd that the taylor was dead,--
"The taylor is dead beyond all relief!
The taylor is dead," cry'd captain O'Keef:
"To fetch up a fashion, or trump up a whim,
Not a knight of the thimble was equal to him!"
"The taylor is dead"--(the lawyer exclaim'd)
God speed him!--'tis better to die than be maim'd:
If life is a race, as the learned pretend,
God help him! his racing is soon at an end:
His anchor is cast, and his canvas is furl'd;
A creature he was, so attach'd to the world,
So eager for money--(I say it with grief)
He never consider'd the 'fall of the leaf.'
He is come (we may say) to the end of his tether
Where the maid and her master shall lay down together.--
For the place where he's gone may we also prepare,
Where the Mind, when admitted, shall rest from her care,
And fiddles--the finest that ever were seen,
Shall play, for his comfort, a brisk Bonny Jean.
"The taylor is dead" (said the company round)
"The taylor is dead"--the dark forests resound.--
"He is dead!"--blubber'd Sam, with a counterfeit sigh--
When the sailor bawl'd out--"By my soul it's a lie!
The fellow has only a mind for some fun,
His blood is not cold, and his race is not run.
His head, it is true, may have had a small shock:
I'll bind it--'twill only be strapping a block:
Here, hand me a neck-cloth, a napkin, a clout!
Now--heave up his noddle, and strap it about!
Success to the skull that can bear a good jirk--
They only have damag'd his ginger-bread work."
The matters turn'd out as he said and he swore,
And the taylor threw open his peepers once more.

[J] A Lawyer's compend, in which he notes down the heads of
arguments in Law-suits.--_Freneau's note, 1795 edition._

XI. CONCLUSION _of the Journey_

When the morning appear'd, it is horrid to tell
What mischiefs the most of our crew had befel:
A bundle lay here, and a budget lay there;
The Frenchman was fretting and pulling his hair,
The horses were feeding about on the hill,
And Snip, with his head on a hassock lay still,
The driver beseech'd us the fault to excuse,
The night had been dark--and "he lost both his shoes"--
Then he rais'd up his waggon, rejoicing to find
That, by leaving the top and the curtains behind,
We still might proceed--for the body was sound,
And the wheels, upon searching, uninjur'd all 'round.
But dull and dishearten'd we travell'd along,
Our waggon dismantled, our harness all wrong:
The lawyer was vext that we went a snail's pace,
And Cynthia was sure she had lost half her lace;
While Bryan O'Bluster, who Snip had restor'd,
Asserted, that Snip was the Jonas on board,
And often declar'd, in his moments of glee,
"He would give him a souse, if he had him at sea."
At length, we arriv'd, with the marks of our fall,
And halted to dine at the town of Road-Hall:
Honest David has always a dish of the best,
But Snipinda declar'd there was nothing well drest--
"And Snip (she exclaim'd) I would ask him to eat,
But I know that he never could relish roast-meat:
I think it were better to get him some Tea,
He always was fond of slop dinners, like me,
But then he could never endure your Bohea--
La! madam, is this the best tea that you keep?
By the taste and the smell, you have purchas'd it cheap!
No Hyson or Congo to give a sick stranger!
Poor man! I've no doubt but his life is in danger!

"No doctor like Neptune for people like him,
(Quoth O'Bluster)--his illness is merely a whim:
If I had him at sea, with the rest of our crew,
He should dance to the tune of a bowl of Burgoo!"

"From all that appears (said captain O'Keef)
I judge he might venture to taste the roast beef,
Nay--I think I can guess, from the cast of his eye,
He longs to have hold of the gooseberry pye!"
"Why captain (she cry'd) would you kill the poor sinner?
If he cannot have tea, he shall go without dinner!"

At length to the Ferry we safely arrive,
Each thanking his genius he still was alive:
Poor Cynthia complain'd of abundance of harms,
The black on her face and the blue on her arms:
Snipinda exclaim'd that she wanted a patch,
For Snip, in his ravings, had give her a scratch:
The corpse of the captain was merely a wreck,
And the sailor complain'd of a kink in his neck,
He had a contusion, beside, on his thigh;
And the ballad-man talk'd of a bruise on his eye,
Just adding, "how much he was vext at the heart
That no one regarded the song-singing art:
Yet the town was in love with his music (he said)
But never consider'd he liv'd by the trade;
That affronts and neglect were forever his lot,
And the lovers of music respected him--not;
He had sung for the nymphs, and had sung for the swains,
But they were unwilling to purchase his strains,
When he put up his ballads and call'd for his pay,
The shepherds slunk off, and the nymphs ran away."

So, we said what we could to encourage poor Bob,
And pitied his fortune,--to live by the mob:
Advis'd him to cobble, cut throats, or dig ditches
If he wish'd to advance to perferment and riches;
That the time had arriv'd, when a sycophant race
Of poets are only promoted to place--
He should scorn them alike, if attach'd to a crown,
Singing lies to a court, or disguis'd in the gown;
That a poet of genius (all history shews)
Ne'er wanted a puppy, to bark at his muse:
And, though their productions were never once read,
Yet Bavius and Mevius must also be fed.
Then the skipper came in, with a terrible noise,
Exclaiming, "The wherry is ready, my boys:
The sails are unfurl'd, and the clock has struck eight;
Away to the wharf, for no longer I wait!"
Now all were embark'd, and the boat under sail,
With a dark cloudy sky and a stiff blowing gale:
In plying to windward we delug'd our decks--
O'Bluster discours'd of disasters and wrecks--
Snip offer'd the skipper five dollars, and more,
And a pair of new trowsers, to run us on shore;
"And, if I was there (said the faint-hearted swain)
No money should tempt me to travel again!
I had rather, by far, I had broken both legs,
Been rotting in prison, or pelted with eggs!
Now comrades and captains, I bid you good night,
And you, Mr. Slender, our journey will write;
A journey like this will attention attract,
Related in metre, and known to be fact."--
Snipinda was sorry she ever left home--
Ezekiel confess'd it was madness to roam;--
Toupee was alarm'd at the break of the seas,
And you, Robert Slender, were not at your ease;
Yet couldn't help laughing at captain O'Keef,
Who shunn'd little Cynthia, and cast up his beef:
"And, Bruin (she said) I am sick at my heart,
Come hither, I pray you--and see me depart:
What wretches e'er travell'd so rugged a route;
Alas! I am sorry that e'er we set out!"
And Sam, while he own'd what a thief he had been,
O'Bluster made love to a bottle of gin--
Bob's ballads and poems lay scatter'd and torn
Himself in the dumps and his visage forlorn;--
Snip lay with his head by the side of a pot,
In doubt if his soul was departing or not,
Complaining, and spewing, and cursing his luck--
Then look'd at Snipinda--and call'd her his duck.
At last to relieve us, when thought of the least,
The wind came about to the south of southeast,
The barque that was buried in billows before
Now flew like a gull by the Long-Island shore,
And gaining the port where we wish'd to arrive,
Was safe in the bason--precisely at five.

[360] First published in pamphlet form by Bailey, April, 1787, under the title, "A Journey from Philadelphia to New-York by way of Burlington and South-Amboy. By Robert Slender, Stocking Weaver." The advertisement in the _Freeman's Journal_ of April 25 declares that "Some truth in the occasion and a good deal of fancy in the colouring mark the character of the above performance. The style is smooth and easy and the pleasurable air that is diffused over the whole piece will certainly render the whole poem acceptable to such as choose to read it." The poem was republished in the editions of 1788 and 1795, the text of the latter of which I have used. It was again republished in a twenty-four page pamphlet by Thomas Neversink, Philadelphia, Dec. 20, 1809, under the title "A Laughable Poem; or Robert Slender's Journey from Philadelphia to New York." The earlier versions, of which the 1788 text was a reprint, had the poem divided into four cantos. In the 1795 edition the subdivision into sections was made. Freneau thoroughly revised the poem for the 1795 edition, making very many changes, all for the better. He cut out nearly all of the indelicate allusions and expressions of the earlier edition, including the coarse but highly picturesque dialogue between the skipper and the captain, and it has seemed best to me not to resurrect them. The 1809 edition was reprinted with little change from the 1795 version.

[361] The 1788 version here adds this couplet:

"The _Babes in the wood_ was his favourite song,
Or _Barbara Allan_, or _Johnny Armstrong_."

THE HERMIT OF SABA[362]

Hermit, First Mariner, Second Mariner, Third Mariner

SCENE, _The Island of Saba_[A]

[A] One of the windward Islands in the W. Indies. It is small,
and appears like an immense cone, or sugar loaf, rising
out of the surrounding ocean.--The inhabitants are of
Dutch origin, and are equally strangers to the luxury
and tyranny of the Sugar Islands.--Lat. 17 deg. 30' N.
Lon. 63 deg. 12' W.--_Freneau's note._

_Hermit_

Though many years on these tall cliffs residing
I recollect not such a dreadful quarrel
Between the seas and water-vexing tempests
As now torments my ears, and pains my eyes--
Clouds, low suspended, seem to embrace the foam
Of yonder angry ocean--bursting thunders,
With their pale sheets of lightning, are as busy
As though they meant to cleave this mass of nature,
Proving at once the world's mortality--
But am I safe on this sea-girded island,
Or can these shores, thus beaten, bear the shock
Of such a bold assault--?
When universal ruin shall approach,
Will the grand scene be more astonishing
When thou, sky-pointing Saba,
Shalt tremble on thy base most fearfully!--
Night comes!--I'll to my cavern in the mountain,
Far from the torrent's roar and bursting billow;
That cavern, where I oft have found repose
Since on this barren isle, a shipwrecked stranger,
I made my sole escape--Ha! what are these!
A barque half buried in the spouting surge
Comes rushing towards the isle, impelled by winds
That scorn all motives of compassion.
Hark! now she strikes the iron pointed reef
Foundering; the horrid surge that breaks upon her
Has sealed their doom, and hope itself forsakes them
Man is too weak to combat with the power
Of these mad elements, that conquer all,
Ending the day light of our misery!--
Yes, yes--I'll to my haunt, for scenes like these
Pain the shocked soul and damp all resolution;--
Or, shall I to the shore, while day remains,
And search among the shell-incrusted coral,
Lest if by some great chance or miracle
Some wretch survives upon the ragged rocks,
Who knowing not of human kind residing
On this sequestered, unfrequented isle,
Tired in contending with the angry billows
And beaten by the surge the whole night through
For want of such relief, may die ere morning--
Perdition! three I see upon the rocks
Clinging, to keep off death, while the rude billow
Swells o'er their heads, insultingly victorious:
Now from the reef upborne I see them struggle,
Heaven grant, successfully!--they labour on,
Now headlong to the shore, now back they go
Despairing to the main!--now, now they land
Safe in that calm recess, a narrow bay
To them the heaven from impending ruin--
So what are you?--

_First Mariner_

If thou art an inhabitant of the isle,
Lend your kind aid to three half perished wretches
Of threescore souls, the only three remaining--
And if thou knowest of any sheltered spot
Where from these horrid blasts and water spouts
We may retire to pass the long dull night:
Or if thou knowest of any standing pool
Or running stream, or earth-supported spring,
O tell us! and, as nothing more remains,
Our gratitude must be thy sole reward.

_Hermit_

Among the hills, on their declivities
Full many a sylvan haunt I have espied
Ere now, in wandering when the heaven was bright;
But springs or running streams abound not here
The skies alone supply the hollowed rock
From whence I drain my annual full supply:
Yet to my cavern you shall all resort
To taste a hermit's hospitality--
If you have strength, ascend this winding path
And amongst these rugged rocks, still following me,
We soon shall reach a safe retreat, removed
Alike from noisy seas, and mountain torrents.

_Second Mariner_

Lo! here the tall palmettoe, and the cedar,
The lime tree, and sweet scented shrubs abundant
With mingling branches, form a blest abode;
Here, bleating lambs crowd to the evening fold
And goats and kids, that wander o'er the hills,
Vext by the storm, herd to the social hermit;
In neighbouring groves the juicy lemon swells,
The golden orange charms the admiring eye,
And the rich cocoa yields her milky stream.

_Hermit_

Here, strangers, here repose your wearied limbs
While some dead boughs I bring from yonder thicket,
To wake the friendly blaze.--To drain the dams
Of these impatient kids, be next my care:
The cocoa's milky flesh, dried pulse and roots
Shall be your fare to night; and when to-morrow
Dispells the gloom, and this tornado ceases,
We'll search along the shores, and find where lie
The bodies of your dear and lost companions,
That so we may commit them to the dust,
And thus obliterate from our remembrance
The horrid havock that this storm occasioned.

_Third Mariner_

O good old man, how do I honour thee!
My future days, my services are your's;
For you, will I be earlier than the sun
To bring you sticks to light the morning fire;
For you, will I attempt these dangerous cliffs
And climb on high to pluck the blushing plum;
For you will I from yonder rocky height
Drain chrystal waters, to delight your taste:
But now be kind; I wish to hear you tell
What chance or fortune brought you to these shores:
Whether alone on these rough craggs you dwell
Where wandering mist is gathered into showers,
Or whether town or village decks the plain;
Or is there sheltered port, where swelling sails
Lodge lofty ships, from hurricanes secure,
Fenced in by reefs, or locked by neighbouring hills.

_Hermit_

No town or village owns this scanty soil,
Nor round its coast one safe recess is seen,
Where lofty ship, or barque of meaner freight
Might rest secure, untroubled by the winds,
Which still pursue the restless surge that pours,
And spits its venom, on these ragged shores;
Nor in these woody wilds, till you were wrecked,
Except myself, did Christian man reside,
Wandering from Europe to these Indian isles
So late discovered on the world's green end.--
All lies as Nature formed it, rough throughout,
And chance has planted here this garden wild,
For such as I, who wandering from the world;
Cities, and men, and civilized domains,
The farther distant, find the bliss more pure.

_Third Mariner_

In such a sad retreat, and all alone!--
To hold no converse but with senseless trees,
To have no friendship but with wandering goats,
And worthless reptiles that infest the ground--
Can man be happy in so dull a scene?

_Hermit_

To the steep summit of this slighted isle
I often climb at early dawn of day,
And o'er the vast expanse I throw my view,
Not idly thence the busy scene surveying--
Vast fleets I sometimes see, each kept at bay,
Or joining both in angry conversation,
Their object avarice half, and half ambition--
What is it all to me? what are they seeking
That can give more than a sufficiency?--
That object I have here which they pursue,
Grasping it, miser-like, in my embraces--
The stream distilling from the shaded cliff,
And fruits mature from trees by Nature planted,
And contemplation, heaven-born contemplation!
These are my riches! I am wealthier far
Than Spain's proud fleets, that load the groaning ocean--
Wait you in yonder cave--I will return--
My herd of goats is wandering in the wild,
And I must house them, ere the close of day. (_Exit_)

_First Mariner_

Who can this hermit be--what doth he here?
In such a dismal cell who would inhabit
Thus lonely, who has crowds and cities seen--
Is he some savage offspring of the isle,
The mountain goat his food, his god the sun;
Some wretch produced from mingled heat and moisture.
Full brother to the hungry pelican;
His friend, some monster of the adjacent wood;
His wife, some sorceress, red haired hag from hell;
His children, serpents, scorpions, centipedes--

_Third Mariner_

It was but now, (he spoke before he thought) he told me,
That he is richer than the fleets of Spain
That burden the wide bosom of the ocean;
And then he seemed so pleased and satisfied,
Boasting himself the happiest of mankind.

_Second Mariner_

Where should this wealth be hid--his cave shows none:
A prayer book and a cross, a string of beads,
A bed of moss, a cap, an earthen jug,
And some few goat skins, furnish out his cave:
But still this humble guise of poverty
Vast sums of splendid riches may conceal:
The flooring of his den is a loose sand--
Searching a fathom deep may shew strange things,
While we, so long pursuing, hit on fortune.--
Perhaps this hermit is some bloody pirate,
Who having plundered friends and foes, alike,
Has brought his booty here, to bury it.

_First Mariner_

Lo! there he comes, driving his goats before him:
He means to fence them from the tempest's rage
Under the shelter of those tufted cedars:
It does, indeed, appear most possible,
That in this cavern rests his plundered wealth:
When sleep has locked his senses in repose
We'll seize him on his couch, and binding him,
Cast him from yonder jutting promontory
That hangs a hundred fathoms o'er the deep--
Thus, shall his fate prevent discovery.

_Second Mariner_

Your project pleases me--it is most wrong
That such a savage should enjoy such hoards
Of useful wealth, he has not heart to use:--
He builds no ships, employs no mariners;
But, like a miser, hides the ill-gotten store,
And had he died before we wandered hither
His gold had perished, and none been the wiser.

_Third Mariner_

While you observe his motions, fellow sufferers,
Of twisted bark I'll make a sett of thongs
Wherewith to bind him at the midnight hour,
Lest waking, he should struggle to be free
And slip our hands before we gain the summit
From whence we mean to plunge his tawny carcase:--
There, there he comes--"Now, hermit, now befriend us,
"For cruel, merciless hunger gnaws our vitals,
"And every mischief that can man dishearten
"Is ripe to drive us into desperation!"

_Hermit_

Have patience, till from yonder arched grotto
I bring my bowls of milk, and seasoned roots,
And fruits I plucked before the day was high:
Now, friends, enjoy my hospitality:
All's at your service, wretched shipwrecked men;
And when you've satisfied the rage of hunger
Repose on these soft skins; your sea-beat limbs
Demand the aid of kind refreshing sleep:
I'll to my evening prayers, as I am wont,
And early dreams;--for travelling o'er the hills,
And pelted by the storm the whole day past,
My knees grow feeble, and I wish for rest. (_Exit_)

_Second Mariner_

Yes, yes--first pray, and then repose in peace,
Hermit of Saba, ne'er to wake again!
Or should you wake, it must be in convulsions,
Tossed from the peak of yonder precipice,
Transfixt on pointed rocks, most bloodily.

_Third Mariner_

Now, now's the time: he sleeps: I hear him snore--
This hidden gold has so possessed my brain,
That I, at all events, must handle it:
Yet should the hermit 'wake while thus engaged,
Sad mischief might ensue: his nervous arm
(More than a match for our exhausted vigour)
Might exercise most horrible revenge!
Long practising among these rugged mountains,
Pursuing goats, bounding from rock to rock,
And cleaving trees to feed his evening fire,
His nerves and blood are all activity:
And then he is of so robust a fabrick
That we should be mere children in his hands,
Whirling us from the precipice at pleasure,
(Thus turning on ourselves our own designs)
Or catching up some fragment of a rock
Grind into atoms our pale, quivering limbs;
Taking full vengeance on ingratitude.

_First Mariner_

Fast bound in chains of sleep, I first assail him;
This knotty club shall give the unerring blow;
You follow on, and boldly second me!
Thus--comrades--thus!--that stroke has crushed his brain!
He groans! he dies?--now bear him to the summit
Of yon' tall cliff, and having thence dislodged him,
Uninterrupted we shall dig his riches,
Heirs to the wealth and plenty of his cave.

_Second Mariner_ (_conscience struck_)

'Tis done, 'tis done--the hermit is no more:--
Say nothing of this deed, ye hills, ye trees,
But let eternal silence brood upon it.
O, base, base, base!!--why was I made a man,
And not some prowling monster of the forest,
The worst vile work of Nature's journeymen!
Ye lunar shadows! no resemblance yield
From craggy pointed rock, or leafy bush,
That may remind me of this murdered hermit.

_Third Mariner_

Deep have I fathomed in his cave, but find
No glimpse of gold--we surely did mistake him:
His treasures were not of that glittering kind;
Dryed fruits, and one good book; his goats, his kids,
These were, indeed, his riches--
Now, hermit, now I feel remorse within me:
While here we stay thy shadow will torment us,
From every haunted rock, or bush, projecting;
And when from hence we go, that too shall follow,
Crying--Perdition on these fiends from Europe,
Whose bloody malice, or whose thirst for gold,
Fresh from the slaughter-house of innocence
Unpeoples isles, and lays the world in ruin!

[362] This poem was doubtless a product of Freneau's earlier Muse, as were also the poems "The Indian Burying Ground," "The Indian Student," "The Man of Ninety," and "Alcina's Enchanted Island" which follow. They were, however, first printed in the edition of 1788 and there is no other hint as to their date. I have followed in all cases except the last the 1809 text.

THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND[363]

In spite of all the learned have said,
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands--
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.[A]

[A] "The North American Indians bury their dead in a sitting
posture; decorating the corpse with wampum, the images
of birds, quadrupeds, &c: And (if that of a warrior)
with bows, arrows, tomhawks, and other military
weapons."--_Freneau's note._

His imaged birds, and painted bowl,
And venison, for a journey dressed,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit--
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far-projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires)
The children of the forest played!

There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews;
In habit for the chase arrayed,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade![364]

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And Reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.

[363] In the 1788 edition this has the title "Lines Occasioned by a Visit to an old Indian Burying Ground."

[364] Campbell borrowed this line for his poem "O'Connor's Child." Stanza IV of the poem begins as follows:

"Bright as the bow that spans the storm
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
A son of light--a lovely form
He comes and makes her glad;
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassel'd horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!"

THE INDIAN STUDENT

Or, Force of Nature[365]

From Susquehanna's farthest springs
Where savage tribes pursue their game,
(His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
A shepherd of the forest came.

Not long before, a wandering priest
Expressed his wish, with visage sad--
"Ah, why (he cried) in Satan's waste,
"Ah, why detain so fine a lad?

"In white-man's land there stands a town
"Where learning may be purchased low--
"Exchange his blanket for a gown,
"And let the lad to college go."--

From long debate the council rose,
And viewing Shalum's tricks with joy
To Cambridge Hall,[A] o'er wastes of snows,
They sent the copper-coloured boy.

[A] Harvard College, at Cambridge in Massachusetts.--_Freneau's
note, edition 1788._

One generous chief a bow supplied,
This gave a shaft, and that a skin;
The feathers, in vermillion dyed,
Himself did from a turkey win:

Thus dressed so gay, he took his way
O'er barren hills, alone, alone!
His guide a star, he wandered far,
His pillow every night a stone.

At last he came, with foot so lame,
Where learned men talk heathen Greek,
And Hebrew lore is gabbled o'er,
To please the Muses,--twice a week.

Awhile he writ, awhile he read,
Awhile he conned their grammar rules--
(An Indian savage so well bred
Great credit promised to the schools.)

Some thought he would in law excel,
Some said in physic he would shine;
And one that knew him, passing well,
Beheld, in him, a sound Divine.

But those of more discerning eye
Even then could other prospects show,
And saw him lay his Virgil by
To wander with his dearer bow.

The tedious hours of study spent,
The heavy-moulded lecture done,
He to the woods a hunting went,
Through lonely wastes he walked, he run.

No mystic wonders fired his mind;
He sought to gain no learned degree,
But only sense enough to find
The squirrel in the hollow tree.

The shady bank, the purling stream,
The woody wild his heart possessed,
The dewy lawn, his morning dream
In fancy's gayest colours dressed.

"And why (he cried) did I forsake
"My native wood for gloomy walls;
"The silver stream, the limpid lake
"For musty books and college halls.

"A little could my wants supply--
"Can wealth and honour give me more;
"Or, will the sylvan god deny
"The humble treat he gave before?

"Let seraphs gain the bright abode,
"And heaven's sublimest mansions see--
"I only bow to Nature's God--
"The land of shades will do for me.

"These dreadful secrets of the sky
"Alarm my soul with chilling fear--
"Do planets in their orbits fly,
"And is the earth, indeed, a sphere?

"Let planets still their course pursue,
"And comets to the centre run--
"In Him my faithful friend I view,
"The image of my God--the Sun.

"Where Nature's ancient forests grow,
"And mingled laurel never fades,
"My heart is fixed;--and I must go
"To die among my native shades."

He spoke, and to the western springs,
(His gown discharged, his money spent,
His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
The shepherd of the forest went.[366]

[365] The 1788 version bore under the title the motto:

"_Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes;
Flumina amem, sylvasque inglorius._"
VIRG. Georg. II. V. 483.

[366] The 1788 version has this additional stanza:

"Returning to this rural reign
The Indians welcom'd him with joy;
The council took him home again,
And bless'd the copper-colour'd boy."

THE MAN OF NINETY

"To yonder boughs that spread so wide,
Beneath whose shade soft waters glide,
Once more I take the well known way;
With feeble step and tottering knee
I sigh to reach my white-oak tree,
Where rosy health was wont to play.

If to the shades, consuming slow,
The shadow of myself, I go,
When I am gone, wilt thou remain!--
From dust you rose, and grew like me;
I man became, and you a tree,
Both natives of one grassy plain.

How much alike; yet not the same!--
You could no kind protector claim;
Alone you stood, to chance resigned:
When winter came, with blustering sky,
You feared its blasts--and so did I,
And for warm suns in secret pined.

When vernal suns began to glow
You felt returning vigour flow;
Which once a year new leaves supplied;
Like you, fine days I wished to see,
And May was a sweet month to me,
But when November came--I sighed!

If through your bark some ruffian arm
A mark impressed, you took the alarm,
And tears awhile I saw descend;
Till Nature's kind maternal aid
A plaister on your bruises laid,
And bade your trickling sorrows end.

Like you, I feared the lightning's stroke,
Whose flame dissolves the strength of oak,
And ends at once this mortal dream;--
You saw, with grief, the soil decay
That from your roots was torn away;
You sighed--and cursed the stream.

With borrowed earth, and busy spade,
Around your roots new life I laid,
While joy revived in every vein;
(The care of man shall life impart)--
Though Nature owns the aid of art,
No art, immortal, makes their reign.

How much alike our fortune--say--
Yet, why must I so soon decay
When thou hast scarcely reached thy prime--
Erect and tall, you joyous stand;
The staff of age has found my hand,
That guides me to the grave of time.

Could I, fair tree, like you, resign,
And banish all those fears of mine,
Grey hairs would be no cause of grief;
Your blossoms die, but you remain,
Your fruit lies scattered o'er the plain--
Learn wisdom from the falling leaf.

As you survive, by heaven's decree,
Let withered flowers be thrown on me
Sad compensation for my doom,
While winter greens and withering pines
And cedars dark, and barren vines,
Point out the lonely tomb.

The enlivening sun, that burns so bright,
Ne'er had a noon without a night,
So Life and Death agree;
The joys of man by years are broke"--
'Twas thus the man of ninety spoke,
Then rose, and left his tree.

ALCINA'S ENCHANTED ISLAND[367]

In These fair fields unfading flowers abound,
Here purple roses cloathe the enchanted ground;
Here, to the sun expand the lillies pale
Fann'd by the sweet breath of the western gale:

Here, fearless hares through dark recesses stray,
And troops of leverets take the woodland way,
Here stately stags, with branching horns, appear,
And rove unsought for, unassail'd by fear:

Unknown the snare, the huntsman's fatal dart
That wings the death of torture to the heart,
In social bands they trace their sylvan reign,
Chew the rich cud, or graze along the plain.

In these gay shades the nimble deer delight,
While herds of goats ascend the rocky height,
Browse on the shrubs that shade the vale below,
And crop the plants, that there profusely grow.

[367] Published in the 1788 edition under the title "Ariosto's Description of the Gardens in Alcina's Inchanted Island. From the Italian." Text from the edition of 1795.

HORACE, LIB. I. ODE 15[368]

Nereus prophesies the destruction of Troy[369]

As 'cross the deep to Priam's shore
The Trojan prince bright Helen bore,
Old Nereus hushed each noisy breeze
And calmed the tumults of the seas.

Then, musing on the traitor's doom,
Thus he foretold the woes to come;
"Ah why remove, mistaken swain,
"The prize that Greece shall seize[370] again!

"With omens sad, you sail along;
"And Europe shall resent the wrong,
"Conspire to seize your bride away,
"And Priam's town in ashes lay.

"Alas! what toils and deaths combined!
"What hosts of men and horses joined!--
"Bold Pallas now prepares her shield,
"And arms her chariot for the field.

"Can you with heavenly forms engage,
"A goddess kindling into rage;
"Who ne'er have dared a mortal foe
"And wars, alone, of Venus, know.

"In vain you dress your flowing hair,
"And songs, to aid the harp, prepare;
"The harp, that sung to female ears,
"Shall fail when Mars and Greece appears.

"In vain will you bewail your bride,
"And meanly in her chamber hide,
"In hopes to shun, when lingering there,
"The massy dart, and Cretan spear.

"In vain will you, with quickening pace,
"Avoid fierce Ajax in the chace;
"For late those locks, that please the eye,
"In dust and death must scattered lie.

"Do you not see Ulysses, too,
"The sage that brings your nation low:
"And Nestor from the land of Pyle--
"Chiefs skilled in arms and martial toil.

"Dost thou not see bold Teucer here,
"And him--no tardy chariotteer;
"Who both pursue with eager force,
"And both controul the thundering horse.

"Thou, to thy grief, shalt Merion know,
"And Tydeus' son shall prove thy foe,
"Who wastes your realms with sword and fire;
"Tydides, greater than his sire.

"Like timorous deer, prepared to fly
"When hungry wolves are passing by,
"No more the herbs their steps detain,
"They quit their pastures, and the plain:

"So you from his triumphant arms
"Will fly, with all your female charms;
"Can deeds, like these, your valour prove,
"Was this your promise to your love?

"Achilles' wrath shall but delay
"Your ruin to a later day--
"The Trojan matrons then may mourn,
"And Troy by Grecian vengeance burn."

[368] First found in the 1788 edition; text from the 1809 edition.

[369] The 1788 edition had the following line after the title: "_Pastor quum traheret per freta navibus_, etc."

[370] "Fetch."--_Ed. 1788._

A SUBSCRIPTION PRAYER[371]

For defraying the burial expences of an Old Soldier

Ah! Give him a tomb, for a tomb is his due,
A shilling, great man, is a trifle to You:
If you give him a tomb, that his name may survive,
May Fortune attend you, and help you to thrive:
May you always have something to praise and approve,
And the pleasure to dream of the girl that you love.

Prepar'd for the worst, but enjoying the best,
With a girl and a bottle he feather'd his nest:
Half sick of the world, in the wane of his life,
To hasten his exit, he took him a wife,
But, finding his fair one a damnable elf,
He grounded his arms--and took leave of himself.

[371] Entitled in 1788, "Patrick Mulhoni. A Subscription Prayer. _Date obolum Belisario._" Text from the 1795 edition.

EPISTLE TO THE PATRIOTIC FARMER[372]

Thus, while new laws the stubborn States reclaim,
And most for pensions, some for honours aim,
You, who first aimed a shaft at George's crown,
And marked the way to conquest and renown,
While from the vain, the lofty, and the proud,
Retiring to your groves, you shun the crowd,--
Can toils, like yours, in cold oblivion end,
Columbia's patriot, and her earliest friend?
Blest, doubly blest, from public scenes retired,
Where public welfare all your bosom fired;
Your life's best days in studious labours past
Your deeds of virtue make your bliss at last;
When all things fail, the soul must rest on these!--
May heaven restore you to your favourite trees,
And calm content, best lot to man assigned,
Be heaven's reward to your exalted mind.
When her base projects you beheld, with pain,
And early doomed an end to Britain's reign.
When rising nobly in a generous cause
(Sworn foe to tyrants and imported laws)
Thou Dickinson! the patriot and the sage,
How much we owed to your convincing page:[A]
That page--the check of tyrants and of knaves,
Gave birth to heroes who had else been slaves,
Who, taught by you, denied a monarch's sway;
And if they brought him low--you planned the way.
Though in this glare of pomp you take no part
Still must your conduct warm each generous heart:
What, though you shun the patriot vain and loud,
While hosts neglect, that once to merit bowed,
Shun those gay scenes, were recent laurels grow,
The mad Procession, and the painted show;
In days to come, when pomp and pride resign,
Who would not change his proudest wreathes for thine,
In fame's fair fields such well-earned honours share,
And Dickinson confess unrivalled there! [1788]

[A] The Farmer's Letters, and others of his truly valuable
writings.--_Freneau's note._

[372] John Dickinson (1732-1808), a lawyer in Philadelphia, and a member of the Colonial Congress of 1765 and of the Continental Congress of 1774, first came into wide prominence in 1767 through the publication of his series of papers entitled "Letters from a Pennsylvania Farmer to the Inhabitants of the British Colonies." From this time until his death he was a vigorous and voluminous publicist. His influence upon his times was very great. The text of the poem is from the 1809 edition.

PALEMON TO LAVINIA[373]

[Written 1788]

"Torn from your arms by rude relentless hands,
No tears recall our lost Alcander home,
Who, far removed by fierce piratic bands,
Finds in a foreign soil[A] an early tomb:

[A] Algiers, the piratical city on the coast of
Barbary.--_Freneau's note._

Well may you grieve!--his race so early done,
No years he reached, to urge some task sublime;--
No conquests made, no brilliant action won,
No verse to bear him through the gulph of time.

Amidst these shades and heart depressing glooms,
What comfort shall we give--what can we say;
In her distress shall we discourse on tombs,
Or tell Lavinia, 'tis a cloudy day?

The pensive priest accosts her with a sigh:
With movement slow, in sable robes he came--
But why so sad, philosopher, ah, why,
Since from the tomb alone all bliss we claim?

By pining care and wakeful sorrow worn,
While silent griefs her downcast heart engage,
She saw me go, and saw me thrice return
To pen my musings on some vacant page.

To learning's store, to Galen's science bred,
I saw Orestes rove through all the plain:
His pensive step no friendly genius led
To find one plant that might relieve your pain!

Say, do I wake?--or are your woes a dream!
Depart, dread vision!--waft me far away:
Seek me no more by this sky painted stream
That glides, unconscious, to the Indian bay.

Alcander!--ah!--what tears for thee must flow--
What doom awaits the wretch that tortured thee!
May never flower in his cursed garden blow,
May never fruit enrich his hated tree:

May that fine spark, which Nature lent to man,
Reason, be thou extinguished in his brain;
Sudden his doom, contracted be his span,
Ne'er to exist, or spring from dust again.

May no kind genius save his step from harms:
Where'er he sails, may tempests rend the sea;
May never maiden yield to him her charms,
Nor prattling infant hang upon his knee!

Retire, retire, forget the inhuman shore:
Dark is the sun, when woes like these dismay;
Resign your groves, and view with joy no more
The fragrant orange, and the floweret gay."

[373] First published in the 1795 edition. Text from the edition of 1809.

A NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS[374]

Though past events are hourly read,
The various labours of the dead,
In vain their story we recall,
The rise of empires, or the fall;
Our modern men, a busy crew,
Must, in their turn, have something new.
By moralists we have been told
That "Time himself in time grows old;
"The seasons change, the moons decay,
"The sun shines weaker every day,
"Justice is from the world withdrawn,
"Virtue and friendship almost gone,
"Religion fails (the clergy shew)
"And man, alas, must vanish too."
Let others such opinions hold,
(Since grumbling has been always old;)
All Nature must decay, 'tis true,
But Nature shall her face renew,
Her travels in a circle make,
Freeze but to thaw, sleep but to wake.
Die but to live, and live to die,
In summer smile, in autumn sigh,
Resume the garb that once she wore,
Repeat the words she said before,
Bow down with age, or, fresh and gay,
Change, only to prevent decay.
As up and down, with weary feet,
I travel each fatiguing street,
Meeting the frowns of party men,
Foes to the freedom of the pen,
And to your doors our sheets convey--
I sometimes think I hear you say,
"Ah, were it not for what he brings,
(This messenger of many things)
We should be in a sorry plight;
The wars of Europe out of sight,
No paragraphs of home affairs
To tell us how the fabric wears
Which Freedom built on Virtue's plan,
And Virtue only can maintain."
But something further you pretend,--
From want of money, heaven defend!
Leave that to those who sleep in sheds,
Or on the pavement make their beds,
Who clean the streets, or carry news,
Repair old coats, or cobble shoes--
Of every ill with which we're curs'd
This want of money is the worst:
This was the curse that fell on Cain,
The vengeance for a brother slain:
For this he quit his native sod,
Retreated to the land of Nod,
And, in the torture of despair,
Turn'd poet, pimp, or newsman there--
Divines have labour'd in the dark
To find the meaning of his mark:
How many idle things they wrote--
'Twas nothing but a ragged coat.
Should money, now, be scarce with you,
With me, alas, 'tis nothing new!
We news-men always are in need,
(So Beer and Bacchus have decreed)
And still your bounty shall implore
Till--printing presses are no more!--
Did we not conjure up our strain
The year might come and go again,
Seasons advance, and moons decay,
And life itself make haste away,
And news-men only vex their brains
To have their labour for their pains--
Such usage I may find, 'tis true,
But then it would be--something new!

[374] I have not been able to find the paper which first used these New Year's verses. The 1788 edition gave them the title "New Year's Verses for 1788. [Supposed to be written by the Printer's lad, who supplies the customers with his weekly paper.]" Text from the edition of 1795.

ON THE PROSPECT OF A REVOLUTION IN FRANCE[375]

_"Now, at the feast they plan the fall of Troy;
"The stern debate ATRIDES hears with joy"._
--_Hom. Odys._

Borne on the wings of time another year
Sprung from the past, begins its proud career:
From that bright spark which first illumed these lands,
See Europe kindling, as the blaze expands,
Each gloomy tyrant, sworn to chain the mind,
Presumes no more to trample on mankind:
Even potent Louis trembles on his throne,
The generous prince who made our cause his own,
More equal rights his injured subjects claim,
No more a country's strength--that country's shame;
Fame starts astonished at such prizes won,
And rashness wonders how the work was done.
Flushed with new life, and brightening at the view,
Genius, triumphant, moulds the world anew;
To these far climes in swift succession moves
Each art that Reason owns and sense approves.
What though his age is bounded to a span
Time sheds a conscious dignity on man,
Some happier breath his rising passion swells,
Some kinder genius his bold arm impels,
Dull superstition from the world retires,
Disheartened zealots haste to quench their fires;
One equal rule o'er twelve[A] vast States extends,
Europe and Asia join to be our friends,
Our active flag in every clime displayed
Counts stars on colours that shall never fade;
A far famed chief o'er this vast whole presides
Whose motto Honor is--whom Virtue guides
His walks forsaken in Virginia's groves
Applauding thousands bow where'er He moves,
Who laid the basis of this Empire sure
Where public faith should public peace secure.
Still may she rise, exalted in her aims,
And boast to every age her patriot names,
To distant climes extend her gentle sway,
While choice--not force--bids every heart obey:
Ne'er may she fail when Liberty implores,
Nor want true valour to defend her shores,
'Till Europe, humbled, greets our western wave,
And owns an equal--whom she wished a slave.

[A] At this time, Rhode-Island was not a member of the general
Confederation of the American States. [1788]--_Freneau's
note._

[375] This appeared first in the _Daily Advertiser_ of New York, March 7, 1790. It is the first of Freneau's series of poems on the French Revolution and its message. Text from the edition of 1809.

TO A DOG[376]

Occasioned by putting him on shore at the Island of Sapola,
for theft

Since Nature taught you, Tray, to be a thief,
What blame have you, for working at your trade?
What if you stole a handsome round of beef;
Theft, in your code of laws, no crime was made.

The ten commandments you had never read,
Nor did it ever enter in your head:
But art and Nature, careful to conceal,
Disclos'd not even the Eighth--_Thou shalt not steal_.

Then to the green wood, caitiff, haste away:
There take your chance to live--for Truth must say,
We have no right, for theft, to hang up Tray.

[376] First published in the _National Gazette_, Nov. 3, 1791. Sapola Island is one of the sea-islands of McIntosh County, Georgia, forty-two miles southwest of Savannah. The somewhat unusual proceeding of putting a worthless dog on shore, instead of the more common expedient of killing him at once, is only another evidence of the poet's kindly heart. Text from the edition of 1809.

TO LYDIA[377]

"_Tu procul a patria, ah dura! inculta deserta,
Me sine, sola videbis----_
VIRG. ECLOG.

Thus, safe arrived, she greets the strand,
And leaves her pilot for the land;
But Lydia, why to deserts roam,
And thus forsake your floating home!

To what fond care shall I resign
The bosom, that must ne'er be mine:
With lips, that glow beyond all art,
Oh! how shall I consent to part!--

Long may you live, secure from woes,
Late dying, meet a calm repose,
And flowers, that in profusion grow,
Bloom round your steps, where'er you go.

On you all eyes delight to gaze,
All tongues are lavish in your praise;
With you no beauty can compare,
Nor Georgia boast one flower so fair.

Could I, fair girl, transmit this page,
A present, to some future age,
You should through every poem shine,
You, be adored in every line:

From Jersey coasts too loth to sail,
Sighing, she left her native vale;
Borne on a stream that met the main,
Homeward she looked, and looked again.

The gales that blew from off the land
Most wantonly her bosom fanned,
And, while around that heaven they strove,
Each whispering zephyr owned his love.

As o'er the seas, with you I strayed,
The hostile winds our course delayed,
But, proud to waft a charge so fair,
To me were kind--and held you there.

I could not grieve, when you complained
That adverse gales our barque detained
Where foaming seas to mountains grow,
From gulphs of death, concealed below.

When travelling o'er that lonely wave
To me your feverish hand you gave,
And sighing, bade me tell you, true,
What lands again would rise to view!

When night came on, with blustering gale,
You feared the tempest would prevail,
And anxious asked, if I was sure
That on those depths we sailed secure?

Delighted with a face so fair,
I half forgot my weight of care,
The dangerous shoal, that seaward runs,
Encircled moons, and shrouded suns.

With timorous heart and tearful eyes,
You saw the deep Atlantic rise,
Saw wintry clouds their storms prepare,
And wept, to find no safety there.

Throughout the long December's night,
(While still your lamp was burning bright)
To dawn of day from evening's close
My pensive girl found no repose.

Then now, at length arrived from sea,
Consent, fair nymph, to stay with me--
The barque--still faithful to her freight,
Shall still on your direction wait.