Chapter VII: Part IV: The Period of Editorship (4)

Last Friday week to Battery-green
The sergeant came with this Machine--
One motion of the firelock missed--
The Tutor thumped him with his fist:
I saw him lift his hickory cane,
I heard poor Jeffery's head complain!--
Yet this--and more--he's forced to bear;
And thus goes on from year to year,
'Till desperate grown at such a lot,
He drinks--deserts--and so is shot!

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

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[84]

In shallow caves, with shrill voic'd conchs hung round,
And pumpkin-shells, responding all they hear,
A bard, call'd Shylock, catches every sound,
Governs their tone, pricks up his lengthy ear:
In putrid ink then dips his pen of lead
And scribbles down what learn'd Pomposo said.

Bard of the lengthy ode! whose knavish paw
Ne'er touch'd the helm, besprent with odious pitch!
'Twas better far, you knew, to practice Law,
Whine at the church, or in the court-house screech:
No soul had you to face the wintry blast,
Combat the storm, or climb the tottering mast.

Then why so wroth, thou bard of narrow soul,
If wavering Fortune bade me seek the brine:
I drank no nectar from your leaden bowl,
Nor from your poems filch'd a single line:
When I do that--then publish from your caves,
Who robs a beggar--is the worst of knaves!

[84] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition.

TO A WRITER OF PANEGYRIC[85]

Occasioned by certain fulsome Congratulatory Verses on the election of a High Constable

Be advised by a friend, who advises but rarely,
Be cautious of praising 'till praise is earned fairly:
There was a sage Ancient this truth did bequeath,
"That merit is only determined by death."

Panegyric I'm sorry to see you engage in--
Old Nero, at first, was a Titus, or Trajan:
The Indians of Siam bow down to a Log,
And Egypt is said to have worshipped a Dog.[A]

[A] ANUBIS.--One of the tutelar deities of ancient
Egypt.--_Freneau's note._

If you will be throwing your jewels to swine,
No wonder they rend you--whenever they dine--
Pray, leave it to puppies to cry up their worth,
And to dunces, to honour the day of their birth.

Whoever the road to preferment would find,
With the eyes of a Dutchman must look at mankind;
From the basest of motives, cry cowards are brave,
And laugh in his sleeve--when he flatters a knave.

[85] I can find no earlier trace of this poem than the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition.

THE FOREST BEAU[86]

[A Picture from Reality]

When first to feel Love's fire Jack Straw begins,
He combs his hair, and cocks his hat with pins,
Views in some stream, his face, with fond regard,
Plucks from his upper lip the bristly beard,
With soap and sand his homely visage scours
(Rough from the joint attacks of sun and showers)
The sheepskin breeches decorate his thighs--
Next on his back the homespun coat he tries;
Round his broad breast he wraps the jerkin blue,
And sews a spacious soal on either shoe.
Thus, all prepared, the fond adoring swain
Cuts from his groves of pine a ponderous cane;
In thought a beau, a savage to the eye,
Forth, from his mighty bosom, heaves the sigh;
Tobacco is the present for his fair,
This he admires, and this best pleases her--
The bargain struck,--few cares his bosom move
How to maintain, or how to lodge his love;
Close at his hand the piny forest grows,
Thence for his hut a slender frame he hews,
With art, (not copied from Palladio's rules,)
A hammer and an axe, his only tools,
By Nature taught, a hasty hut he forms
Safe in the woods, to shelter from the storms;--
There sees the summer pass and winter come,
Nor envies Britain's king his loftier home.

[86] From the edition of 1809. First published, as far as I can discover, in 1795.

EPISTLE[87]

To a Student of Dead Languages

I pity him, who, at no small expense,
Has studied sound instead of sense:
He, proud some antique gibberish to attain;
Of Hebrew, Greek, or Latin, vain,
Devours the husk, and leaves the grain.

In his own language Homer writ and read,
Nor spent his life in poring on the dead:
Why then your native language not pursue
In which all ancient sense (that's worth review)
Glows in translation, fresh and new?

He better plans, who things, not words, attends,
And turns his studious hours to active ends;
Who Art through every secret maze explores,
Invents, contrives--and Nature's hidden stores
From mirrours, to their object true,
Presents to man's obstructed view,
That dimly meets the light, and faintly soars:--

His strong capacious mind
By fetters unconfin'd
Of Latin lore and heathen Greek,
Takes Science in its way,
Pursues the kindling ray
'Till Reason's morn shall on him break!

[87] Unique, as far as I can find, in the 1795 edition.

TO A NOISY POLITICIAN[88]

Since Shylock's Book has walk'd the circles here,
What numerous blessings to our country flow!
Whales on our shores have run aground,
Sturgeons are in our rivers found;
Nay, ships have on the Delaware sail'd,
A sight most new!
Wheat has been sown, harvests have grown,
And Shylock held strange dialogues with Sue.

On coaches, now, gay coats of arms are wore
By some, who hardly had a coat before:
Silk gowns instead of homespun, now, are seen,
And, sir, 'tis true ('twixt me and you)
That some have grown prodigious fat,
That were prodigious lean!

[88] Unique, as far as I can discover, in the edition of 1795.

THE SEXTON'S SERMON[89]

At the Burial of a Deist

A few short years, at most, will bound our span;
("Wretched and few," the Hebrew patriarch said)
Live while you may, be jovial while you can;
Too soon our debt to Nature, must be paid.

When Nature fails, the man exists no more,
And death is nothing but an empty name,
Spleen's odious offspring, in some gloomy hour;--
The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream.

You ask me, where those numerous hosts have fled
That once existed on this changeful ball?
If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,[A]
Where ere their birth they were, they now are all.

[A] Queris quo loco jaceant omnes mortui?
------------ Ubi non nata jacent.
_Seneca Trag.--Freneau's note._

Seek not for Paradise!--'tis not for you
Where, high in heaven, its sweetest blossoms blow;
Nor even, where gliding to the Persian main,
Your waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow,

What is this Death, ye thoughtless mourners, say?
Death is no more than never-ceasing change:
New forms arise, while other forms decay,
Yet, all is life throughout creation's range.

The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine,
The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow,
The Apalachian, and the Ararat,
Sooner or later, must to ruin go.

Hills sink to plains, and man returns to dust;
That dust supports a reptile or a flower;
Each changeful atom, by some other nursed,
Takes some new form, to perish in an hour.

When Nature bids thee from the world retire,
With joy thy lodging leave, a sated guest,
In sleep's blest state (our Dullman's fond desire)
Existing always--always to be blest.

Like insects busy in a summer's day,
We toil and squabble, to increase our pain:
Night comes at last, and weary of the fray,
To dust and silence all are sent again!

Beneath my hand what numerous crowds retire--
By the cold turf for ages, now, oppressed!
Millions have fallen--and millions must expire,
Doomed by the impartial Power to endless rest.

In vain with stars He decked yon' spangled skies,
And bade the mind to heaven's bright regions soar,
And brought so far to your admiring eyes
A glimpse of glories, that shall blaze no more!

What is there here, that man should wish to bear
A weight of years?--such rage to madness vext;
Wan, wasting, grief, and ever musing care,
Distressful pain, and poverty perplext?--

What is there here, but tombs and monuments--
Tyrants--who misery spread through every shore;
Wide wasting wars, the scourge of innocence;
Fevers and plagues, with all their noxious store?

Before we called this wrangling world our home,
In undisturbed abodes we sweetly slept:
But when dame Nature made that world our doom,
'Twas then our troubles came--and then we wept!

Though humbled now, disheartened, or distressed,
Yet, when returning to the peaceful ground,
With heroes, kings, and conquerors we shall rest;
Shall sleep as sweetly, and no doubt, as sound.

Ne'er shall we hope to see the day-light spring
Or from the up-lifted window lean to hear
(Fore-runner of the scarlet-mantled morn)
The early note of wakeful Chanticleer!

Oblivion there, expands her raven wing:--
We soon must go where all the dead are gone,
Trace the dull path, explore the gloomy road
To that dark country, where I see no dawn.

Then why these sobs, these useless floods of woe,
That vainly flow for the departed dead?
If doomed to wander on the coasts below,
What are to them these floods of grief you shed?

Since heaven in rapture doth their hours employ--
If empty sighs, or groans, could reach them there,
These funeral howls would damp their heaven of joy,
Would make them wretched, and renew their care.

The joys of wine, immortal as my theme,
To days of mirth the aspiring soul invite:
Life, void of this, a punishment I deem,
A Greenland winter, robbed of heat and light.

Ah! envy not, ye sages too precise,
The drop from life's gay tree, that kills our woe--
Noah himself, the wary and the wise,
A vineyard planted--and the vines did grow.

(Of social soul was he)--the grape he pressed,
And drank the juice, oblivious to his care:
Sorrow he banished from his place of rest,
And sighs, and sextons, had no business there.

Such bliss be our's through every changing scene:
The jovial face bespeaks the glowing heart;
If heaven be joy, wine is to heaven a-kin,
Since wine, on earth, can heavenly joys impart.

Mere glow-worms are we all--a moment shine!--
I, like the rest, in giddy circles run,
And grief shall say, when I this breath resign,
His glass is empty, and his sermon done!

[89] Freneau seems deliberately to have manufactured this poem for his edition of 1795 from fragments of his discarded poems, the _House of Night_ and the _Jamaica Funeral_. It is made up as follows: _Jamaica Funeral_, stanzas 44-46; _House of Night_ 73, 132-134, 139; _Jamaica Funeral_ 47; _House of Night_ 76, 77; an original stanza; _House of Night_ 48, 34, 116, 30, 43; _Jamaica Funeral_ 34, 35, 40, 48-51. Many of these stanzas are much changed. Text from the 1809 edition.

ON A LEGISLATIVE ACT[90]

Prohibiting the use of Spirituous Liquors to Prisoners in certain Jails of the United States

Give to the wretched, drink that's strong,
(Said David's Son) but we, more wise,
With Cyder, from the hogshead, rough,
Molasses-Beer, and such dull stuff,
The miseries of the imprison'd host prolong.

"Shut up in jail from day to day
(Methinks I hear a Debtor say)
"Victims to public rage and private spite,
"All that we had to keep our spirits up
"Was glowing wine that fill'd the cheering cup,
"This banish'd care, and check'd the rising sigh
"Chac'd grief from every heart, gave joy to every eye.

"And will ye not this only comfort leave,
"Ye men that frame the public laws?--
"Parted from children, friends, and wives,
"How heavily the moments roll:
"What comfort have we of our lives
"If you deny this cordial of the soul?
"'Tis this that kills the tedious hour,
"Puts misery out of fortune's power.
"'Tis this that to the dial's hand lends wings,
"Gives to the beggar all the pride of kings,
"Sheds joy throughout our gloomy cage
"And bids us scorn the little tyrant's rage,

"They that are unconfin'd drink what they will--
"Who gave the right to limit men in jail?
"Because misfortune sent us here
"Must we for that be drench'd with 'table beer,'
"Or, in its stead, with Adam's ale?--
"Relent--relent! contrive some other plan;
"Wine is the dearest, choicest friend of man--
"They that are out of jail, of all degrees,
"Can spend their leisure as they please,
"We, that are in, must pass it as we can."

[90] Unique in the 1795 edition.

ADDRESSED[91]

To a Political Shrimp, or, Fly upon the Wheel

The man that doth an Elephant pursue
Whose capture gains a mighty price,
Amidst the chace, heeds not the barking crew,
Or lesser game of rats and mice.

On ocean's waste who chace the royal flag
Stop not to take the privateer;
Who mean to seize the steed, neglect the nag;
No squirrel-hunter kills a deer.

Reptile! your venom ever spits in vain--
To honour's coat no drop adheres:--
To court!--return to Britain's tyrant reign,
White-wash her king, and scowr her peers.

Some scheming knaves, that strut in courtly guise,
May vile abuse, through you, impart--
But they that on no Treasury lean, despise
Your venal pen--your canker'd heart.

[91] The only trace I can find of this poem is in the 1795 edition. From the last stanza it is evident that it was aimed at Hamilton.

HERMIT'S VALLEY[92]

With eastern[93] winds and flowing sail
To these sequestered haunts we came,
Where verdant trees and chrystal streams
Adorn the sloping, winding vale;
Where, from the breezy grove we claim,
Our heaven on earth--poetic dreams.

These simple scenes have pleasures more
Than all the busy town can show--
More pleasure here Philanthus took,
And more he prized this lonely shore,
His pen, his pencil, and his book,
Than all the groves Madeira bore:

Here still is seen a hermit's cell,
Who, fond the haunts of men to fly,
Enjoyed his heaven beneath this shade:
In mouldering caves so blest to dwell,
He sought not from the flowers that die,
A verdure, that would never fade.

To crowded courts and would-be kings,
Where fawning knaves are most caressed,
Who would, though oft' invited, go--
When here so many charming things
By Nature to perfection dressed,
To please the man of fancy, grow?

The native of this happy spot
No cares of vain ambition haunt:
Pleased with the partner of his nest,
Life flows--and when the dream is out,
The earth, which once supplied each want,
Receives him--fainting--to her breast.

[92] The earliest trace I can find of this is in the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition. In the table of contents of the latter edition the title is given, "Hermit's Valley, a rural scene on the Schuylkill."

[93] "Western."--_Ed. 1795._

TO MY BOOK[94]

Unhappy Volume!--doom'd by fate
To meet with unrelenting hate
From those who can their venom spit,
Yet condescend to steal your wit:
While Shylock with malicious spirit,
Allows you not a grain of merit,
While he an idle pomp assumes,
Let him return his borrowed plumes,
And you will find the insect creeping,
With not a feather worth the keeping.

[94] This appeared originally as a part of the "New Year's Verses" for 1783. See Volume II, page 199, supra. Text from the 1795 edition, which is the "unhappy volume" alluded to.

THE REPUBLICAN GENIUS OF EUROPE[95]

Emperors and kings! in vain you strive
Your torments to conceal--
The age is come that shakes your thrones,
Tramples in dust despotic crowns,
And bids the sceptre fail.

In western worlds the flame began:
From thence to France it flew--
Through Europe, now, it takes its way,
Beams an insufferable day,
And lays all tyrants low.

Genius of France! pursue the chace
Till Reason's laws restore
Man to be Man, in every clime;--
That Being, active, great, sublime
Debas'd in dust no more.

In dreadful pomp he takes his way
O'er ruin'd crowns, demolish'd thrones--
Pale tyrants shrink before his blaze--
Round him terrific lightnings play--
With eyes of fire, he looks them through,
Crushes the vile despotic crew,
And Pride in ruin lays.

[95] Published in the _Jersey Chronicle_, May 23, 1795, from which the text is taken. It forms the basis of the poem "On the Royal Coalition Against Republican Liberty," in the 1815 edition, but the later form is so greatly inferior that I have not hesitated to reproduce the earlier version.

THE RIVAL SUITORS FOR AMERICA[96]

Like some fair girl in beauty's bloom,
To court her, see what suitors come!
An heiress, she, to large estate,
What rivals for her favours wait!

All haste to clasp her in their arms,
Each sees in her a thousand charms--
The Gems that on her bosom glow
Attract where love was cold--'till now.

Freed from a cruel parent's care,
This maid so wealthy and so fair
Of each that for possession sues
Can hardly tell which beau to choose.

Proud of his vast extended reign,
(His fancied empire o'er the main)
The Briton came, with haughty stride,
Preferr'd his suit--but was denied.

She thought his style, by much, too rude,
By ruffians she would not be woo'd;
From Man she wish'd to choose a mate,
But not in such a savage state.

A Dane, a Dutchman, and a Swede
All hop'd to enjoy the charming maid:
The Russian, bred in frost and snow,
Made love to her that said--no, no.

The Spaniard grave, with cloak and sword,
Some favour from the nymph implor'd--
Vain were his tears and coaxing art--
She could not bear a jealous heart.

The Turk himself, to engage her love,
From Asia's coasts began to move;
While faded lay his Tartar crown
He sigh'd to make this girl his own.

In vain they paid the fond address--
No Pope, no Sultan would she bless--
No monarch, tho' allur'd with art,
Could gain her wealth, or touch her heart.

The Frenchman comes--salutes the fair--
She likes his gallant, marshal air!--
With eager eye, around her waist
He clasp'd his arms, and her embrac'd:

Smit with his lofty, generous mien,
She admires the Gaul, as soon as seen,
Grants him her Commerce--yields her charms,
And takes a hero to her arms!

[96] Published in the _Jersey Chronicle_, May 30, 1795, with the above text. The poem was greatly expanded and changed for the 1815 edition, where it bore the title, "The Political Rival Suitors."

MR. JAY'S TREATY[97]

Disclosed by Stephens Thomson Mason

When the Senate assembled had shut up their door,
And had left us no clew their designs to explore,
The people were anxious, and whispered their care,
But their voice was too weak for the dignified ear.
Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down.

At length the Sanhedrim were ready to rise,
And the crowd were distending their ears and their eyes;
But the rabble had nothing to hear or to view,
Says the twenty, the secret's too sacred for you,
Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down.

But Stephens T. Mason, a man we revere,
With his name bid the infamous treaty appear,
'Twas the act of a freeman, who join'd with the Ten,
To save us from tyranny, rank us with men,
Altho' down, down, and like to be down.

He gave his assistance, enlighten'd our eyes,
And a cloud from all quarters begins to arise,
_Vox Dei, Vox Populi_, truly but one,
Shall tell dark designers--our will shall be done
Till you're down, down, twenty times down.

[97] Published in the _Jersey Chronicle_, September 12, 1795, from which the text is taken. As far as I can find the poet never republished it.

Jay's treaty with England was laid before the Senate in June, 1795, and after two weeks of fierce discussion was ratified by a very small majority. The Senate, fearing popular criticism, forbade the publication of the treaty, a course which caused such widespread indignation that Mason on his own responsibility gave a perfect copy of the text to the Philadelphia _Aurora_ for publication. The act was as much praised by one party as it was condemned by the other.

PARODY[98]

On the attempt to force the British Treaty on the People of the United States

Americans! behold the fruits,
The end of all your vain pursuits,
Whole years in blood and warfare spent
To save this injur'd continent.--
How must it mortify your pride
To take once more the British side;
How will your eyes contain their tears
When all the sad effect appears!

This Treaty in one page confines
The sad result of base designs;
The wretched purchase here behold
Of traitors--who their country sold.
Here, in their proper shape and mien
Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen.
And few, a chosen few, must know
The Mysteries that lurk below.

Go home, ye merchants, poor and lean,
And kiss the--_hand_--of Britain's queen.
I see you of your cargoes stript
Your vessels stolen, your seamen whipt,
I see them from their decks compell'd
To wander o'er the wat'ry field;--
In British ships, by force detain'd
I see the gallant sailor band
Engage the power that lent us aid
When Britain here her entry made--
I see them mix'd with George's sons,
I see them torn by gallic guns,
Disfigur'd, in the ocean cast
To find a resting place at last.

Philosophy! thou friend of man,
Teach me these strange events to scan;
Aid me to learn the secret cause
That alien seems from Nature's laws,
Why on this stage of human things
Man bows his neck to tyrant kings?
Say did the God, when life he gave,
Design his Image for a slave?--
Necessity, the tyrant's law,
All human race doth this way draw,
All prompted by the same desire
The vigorous youth, and aged sire--
Observe, the coward and the bold
Agree to have their freedom sold;
Physician, lawyer, and divine
All make oblation at this shrine.

Yet from this dismal state of things
In time a new creation springs;
From vile materials, fresh, shall rise
And fill the earth, and air, and skies;
In various forms appear again,
Popes, Presidents, and gentlemen:
So Jove pronounc'd among the Gods,
Olympus trembling as he nods!

[98] The poet never reprinted this poem from the _Jersey Chronicle_, where it first appeared, April 23, 1796. Great dissatisfaction with Jay's treaty with England is evident in almost every number of the _Chronicle_. Freneau himself was the author of the series of papers entitled "Features of Mr. Jay's Treaty."

ON THE INVASION OF ROME[99]

In 1796

Lo! to the gates of long forgotten Rome
Active as flame, the gallic legions come,
While pale with fear to their despotic wastes
On shorten'd wing the Austrian army hastes.

Where, consecrated to the pagan god
The silent vestal graced his dark abode,
Where Cæsars, once, in awful grandeur reign'd,
Or, Vandals ruin'd what of Rome remain'd,
Or where, excresence of a later age,
The mitred pontiff trod religion's stage,
There march the heroic bands that bring defeat,
Or bring reform on superstition's seat.

And may their march to honor's purpose tend,
May each new conquest all the past transcend,
Still may those hosts their first great plan pursue,
And honor, freedom, virtue keep in view.
Thus taught; and still propitious heaven their trust,
All past mis-rule shall crumble to the dust,
Nor will saint Peter, more, their cause regard,
Lost are his keys and every gate unbarr'd,

No sacred reliques from some saintly grave,
No saint Sebastian shall from ruin save:
All, all must yield; submissive to the dart
Of Gaul's firm legions led by Bonaparte,
Who, sent by heaven, to Rome's disastrous walls
Loud and more loud for his last victim calls;
While superstition's dark inveterate train
Turns pale, and sickens at their blasted reign,
And hosts reviving, round the standard throng,
Exult, and wonder how they slept so long.

[99] From the edition of 1815.

ON THE DEATH OF CATHARINE II[100]

Empress of all the Russias

Confusion to that iron sway
Which bids the brute, not man, obey,
And dooms him to Siberian soil,
Chains, whips, and vassalage, and toil.

This female wolf, whom wolves did nurse,
So long of polar worlds the curse,
This Catharine, skill'd in royal arts,
To the dark world at last departs.

In style, the second of her name,
She to the crown by treason came;
To Peter, drowsy, royal drone,
She gave a prison for a throne.

She would have sent her Tartar bands
To waste and ravage gallic lands,
She would have sent her legions o'er,
Columbia! to invade your shore!--

But, even in conquest, she foresaw
Destruction to despotic law;
She fear'd, in hordes returning home,
That liberty would with them come.

She fear'd the savage from the den
Would see and learn the rights of men;
And hence, in time, destruction bring
To hell's vicegerents--queen and king.

No thanks to her! she fear'd her beasts,
Enslaved by kings, enslaved by priests,
Even if all freedom they o'er ran,
Would learn the dignity of man;

And kept them home, and held them there,
Oppression's iron reign to bear;
And never meet a beam of light,
Involved in worse than Zembla's night.

Now she is dead, and Paul will rise
As fierce as she, but not as wise;
He may his barbarous millions send,
He may the fall of France intend;

But they who see with keener eye
Will see them faint, will see them fly;
With hostile step will see them come
To turn their backs, or meet their doom.

[100] From the edition of 1815. Catharine II died November 6, 1796.

PREFATORY LINES[101]

To a Periodical Publication

Wherever this volume[102] may chance to be read
For the feast of good humor a table I spread;
Here are dishes by dozens; whoever will eat
Will have no just cause to complain of the treat.

If the best of the market is not to be had
I'll help you to nothing that's seriously bad;[103]
To sense and to candor no place I refuse,
Pick here and pick there, and wherever you choose.[104]

If I give you a frolic I hope for no fray;
My style I adapt to the taste of the day,
The feast of amusement we draw from all climes,
The best we can give in a run of hard times.[105]

The guest, whom the pepper of satire may bite
Is wrong, very wrong, if he shows us his spite;[106]
Should a fit of resentment be-ruffle his mind,
Sit still, I would tell him, be calm and resign'd.[107]

In the service of freedom forever prepared,
We have done[108] our endeavor the goddess to guard;
This idol, whom reason should only adore,
And banish'd from Europe,[109] to dwell on our shore.

In a country like this, exalted by fame,
The trade of an author[110] importance may claim
Which monarchs would never permit them to find,
Whose views are to chain and be-darken the mind.

Ye sons of Columbia! our efforts befriend;
To you all the tyrants of Europe shall bend
Till reason at length shall illumine the ball[111]
And man from his state of debasement recall.

Republics of old, that are sunk in the dust,
Could once like our own, of their liberty boast;
Both virtue and wisdom in Athens appear'd,
Each eye saw their charms, and all bosoms revered.

But as virtue and morals fell into disgrace
Pride, splendor, and folly stept into their place;
Where virtues domestic no longer were known,
Simplicity lost, and frugality flown.

Where the virtues, that always a republic adorn,
Were held in contempt, or were laugh'd into scorn,
There, tyrants and slaves were the speedy effect
Of virtue dishonor'd or fall'n to neglect:[112]

Then tyrants and slaves, the worst plagues of this earth,
From the lapse of good manners[113] were hatch'd into birth;
And soon the base maxim all popular grew,
And allowed, that the many were made for the few.

From the fate of republics, or Athens, or Rome,
Tis time we should learn a sad lesson at home--
From their faults and their errors a warning receive,
And steer from the shoals where they both found a grave.

Columbians! forever may freedom remain,
And virtue forever that freedom maintain;
To these, all attracting, all views should submit
All labors of learning, all essays of wit.

Tis time a new system of things was embraced
To prevail on a planet so often debased;[114]
As here, with our freedom, that system began,
Here, at least keep it pure--for the honor of man.

[101] From the edition of 1815. This was Freneau's salutatory in the first number of the _Time-Piece_, March 13, 1797. Here it bore the title "Poetical Address" and differed in many respects from the final version. I have indicated in the following notes only the most significant revisions.

[102] "Our pages."--_Time-Piece._

[103] "We'll mend what is middling, and better the bad."--_Ib._

[104] "And give the due substance and sum of the NEWS."--_Ib._

[105]

"Embark'd on this ocean, and wishing no fray,
We'll strive for a chance with the prints of the day;
The news of all nations import from all climes,
And carefully copy _the cast of_ THE TIMES."--_Time-Piece._

[106] "In political squib or poetical wit."--_Ib._

[107] "He's equally free _to return it in kind_."--_Ib._

[108] "We'll join."--_Ib._

[109] "Britain."--_Ib._

[110] "_Of the_ PRESS."--_Ib._

[111] "'TIS THIS that will throw a new light on the ball."--_Ib._

[112] This stanza not in the _Time-Piece_ version.

[113] "The change of old manners."--_Ib._

[114] "To encircle a world that has long been debas'd."--_Ib._

ON THE WAR[115]

Projected with the Republic of France

The cause that rests on reason's ground,
Shall potent through the world be found,
Mankind must yield to that decree
Which humbles pride and tyranny.

O'er this wide globe what darkness broods,
What misery, murder, wars and feuds!--
Does man deserve the solar light
While he performs the deeds of night?

When to the gates of modern Rome
We see the gallic legions come,
Their triumphs should, in honor, be
To make them men, and make them free.

In these new wars new views we trace,
Not fetters for the human race,
And, France, where'er you dart your rays
Old superstition's reign decays.

But look again!--what myriads join
The vast reform to undermine!
What labor, bribes, and deep-laid schemes
To quench the sun, and reason's beams!

Shall these succeed? and will that sun
Continue, still, his race to run
O'er scenes that he must blush to see
Disorder, chains, and tyranny?

Must systems, still, of monstrous birth,
Enslave mankind, deform this earth?
No!--to the question answers fate,
These efforts come an age too late.

In such a system to combine,
Columbia, can the wish be thine!
Could such a thought assail your heart,
To take that base, ungrateful part.

From Britain's yoke so lately freed
Would she her hosts, her legions lead
To crush that power, which jointly gain'd
And once her sinking cause sustain'd?

From all true hearts be banish'd far
The thought of so profane a war--
A curse would on her arms attend
And all her well-earn'd honors end.

Fortune no more your toils would crown,
Your flag would fall before her frown;
No gallant men the foe would dare,
No Greenes no Washingtons appear;

No chiefs, that check'd the pride of kings
On Monmouth's plains--at Eutaw springs;
But blundering hordes, not brave or warm,
With broken heart, and nerveless arm,

Would sail, to attack your gallic foe,
Would strive in vain a cause t'o'erthrow
Which, sink or not, will live in fame,
While Europe can one patriot claim.

[115] From the edition of 1815. It appeared first in the _Time-Piece_, March 29, 1797, under the title "To the Americans."

TO MYRTALIS[116]

On her Lightning Wires, or Conductors[A]

[A] See Brydone's Letters from Sicily to Becksford, alderman of
London. In one of these he seems, rather seriously, to argue,
that any one, by being armed with a conductor, in a thunder
squall, may probably be secure from danger of lightning.--It
is said the plan has been carried into practice in
Scotland.--_Freneau's Note._

How bold this project, to defy
The artillery of a summer sky:
Round you, unmoved, the lightning plays,
While others perish in the blaze.

The fluid fire, in deafening peals,
Along the warm conductor steals;
And thence directed to the ground,
It glances off without a wound!

Thus guarded, while the heavens are bowed,
You, fearless, see the passing cloud;
And Jove's red bolts unheeded fall,
Near You, who slight, or scorn them all.

The beaver on your sacred scull,
(Secure as Salamander's wool)
Assists to keep from your rigg'd head
The flash that strikes us, wretches, dead.

But while the sulphur of the skies,
Disarmed, from this fair lady flies;
Or while the warm electric fire
In flashes darts along her spire,

She, not so merciful or kind,
(Or we, not guarded to her mind)
By Cupid's darts, procures our fall,
By Cupid's arrows kills us all.

[116] Published in the _Time-Piece_, April 7, 1797. Text from the 1809 edition.

TO MR. BLANCHARD[117]

The celebrated Æronaut, on his ascent in a Balloon, from the jail-yard in Philadelphia, 1793

By Science taught, on silken wings
Beyond our grovelling race you rise,
And, soaring from terrestial things,
Explore a passage to the skies--
O, could I thus exalted sail,
And rise, with you, beyond the Jail!

Ah! when you rose, impell'd by fear
Each bosom heav'd a thousand sighs;
To you each female lent a tear,
And held the 'kerchief to her eyes:
All hearts still follow'd, as you flew,
All eyes admir'd a sight so new.

Whoe'er shall thus presume to fly,
While downward with disdain they look
Shall own this journey, through the sky,
The dearest jaunt they ever took;
And choose, next time, without reproach,
A humbler seat in Inskeep's coach.

The birds, that cleave the expanse of air,
Admiring, view your globe full-blown,
And, chattering round the painted car,
Complain your flight out-does their own:
Beyond their track you proudly swim,
Nor fear the loss of life or limb.

How vast the height, how grand the scene
That your enraptured eye surveys,
When, towering in your gay machine,
You leave the astonish'd world to gaze,
And, wandering in the ætherial blue,
Our eyes, in vain, your course pursue.

The Orb of Day, how dazzling bright!
In paler radiance gleams the Moon,
And Terra, whence you took your flight,
Appears to you--a meer balloon:
Its noisy crew no longer heard,
Towns, cities, forests, disappear'd.

Yet, travelling through the azure road,
Soar not too high for human ken;
Reflect, our humble safe abode
Is all that Nature meant for men:
Take in your sails before you freeze,
And sink again among the trees.

[117] Published in the _Time-Piece and Literary Companion_, May 15, 1797, under the title "Stanzas Written Some Years Since on Mr. Blanchard's Forty-fifth Ascension from the Jail-Yard in Philadelphia, January 9, 1793." Text from the 1795 edition.

ON HEARING[118]

A Political Oration, Superficially Composed on an Important Subject

Sound without sense, and words devoid of force,
Through which no art could find a clue,
And mean and shackling was the whole discourse
That kept me, Tully, long from you.

Heads of harangues, to heads less general, split,
Seem'd like small laths, cleft from some heavy log;
I heard the inference, that no object hit--
All congelation, vapor, smoke, or fog.

And what avail'd the argument unsound
That nothing proved, or on the expecting mind
Forced no conviction--just as well might sound
To the deaf ear with sentiments abound.

Long did we wait for application time
To find what sense or reason might apply:--
It came--attended with the false sublime,
And thread-bare truths, no mortal could deny.

Repeated thoughts, and periods of a mile,
Remarks devoid of dignity or power,
Exploded notions, dress'd in brilliant style,
Exhausted patience, and consumed the hour.

Thus when of old some town some folks besieged,
Before the walls the invader sat him down,
While those who mann'd them, at their foes enraged,
Threw many a load of ancient lumber down;

And wore them out, with tumbling on their heads
Bricks, tiles, and paving-stones, huge logs of timber,
Pump-water, cold or boiling, shovels, spades,--
And more, by far, than you or I remember.

Ah, speaker! with artillery like your own
Hard will it be one Federal to awake,
Trust me, although you scold, and chafe, and frown,
You may besiege, but are not like to take
Their three wall'd town.

[118] From the 1815 edition. In the edition of 1809 it bore the title: "The American Demosthenes. Occasioned by a very weak and insipid discourse on a Fourth of July, indirectly reprobating the Democratic Representative System." This version consisted of the first, second, and last stanzas above, with the following after the second stanza:

"Grunts, and long groans, and periods of a mile,
Were on the sleepy audience tumbled down;--
'Twas thus from forts, contrived in antique style,
From Troy's high walls
(Where flew no balls)
The men who fought
With reason thought,
They had a right
From that safe height,
(By way of lessening their besiegers' number)
To tumble on their heads
Rocks, beams, or roofs of sheds,
Cows' horns, bricks, rubbish, chamber pots, or lumber."

MEGARA AND ALTAVOLA[119]

To a Female Satirist (an English Actress) on receiving from her No. 1. of a very Satirical and Biting Attack[A]

"_In the rag, in the rag--whewgh!_--
"_O well-flown dart._"--
_Shakespeare's_ KING LEAR.

[A] Six copies only, of this little Poem were printed and
sent to the satirist--here the correspondence ended,
1797.--_Freneau's note._

A Satire is arrived this day,
And it must be repelled this night:
Ye Powers! assist us what to say,
For, from ourselves, we nothing write.

We could have laughed at all you said,
But when you writ--it struck us dead!--
Megara!--do forbear to write,
Or rage with less malignant spite.

Leave it to men to snap and snarl--
Be you the sweet engaging girl--
Great in your smiles--weak in your arm--
All vengeance, with no power to harm.

I'll borrow from a scribbling set
A Raven's feather, black as jet,
And with the vengeance of the pen
Create confusion in your Den.

This, from an impulse all unknown,
Shall temper down your heart of stone,
Turn storms of hail to showers of rain,
And bring your happy smiles again.

But still, unwilling to resent
What folly for a Satire meant,
Peruse a fable that may blast,
And your number one--make number last.

In ancient times, no matter when,
A lady, in some ancient reign
(Perhaps in Greece, perhaps in Rome,
Perhaps in countries nearer home.)

This lady, rather fond of Fun,
Had put a suit of armour on:
With bow and arrows, and her fan
She conquered many an honest man.

One day she met, in a desart waste
A wight unseemely to her taste;
His brow, she thought, had too much frown;
Thought she, "I'll fetch the fellow down."

And strait she bends her twanging bow,
And to his breast the arrows go!
They tore a passage through his vest,
But bounded from his solid chest.

Another dart she aimed, and missed,
Then boarded him, and bit his fist--
Her grinders left a trifling mark--
They were not grinders of a shark.

She scampered then, and, as she flew,
Another feeble arrow threw,
Which though intended for one spot,
It glanced aside, and touched him not.

Enraged, he threw his mantle off,
And said, She shall be plagued enough!
Then, swift as fate, her pace defied,
Out went her trot, and joined her side.--

Megara was in such a glow!--
When thus the ruffian hailed her, "Hoa!--
What, Madam, are your spirits low?--
Heave to!--you are my prisoner now!"--

Megara saw that all was gone!--
She saw, her teeth would now be drawn:
She saw her weapons were his prize,
She saw it, and with flowing eyes,
And with a feeble squeak or two,
She faintly bawled out, Who are you?

_Altavola_

"From whence I came, or what I am,
"Perhaps I may inform you, Ma'am:
"I come from lands of Pure Delight,
"Where female warriors do not Bite.

"You view me with an eye of scorn!--
"When I was old you were unborn:
"When I aspired on eagle's wings
"You were among unthought of things.

"And did you hope to escape my rage,
"You toy-shop on a strolling stage!
"You insect of a puny race,
"You baggage formed of gauze and lace!
"The proudest strength you can assume,
"Shakes not one feather from my plume.

"My lot is in the æther cast,
"I sail upon the northern blast;
"Am mostly seen when whirlwinds rise,
"And love the storm that rends the skies.

"When thunders roar and lightnings flash,
"Then is my time to cut a dash:
"The clouds of hell alarm me less
"Than you, some sad old fashioned dress.

"And, if to answer some great end,
"I to this wrangling world descend,
"With force unknown, and pinions strong,
"I travel quick and stay not long.

"My spear is like a weaver's beam,
"And pointed well at each extreme;
"It flies with a tremendous force,
"And rivals lightning in its course.

"Of all things that are seen or known,
"I hate a Calm--and say, Begone
"Stagnation from this rolling ball,
"Or slumbers in this Dreadful All!

"I rise upon the drift of snow--
"In polar frosts my spirits glow--
"In the torrid zone, I temperate keep,
"And wake!--when you, Megara, sleep.

"I come from ghosts, that dreary brood,
"Whose aspect would congeal your blood!
"A people on the infernal coast,
"Who know me well, and love me most.

"I courted there, and found her kind,
"A ghostess, suited to my mind;
"Her wedding gown was flounced with soot,
"And near her nose hung snuff and smut:

"She pointed to her father's gate,
"(A graveyard was his whole estate)
"The bars were weak, the boards were thin,
"She sung a psalm--and took me in.

"Of shadowy stuff my parents were,
"Composed of fogs, or framed of air:
"He sold his brimstone to the skies,
"While nitre kindled in Her eyes.

"They feasted on the vapours blue,
"Their glass of wine was evening dew;
"On Etna's top they made their bed,
"And there was I, their devil, bred.

"My prowess is almost adored,
"I blunt the edge of Orion's sword;
"I seize Aquarius by the throat,
"Nor care for Libra, or the Goat.

"My word is, when I meet my foes,
"Here's to the Lucky Wind that blows!
"And, instant, all is sighs and groans,
"And battered heads, and broken bones.

"I now reward you for your spite--
"I draw my weapon--see, how bright!
"My last exploit in war I crown,
"And thus--and thus--I throw you down!

"Ah, miscreant! why that scream of death?
"I only meant to--draw your teeth!--
"Oh no!--I scorn to take your life--
"Go, Madam,--be a prudent wife.
"But, lady, I would have you know
"You lose your arrows and your bow:

"They are indeed of slender make,
"And, in your hands might kill a rake:
"So, to prevent such fatal harms,
"I leave you destitute of arms--
"I now must go!"--he, laughing, said,
And vanished to the Stygian shade.

This contest with Megara done,
Thou dear, defeated Amazon!--
As happy, now, as man can be,
I hang my pen on yonder tree:

It only asks one day of rest,
It yields to every changing blast--
Yes--let it stay suspended there,
And strike My Colours--if you dare!

[119] I have found no trace of this outside of the 1809 edition.

THE REPUBLICAN FESTIVAL[120]

In Compliment to Colonel Munroe, on his return to America, 1797

As late at a feast that she gave to Munroe,
Her mark of attention to show,
Young liberty gave her libations to flow,
To honor where honor is due.

Return'd from the country that trampled on crowns
Where high in opinion he stood,
Dark malace attack'd him, with sneers, and with frowns,
But he met the applause of the good.

To the Knight of the Sceptre unwelcome he came
But freedom his merit confess'd--
He look'd at their malice, and saw it was fame,
And pity forgave them the rest.

Good humor, and pleasure, and friendship did join,
And reason the pleasure increased;
And the hero, who captured the British Burgoyne,
Presided and honor'd the feast.

On a broomstick from hell, with a quill in his hand,
Baal-Zephou came riding the air;
He look'd, and he saw that among the whole band
Not a single apostate was there.

Disappointed, he sigh'd, but still hover'd about
Till the toasts, with a vengeance, began--
He met the first four; when the next they gave out[A]
To his cavern he fled back again.

[A] Public censure, arm'd with the spear of Ithurial: may it
discover the demons of tyranny, wherever they lurk, and
pursue them to their native obscurity.--_Freneau's note._

In liberty's temple, the petulant cur
Could see not a man but he hates;
With a curse on her cause, and a sneer, and a spur
He fled from the frown of a Gates.

[120] From the edition of 1815. Monroe was United States Minister to France from May, 1794, until August, 1796, when he was recalled for lack of sympathy with the administration. He did not arrive in America until the following year. He was loudly hailed by the Republican forces, and a dinner was arranged for him in Philadelphia over which General Gates presided and at which Jefferson, the Vice President, Dayton, the Speaker, McKean, the Chief Justice, and many others conspicuous in the government were present.

ODE[121]

For July the Fourth, 1799

Once more, our annual debt to pay,
We meet on this auspicious day
That will, through every coming age,
Columbia's patriot sons engage.

From this fair day we date the birth,
Of freedom's reign, restored to earth,
And millions learn, too long depraved,
How to be govern'd, not enslaved.[122]

Thou source of every true delight
Fair peace, extend thy sway,
While to thy temple we invite
All nations on this day.[123]

O dire effects of tyrant power!
How have ye darken'd every hour,
And made those hours embitter'd flow
That nature meant for joys below.

With sceptred pride, and brow of awe
Oppression gave the world her law,
And man, who should such law disdain,
Resign'd to her malignant reign.

Here on our quiet native coast
No more we dread the warring host
That once alarm'd, when Britain rose,
And made Columbia's sons her foes.

Parent of every cruel art
That stains the soul, that steels the heart,
Fierce war, with all thy bleeding band,
Molest no more this rising land.

May thy loud din be changed for peace,
All human woe and warfare cease,
And nations sheath the sword again
To find a long, pacific reign.[124]

Soon may all tyrants disappear
And man to man be less severe;
The ties of love more firmly bind,
Not fetters, that enchain mankind.

But virtue must her strength maintain,
Or short, too short, is freedom's reign,
And, if her precepts we despise,
Tyrants and kings again will rise.[125]

No more an angry, plundering race,
May man in every clime embrace,
And we on this remoter shore,
Exult in bloody wars no more.

On this returning annual day
May we to heaven our homage pay,
Happy, that here the time's began
That made mankind the friend of man!--

[121] From the edition of 1815. The title is manifestly wrong. The poem was first printed in a small pamphlet with the following title page:

"Means | for the | Preservation | of | Public Liberty. | An | Oration | delivered in the New Dutch Church, | on the | Fourth of July, 1797. | Being the twenty-first | Anniversary of our Independence. | By G. J. Warner. | [_Ten lines from Freneau_] | New York: | Printed at the Argus Office, | for | Thomas Greenleaf and Naphtali Judah. | 1797."

At the end of the pamphlet is the poem with the title: "Ode | (Composed for the Occasion, by P. Freneau.) | The Musick Performed | by the | Uranian Musical Society."

[122] This stanza in 1797 was:

"Red war will soon be chang'd for peace,
All human woe for human bliss,
And nations that embrace again
Enjoy a long pacific reign."

[123] This stanza was the chorus to be repeated after every eight lines.

[124] This stanza is not in the original version.

ADDRESS[126]

To the Republicans of America

Say--shall we pause, and here conclude our page,
Or waft it onward to the coming age?--
Just as You say, whose efforts shook his throne,
And plucked the brightest gem from George's crown--
Who, armed in Freedom's cause with hearts of steel,
Have through these stormy times toiled for the common weal;
Nor quit that standard thousands have deserted,
By foreign arts, or gold, or titles re-converted.

If You, propitious to the press and pen,
Gave vigour to the cause that roused up men
When slavery's sons approached with Britain's fleet,
Still we demand your aid--for Britain hates you yet:
Not with the sword and gun she now contends
But wages silent war, and by corruption bends,
Foe to the system that enlightens man,
Here, thrones she would erect, and frustrate Freedom's plan.

Here, on this virgin earth, the soil unstained,
Where yet no tyrant has his purpose gained,
Keep bright that flame which every bosom fired
When Hessian hirelings from these lands retired,
When, worn and wasted, all that murdering crew
And British squadrons from the Hudson flew;
When, leagued with France, you darts of vengeance hurled,
And bade defiance to the despot world.

Ye heirs and owners of the future age
Who soon will shove old actors from the stage,
To you the care of liberty they trust
When Washington and Gates are laid in dust--
When Jefferson, with Greene, in long repose
Shall sleep, unconscious of your bliss or woes,
Seeming to say, Be wise, be free, my sons,
Nor let one tyrant trample on our bones.

[125] The chorus at this point was changed in the original edition to:

"O Virtue! source of pure delight,
Extend thy happy sway, etc."

[126] First published in the _Time-Piece_, September 13, 1797. Freneau used this poem to end Volume I of his edition of 1809. I have followed the latter version.

TO PETER PORCUPINE.[127]

From Penn's famous city what hosts have departed,
The streets and the houses are nearly deserted,
But still there remain
Two Vipers, that's plain,
Who soon, it is thought, yellow flag will display;
Old Porcupine preaching,
And Fenno beseeching
Some dung-cart to wheel him away.

Philadelphians, we're sorry you suffer by fevers,
Or suffer such scullions to be your deceivers;
Will. Pitt's noisy whelp
With his red foxy scalp
Whom the kennels of London spew'd out in a fright,
Has skulk'd over here
To snuffle and sneer,
Like a puppy to snap, or a bull dog to bite.

If cut from the gallows, or kick'd from the post,
Such fellows as these are of England the boast
But Columbia's disgrace!
Begone from that place
That was dignified once by a Franklin and Penn,
But infested by you
And your damnable crew
Will soon be deserted by all honest men.

[127] Published in the _Time-Piece_, September 13, 1797, and never again reprinted by Freneau. The poem bore the following introduction:

"Among a despicable mess of scurrility in one of Porcupine's Gazettes of last week, he mentions that 'he was plagued with the Time-Piece for several months.'--It has also been a plague to some others of his brethren, and will go on to be so, till they are hustled into their native dog kennels.--At the commencement of the Time-Piece, by way of soliciting an exchange of papers, the Editor transmitted one copy to each printer of a newspaper in Philadelphia. The compliment was immediately returned by them all except Porcupine. The Editor of the Time-Piece was in no want of his dirty vehicle of ribaldry, for the purposes of compilation. The paper, however, continued to be sent for a few weeks, till finding the hoggishness of the fellow, in not consenting to an exchange, the transmission was discontinued."

ON THE ATTEMPTED LAUNCH[128]

Of a Frigate, designed for war against a Sister Republic.--1798

Unless it be for mere defence
May shipwrights fail to launch you hence,
At best, the comrade of old Nick--
Some folks will smile to see you stick.

But now, suppose the matter done,
And her the element upon;
What cause have we mad wars to wage
Or join the quarrels of the age?

Remote from Europe's wrangling race,
Who show us no pacific face
Let's tread negociation's track
Before we venture to attack.

But to the seas if we must go,
'Tis clearly seen who is the foe,
Who hastens, at no distant date,
To repossess his lost estate.

I see them raise the storm of war,
To cloud the gay columbian star,
I see them, bloody, brave and base
Make us the object of their chase.

Their ships of such superior might
All we possess will put to flight,
Or bear them off, with all on board,
To make a meal for George the third.

One frigate, only, will not do--
She must retreat while they pursue,
To make her drink affliction's cup,
And, heaven preserve us, eat her up.

A navy of stupendous strength
'Tis plain, must be our lot at length,
To sweep the seas, to guard the shore,
And crush their haughtiest seventy four.

Those puny ships that now we frame,
(The way that England plays her game)
Will to their bull-dogs fall a prey
The hour we get them under weigh.--

[128] Text from the 1815 edition.

ON THE LAUNCHING OF THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION[129]