Volume 2 / Part 3 — ERA OF THE FREEMAN'S JOURNAL (continued 2)

"To the standards of Britain we fled for protection, "And there we are gathered, a goodly collection; "And most of us think it is rather too hard "For refusing to arm to be put under guard; "Who knows under guard what ills we may feel!— "It is an expression that means a great deal— "'Mongst the rebels they fine 'em who will not turn out, "But here we are left in a sorrowful doubt;— "These Britons were always so sharp and so shifty— "The rebels excuse you from serving when fifty, "But here we are counted such wonderful men "We are kept in the ranks, till we are four score and ten. "Kicked, cuffed and ill treated from morning till night "We have room to conjecture that all is not right, "For Freedom we fled from our country's defence "And freedom we'll get—when death sends us hence.[171] "If matters go thus, it is easy to see "That as idiots we've been, so slaves we shall be; "And what will become of that peaceable train "Whose tenets enjoin them from war to abstain? "Our city commandant must be an odd shaver, "Not a single exception to make in their favour!— "Come let us turn round and rebelliously sing, "Huzza for the Congress!—the de'il take the king."

Still round the world triumphant Discord flies, Still angry kings to bloody contest rise; Hosts bright with steel, in dreadful order plac'd, And ships contending on the watery waste; Distracting demons every breast engage, Unwearied nations glow with mutual rage; Still to the charge the routed Briton turns, The war still rages and the battle burns; See, man with man in deadly combat join, See, the black navy form the flaming line; Death smiles alike at battles lost or won— Art does for him what Nature would have done. Can scenes like these delight the human breast?— Who sees with joy humanity distrest; Such tragic scenes fierce passion might prolong, But slighted Reason says, they must be wrong. Curs'd be the day, how bright soe'er it shin'd, That first made kings the masters of mankind; And curs'd the wretch who first with regal pride Their equal rights to equal men deny'd. But curs'd o'er all, who first to slav'ry broke Submissive bow'd and own'd a monarch's yoke, Their servile souls his arrogance ador'd And basely own'd a brother for a lord; Hence wrath and blood, and feuds and wars began, And man turned monster to his fellow man. Not so that age of innocence and ease When men, yet social, knew no ills like these; Then dormant yet, ambition (half unknown) No rival murder'd to possess a throne; No seas to guard, no empires to defend— Of some small tribe the father and the friend. The hoary sage beneath his sylvan shade Impos'd no laws but those which reason made; On peace not war, on good not ill intent, He judg'd his brethren by their own consent; Untaught to spurn those brethren to the dust; In virtue firm, and obstinately just, For him no navies rov'd from shore to shore. No slaves were doom'd to dig the glitt'ring ore; Remote from all the vain parade of state, No slaves in diamonds saunter'd at his gate, Nor did his breast the guilty passions tear, He knew no murder and he felt no fear. Was this the patriarch sage?—Then turn thine eyes And view the contrast that our age supplies; Touch'd from the life, I trace no ages fled, I draw no curtain that conceals the dead; To distant Britain let thy view be cast, And say the present far exceeds the past; Of all the plagues that e'er the world have curs'd, Name George the tyrant, and you name the worst! What demon, hostile to the human kind, Planted these fierce disorders in the mind? All urg'd alike, one phantom we pursue, But what has war with happiness to do? In death's black shroud this gem can ne'er be found; Who deals for that the life-destroying wound, Or pines with grief to see a brother live, That life dissolving which we cannot give? 'Tis thine, Ambition!—Thee these horrors suit: Lost to the human, she assumes the brute; She proudly vain or insolently bold, Her heart revenge, her eye intent on gold, Sway'd by the madness of the present hour Mistakes for happiness extent of power; That shining bait which dropt in folly's way Tempts the weak mind, and leads the heart astray! Thou happiness! still sought but never found, We, in a circle, chase thy shadow round; Meant all mankind in different forms to bless, Which yet possessing, we no more possess:— Thus far remov'd and painted on the eye Smooth verdant fields seem blended with the sky, But where they both in fancied contact join In vain we trace the visionary line; Still as we chase, the empty circle flies, Emerge new mountains or new oceans rise.

People are mad thus to adore the Dauphin— Heaven grant the brat may soon be in his coffin—[174] The honours here to this young Frenchman shown, Of right should be Prince George's, or my own; And all those wreathes that bloom on Louis now, Should hang, unfading, on my father's brow. To these far shores with longing hopes I came, (By birth a Briton, not unknown to fame) Pleasures to share that loyalty imparts, Subdue the rebels, and regain their hearts. Weak, stupid expectation—all is done! Few are the prayers that rise for George's son; Nought through the waste of these wide realms I trace, But rage, contempt, and curses on our race, Hosts with their chiefs by bold usurpers won, And not a blessing left for George's son! Here on these isles[A] (my terrors not a few) I walk attended by the Tory crew: These from the first have done their best to please, But who would herd with sycophants like these? This exiled race, who their lost shores bemoan, Would bow to Satan, if he held our throne— Rul'd by their fears—and what is meaner far, Have worshipp'd William only for his star! To touch my hand their thronging thousands strove, And tir'd my patience with unceasing love— In fame's fair annals told me I should live, But they, poor creatures, had no fame to give: Must Digby's royal pupil walk the streets, And smile on every ruffian that he meets; Or teach them, as he has done—he knows when— That kings and princes are no more than men? Must I alas disclose, to our disgrace, That Britain is too small for George's race? Here in the west, where all did once obey, Three islands only, now, confess our sway; And in the east we have not much to boast, For Hyder Ali drives us from the coast: Yield, rebels, yield—or I must go once more Back to the white cliffs of my native shore; (Where, in process of time, shall go sir Guy, And where sir Harry has returned to sigh, Whose hands grew weak when things began to cross, Nor made one effort to retrieve our loss) Oatmeal and Scottish kale pots round me rise, And Hanoverian turnips greet mine eyes;— Welch goats and naked rocks my bosom swell, And Teague! dear Teague!—to thee I bid farewell— Curse on the Dauphin and his friends, I say, He steals our honours and our rights away. Digby—our anchors!—weigh them to the bow, And eastward through the wild waves let us plow: Such dire resentments in my bosom burn, That to these shores I never will return, 'Till fruits and flowers on Zembla's coast are known, And seas congeal beneath the torrid zone.

Your golden dreams, your flattering schemes, Alas! where are they fled, Sir? Your plans derang'd, your prospects chang'd, You now may go to bed, Sir.— How could you thus, my partner dear, Give up the hopes of many a year?— Your fame retriev'd, and soaring high, In Truth's resemblance seem'd to fly; But now you grow so wondrous wise, You turn, and own that all is lies. A fabric that from hell we rais'd, On which astonish'd rebels gaz'd, And which the world shall ne'er forget, No less than Rivington's Gazette, Demolish'd at a single stroke— The angel Gabriel might provoke. "That all was lies," might well be true, But why must this be told by you? Great master of the wooden head, Where is thy wonted cunning fled? It was a folly to engage That truth henceforth should fill your page, When you must know, as well as I, Your only mission is to lie. Such are the plans which folly draws— We now, like bears, may suck our paws;— Brought up in lying from your youth, You should have dy'd a foe to truth, Since none but fools in this accord, That Virtue is its own reward.[176] Your fortune was as good as made, Great artist in the lying trade! But now I see with grief and pain Your credit cannot rise again: No more the favourite of my heart, No more will I my gifts impart. Yet something shall you gain at last For lies contriv'd in seasons past— When pressing to the narrow gate I'll show the portal mark'd by Fate, Where all mankind (as parsons say) Are apt to take the wider way, And, though the Royal Printer swear, Will bolt him in, and keep him there!

Humbly Sheweth— That your Honour's petitioners,[178] Tories by trade, From the first of the war have lent Britain their aid, And done all they could, both in country and town, In support of the king and the rights of his crown; But now, to their grief and confusion, they find "The de'il may take them who are farthest behind." In the rear of all rascals they still have been placed And Rebels and Frenchmen[179] full often have faced, Have been in the midst of distresses and doubt Whene'er they came in or whene'er they went out; Have supported the king and defended his church And now, in the end, must be left in the lurch. Though often, too often, his arms were disgraced, We still were in hopes he would conquer at last, And restore us again to our sweethearts and wives The pride of our hearts and the joy of our lives— But he promised too far, and we trusted too much, And who could have looked for a war with the Dutch? Our board broken up, and discharged from our stations, Sir Guy! it is cruel to cut off our rations; Of a project like that, whoe'er was the mover, It is, we must tell you, a hellish manœuvre, A plan to destroy us—the basest of tricks By means of starvation, a stigma to fix.[180] If a peace be intended, as people surmise, (Though we hope from our souls these are nothing but lies) Inform us at once what we have to expect, Nor treat us, as usual, with surly neglect; Or else, while you Britons are shipping your freights[181] We'll go to the Rebels, and get our estates.

We have reason to think there will soon be a peace, And that war with the Rebels will certainly cease; But, be that as it will, I would have you to know That as matters are changing, we soon may change too; In short, I would say, (since I have it at heart) Though the war should continue, yet we may depart. Four offers in season I therefore propose, (As much as I can do in reason, God knows) In which, though there be not too plentiful carving, There still is sufficient to keep you from starving. And, first of the first, it would mightily charm me To see you, my children, enlist in the army, Or enter the navy, and get for your pay, A farthing an hour, which is sixpence per day— There's Hector Clackmanan, and Arthur O'Gregor And Donald M'Donald shall rule you with vigour: If these do not suit you, then take your new plan, Make your peace with the rebels, (march off to a man):[182] There rank and distinction perhaps you may find And rise into offices fit to your mind— But if still you object—I advise you to take a Farewell to New-York—and away to Jamaica.[183]

When round the bark the howling tempest raves Tossed in the conflict of a thousand waves, The lubber landsmen weep, complain, and sigh, And on the pilot's skill, or heaven, rely; Lurk in their holes, astonished and aghast, Dreading the moment that must be their last. The tempest done—their terror also ceases, And up they come, and shew their shameless faces, At once feel bold, and tell the pilot, too, He did no more than they—themselves—could do! A Foe to Tyrants! one your pen restores:— There is a Tyrant whom your soul adores: And every line you write too plainly shows, Your heart is hostile to that tyrant's foes. What, worse than folly, urged this genius dull With Churchill's[186] wreathes to shade his leaden scull: So, midnight darkness union claims with light: So, oil and water in one mass unite:— No more your rage in plundered verse repeat, Sink into prose—even there no safe retreat.[187] Reed's[188] patriot fame to distant years may last, When rancorous reptiles to the dogs are cast, Or, where oblivion spreads her weary wings, Lost in the lumber of forgotten things; And none shall ask, nor wish to know, nor care, Who—what their names—or when they lived—or where.[189]

Quid immerentes hospites vexas, canis Ignavus adversum lupos? Quin huc inanes, si potes, vertis minas, Et me remorsurum petis?— —Hor. Epod. 10.

Base as they are, this rancorous royal crew[192] Seem baser still, when they are praised by you. By you adorned in regal garb they shine, Sweat through your verse, and stink in every line. True child of folly—eldest of her tribe— How could you dream that you were worth a bribe.— Ill-fated scribbler, with a pointless quill, Retract the threat you dare not to fulfil: Round your own neck the wythe or halter twine, And be the science of a hangman thine:—[193] Have we from you purloined one shred of wit, Or did we imitate one line you writ? Peace to your verse!—we do not rob the dead, The clay-cold offspring of a brazen head. Doctor! retire! what madness would it be To point artillery at a mite like thee?— Such noxious vermin clambering from their shell, By squibs and crackers might be killed as well. But, if you must torment the world with rhymes, (Perhaps you came to curse us for our crimes) In sleepy odes indulge your smoky wit, Pindarics would your happy genius fit— With your coarse white-wash daub some miscreant's face, Puppies advanced, or traitors in disgrace:[194] To gain immense renown we leave you free, Go, scratch and scribble, uncontrouled by me:— Haste to the realms of nonsense and despair— The ghosts of murdered rhymes will meet you there; Like rattling chains provoke unceasing fears, And with eternal jinglings—stun your ears.

Since ink, thank heaven! is all the blood you spill, Health to the driver of the grey goose quill: Such war shall leave no widow in despair, Nor curse one orphan with the public care. 'Tis the worst wound the heart of man can feel, When touched, or worried, by an ass's heel— With generous satire give your foes their due, Nay, give them more, and prove them scoundrels too: Make them as black as hell's remotest gloom, But still to genius let them owe their doom:— By Jove's red lightnings 'tis no shame to bleed, But by a grovelling swine—is death indeed!— Now, by the laurels of your royal crew, I knew no shame, till I engaged with you:— But such an odour atmosphered your song, I held my nose, and quickly passed along, Grieved for the wretch who could such filth display, His maw disgorging in the public way. Armed though we are, unusual tumults rise;— But all resentment in my bosom dies. We deem, that in the skirmish of a day, This bard must perish, and his verse decay: This day he goes to black oblivion's clime; Turned, chased, and routed by the "power of rhyme." We wished him still unhandled and unhurt— We wished no evils to this man of dirt; We thought to leave him sweltering in his den, Not with such rotten trash to tinge the pen: But his mean labours wrought his present woe, And his own scribblings, now, have laid him low! Before his eyes the sexton's spade appears, And muffled bells disorganize his ears: Already is his mean existence fled, Sense, wit, and reason—all proclaim him dead: In his own lines he tolled his funeral bell, And when he could not sing—he stunk—farewell!

The sage who took the wrong sow by the ears, And more than kingdoms claimed for Vermonteers; Who, from twelve wigwams down to eight decreased, Is now your prophet, and may serve for priest— Ye, who embraced the democratic plan, Yet with false tears beheld the wrongs of man— To him apply—go—soothe him in distress,[197] To him fall prostrate—and to him confess. When first that slave of slaves began to write, Truth cursed his pen, and Reason took her flight: Dullness on him her choicest opiates shed, Black as his heart, and sleepy as his head. Him on her soil Hibernia could not bear; The viper sickened in that wholesome air,— Then rushed abroad, a Jesuit, in disguise, Flush, on the wings of malice, rage, and lies; To this new world a nuisance and a pest, To curse the worthy, and abuse the best. Thou base born mass of insolence and dirt, With all the will, but not the power to hurt; Whose shallow brain each empty line reveals— Art thou worth draggling at our chariot wheels? Who, on the surface of a rugged ground, Would stoop to trail your carcass round and round?— No—like a Felon, hanged to after time, Be one more victim to the "force of rhyme." Waft us, ye powers, to some sequestered place, Where never malice shewed its hateful face— Remove us far from all the ruffian kind (Baseness with insolence forever joined) To some retreat of solitude and rest— Nor shall another pang disturb the breast— When thought returns—and one regrets to know, He had to combat with a two-faced foe.

Long have I sate on this disastrous shore, And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er To Europe's courts, where, as our travellers say, Poets may flourish, or—perhaps—they may; But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell Perhaps I may defer my voyage as well, Why should I far in search of patrons roam, And Shylock leave to triumph here at home? Should Shylock's poems[199] style you all that's base, Abuse your stature, and malign[200] your face, Make you the worst and vilest of your kind, With not one spark of virtue[201] in your mind; Would you to Shylock's[202] rancorous page reply, So fam'd for scandal, and so prone to lie? Still may those bag-pipes of sedition play, (For fools may write[203] and knaves must have their day) Still from that page let clamorous bards[204] defame, And madness rave, and malice take her aim: May scribes on scribes in verse and prose combine, And fiend-like Sawney roar[205] through every line; Long may they write, unquestion'd and unhurt, And all their rage discharge, and all their dirt: Night-owls must screech, by heaven's supreme decree, And wolves must howl, or wolves they would not be. From empty froth these scribbling insects rose; What honest man but counts them for his foes? When they are lash'd, may dunce with dunce condole, And bellow nonsense from the tortured soul; When they are dead and in some dungeon cramm'd, (For die they will, and all their works be damn'd) When they have belch'd their last departing groans, May dogs and doctors barbecue[206] their bones, And, the last horrors of their souls to calm, Shylock, their bard,[207] console them with—a psalm!

The Indian chief who, famed of yore, Saw Europe's sons adventuring here, Looked, sorrowing, to the crowded shore, And sighing dropt a tear! He saw them half his world explore, He saw them draw the shining blade, He saw their hostile ranks displayed, And cannons blazing through that shade Where only peace was known before. "Ah, what unequal arms!" he cried, "How art thou fallen, my country's pride, "The rural, sylvan reign! "Far from our pleasing shores to go "To western rivers, winding slow, "Is this the boon the gods bestow! "What have we done, great patrons, say, "That strangers seize our woods away, "And drive us naked from our native plain? "Rage and revenge inspire my soul, "And passion burns without controul; "Hence, strangers, to your native shore! "Far from our Indian shades retire, "Remove these gods that vomit fire, "And stain with blood these ravaged glades no more; "In vain I weep, in vain I sigh, "These strangers all our arms defy, "As they advance our chieftains die!— "What can their hosts oppose! "The bow has lost its wonted spring, "The arrow faulters on the wing, "Nor carries ruin from the string "To end their being and our woes. "Yes, yes,—I see our nation bends; "The gods no longer are our friends;— "But why these weak complaints and sighs? "Are there not gardens in the west, "Where all our far-famed Sachems rest?— "I'll go, an unexpected guest, "And the dark horrors of the way despise. "Even now the thundering peals draw nigh, "'Tis theirs to triumph, ours to die! "But mark me, Christian, ere I go— "Thou, too, shalt have thy share of woe; "The time rolls on, not moving slow, "When hostile squadrons for your blood shall come, "And ravage all your shore! "Your warriors and your children slay, "And some in dismal dungeons lay, "Or lead them captive far away "To climes unknown, through seas untried before. "When struggling long, at last with pain "You break a cruel tyrant's chain, "That never shall be joined again, "When half your foes are homeward fled, "And hosts on hosts in triumph led, "And hundreds maimed and thousands dead, "A sordid race will then succeed, "To slight the virtues of the firmer race, "That brought your tyrant to disgrace, "Shall give your honours to an odious train, "Who shunned all conflicts on the main "And dared no battles on the bloody plain, "Whose little souls sunk in the gloomy day "When virtue only could support the fray "And sunshine friends kept off—or ran away." So spoke the chief, and raised his funeral pyre— Around him soon the crackling flames ascend; He smiled amid the fervours of the fire To think his troubles were so near their end, 'Till the freed soul, her debt to nature paid, Rose from the ashes that her prison made, And sought the world unknown, and dark oblivion's shade.

The more I reflect, the more plain it appears, If I stay, I must stay at the risque of my ears, I have so be-peppered the foes of our throne, Be-rebelled, be-deviled, and told them their own, That if we give up to these rebels at last,[210] 'Tis a chance if my ears will atone for the past. 'Tis always the best to provide for the worst— So evacuation I'll mention the first: If Carleton should sail for our dear native shore (As Clinton, Cornwallis, and Howe did before) And take off the soldiers that serve for our guard, (A step that the Tories would think rather hard) Yet still I surmise, for aught I can see, No Congress or Senates would meddle with me. For what have I done, when we come to consider, But sold my commodities to the best bidder? If I offered to lie for the sake of a post, Was I to be blamed if the king offered most? The King's Royal Printer!—Five hundred a year! Between you and me, 'twas a handsome affair: Who would not for that give matters a stretch, And lie back and forward, and carry and fetch, May have some pretensions to honour and fame— But what are they both but the sound of a name, Mere words to deceive us, as I have found long since, Live on them a week, and you'll find them but nonsense. The late news from Charleston my mind has perplext, If that is abandoned,—I know what goes next: This city of York is a place of great note, And that we should hold it I now give my vote; But what are our votes against Shelburne's[211] decrees? These people at helm steer us just where they please, So often they've had us all hands on the brink, They'll steer us at last to the devil, I think: And though in the danger themselves have a share, It will do us small good that they also go there. It is true that the Tories, their children, and wives Have offered to stay at the risque of their lives, And gain to themselves an immortal renown By all turning soldiers, and keeping the town: Whoe'er was the Tory that struck out the plan, In my humble conceit, was a very good man; But our words on this subject need be very few— Already I see that it never will do: For, suppose a few ships should be left us by Britain, With Tories to man them, and other things fitting, In truth we should be in a very fine box, As well they might guard us with ships on the stocks, And when I beheld them aboard and afloat, I am sure I should think of the bear in the boat.[A] On the faith of a printer, things look very black— And what shall we do, alas! and alack! Shall we quit our young princes and full blooded peers, And bow down to viscounts and French chevaliers? Perhaps you may say, "As the very last shift "We'll go to New-Scotland, and take the king's gift." Good folks, do your will—but I vow and I swear, I'll be boil'd into soup before I'll live there: Is it thus that our monarch his subjects degrades?— Let him go and be damned, with his axes and spades, Of all the vile countries that ever were known In the frigid, or torrid, or temperate zone, (From accounts that I've had) there is not such another; It neither belongs to this world or the other: A favor they think to send us there gratis To sing like the Jews at the river Euphrates, And, after surmounting the rage of the billows, Hang ourselves up at last with our harps on the willows; Ere I sail for that shore, may I take my last nap— Why, it gives me the palsy to look on its map! And he that goes there (though I mean to be civil) May fairly be said to have gone to the devil. Shall I push for Old England, and whine at the throne? Indeed! they have Jemmies enough of their own! Besides, such a name I have got from my trade, They would think I was lying, whatever I said; Thus scheme as I will, or contrive as I may, Continual difficulties rise in the way: In short, if they let me remain in this realm, What is it to Jemmy who stands at the helm? I'll petition the rebels (if York is forsaken) For a place in their Zion which ne'er shall be shaken I am sure they'll be clever: it seems their whole study: They hung not young Asgill for old captain Huddy,[212] And it must be a truth that admits no denying, If they spare us for Murder they'll spare us for Lying.

Folks may think as they please, but to me it would seem, That our great men at home have done nothing but dream: Such trimming and twisting and shifting about, And some getting in, and others turned out; And yet, with their bragging and looking so big, All they did was to dance a theatrical jig. Seven years now, and more, we have tried every plan, And are just as near conquering as when we began, Great things were expected from Clinton and Howe, But what have they done, or where are they now? Sir Guy was sent over to kick up a dust, Who already prepares to return in disgust— The object delusive we wish to attain Has been in our reach, and may be so again— But so oddly does heaven its bounties dispense, And has granted our king such a small share of sense That, let Fortune favour or smile as she will, We are doomed to drive on, like a horse in a mill, And though we may seem to advance on our rout, 'Tis but to return to where we sate out. From hence I infer (by way of improvement) That nothing is got by this circular movement; And I plainly perceive, from this fatal delay, We are going to ruin the round-about way! Some nations, like ships, give up to the gale, And are hurried ashore with a full flowing sail; So Sweden submitted to absolute power, And freemen were changed to be slaves in an hour; Thus Theodore soon from his grandeur came down, Forsaking his subjects and Corsican crown; But we—'tis our fate, without ally or friend, To go to perdition, close hauled to the wind. The case is too plain, that if I stay here I have something to hope and something to fear: In regard to my carcase, I shouldn't mind that— I can say "I have lived," and have grown very fat; Have been in my day remarkable shifty, And soon, very soon, will be verging on fifty. 'Tis time for the state of the dead to prepare, 'Tis time to consider how things will go there; Some few are admitted to Jupiter's hall, But the dungeons of Pluto are open to all— The day is approaching as fast as it can When Jemmy will be a mere moderate man, Will sleep under ground both summer and winter, The hulk of a man, and the shell of a printer, And care not a farthing for George, or his line, What empires start up, or what kingdoms decline. Our parson last Sunday brought tears from my eyes, When he told us of heaven, I thought of my lies— To his flock he described it, and laid it before 'em, (As if he had been in its Sanctum Sanctorum) Recounted its beauties that never shall fade, And quoted John Bunyan to prove what he said; Debarred from the gate who the Truth should deny, Or "whosoe'er loveth or maketh a lie." Through the course of my life it has still been my lot In spite of myself, to say "things that are not." And therefore suspect that upon my decease Not a poet will leave me to slumber in peace, But at least once a week be-scribble the stone Where Jemmy, poor Jemmy, lies sleeping alone! Howe'er in the long run these matters may be, If the scripture is true, it has bad news for me— And yet, when I come to examine the text, And the learned annotations that Poole has annexed, Throughout the black list of the people that sin I cannot once find that I'm mention'd therein; Whoremongers, idolators, all are left out, And wizards and dogs (which is proper, no doubt) But he who says, I'm there, mistakes or forgets— It mentions no Printers of Royal Gazettes! In truth, I have need of a mansion of rest, And here to remain might suit me the best— Philadelphia in some things would answer as well, (Some Tories are there, and my papers might sell) But then I should live amongst wrangling and strife, And be forced to say credo the rest of my life: For their sudden conversion I'm much at a loss— I am told that they bow to the wood of the cross, And worship the reliques transported from Rome, St. Peter's toe-nails, and St. Anthony's comb.— If thus the true faith they no longer defend I scarcely can think where the madness will end— If the greatest among them submit to the Pope, What reason have I for indulgence to hope? If the Congress themselves to the Chapel did pass,[B] Ye may swear that poor Jemmy would have to sing mass.

According to custom, once more I appear With the verse you expect at the dawn of the year: For at length we have got into Eighty and Three; And in spite of proud Britain, are happy and free. If the times have been hard, and our commerce gone wrong, We still have been able to struggle along. If some, through misfortunes, are slack in the purse, It is not so bad but it might have been worse. Great things, the year past, were reveal'd to our eyes: The Dutch have confess'd us their friends and allies; And humbled the pride of our haughty invaders, By fighting their fleets and destroying their traders, If the English succeeded in taking the Count, To what, in the end, did their conquest amount? With their boasts, and their brags, and their shouts of applause, It but sav'd them from ruin—not ruin'd our cause. But leaving the weight of political cares To those, who are plac'd at the helm of affairs, To the humours of fortune in all things resign'd, I mean by my visit to put you in mind, That, as true as a clock, both early and late, With the news of the day I have knock'd at your gate, And gave you to know what the world was a doing, What Louis intended, or George was a brewing. If sometimes the papers were trifling and flat, And the news went against us,—I cou'dn't help that; If parties were angry, and vented their spite, I bro't you their wranglings—not help'd them to write. I therefore presume (and not without reason) You'll remember your Newsman, and think of the season; The markets are high, and the weather is cold; No party I serve, and no pension I hold. We Hawkers are men, and have children and wives To comfort our hearts, and to solace our lives: But if I say more, you'll think it is stuff; And a word to the wise is, in reason, enough.

Let those who will, in hackney'd rhyme And common cant, take up your time, And even the muse's aid implore To tell you what you knew before, The days are short and nights are long, The weather cold and hunger strong, The markets high—and such like stuff— I'm sure you know it well enough;— Untaught by us, I dare to say, You hit, exactly, New Year's day, And knew at least as well as we The present year is eighty-three;— (Such simple things as these to tell A mere drum head would do as well—) All this I knew you knew before, And therefore knock'd not at your door Upon the individual day When eighty-three came into play, With verses for the purpose plann'd Bidding you gravely watch your sand, Since death is always near at hand; All this I left to those whose trade is To threaten beaus and frighten ladies, And brought my papers, (swiftly speeding) The Freeman's Journal, for your reading. Unhappy Journal, doom'd by fate To meet with unrelenting hate, From those who can their venom spit, Yet condescend to steal your wit; While Timon, with malicious spirit, Allows you not a grain of merit, While he an idle pomp assumes Let him return his borrow'd plumes, And you will find the insect creeping With not a feather worth the keeping. But this is neither here nor there, May quarrels past dissolve in air; In Stygian waves of sable hue Be all absorb'd with Eighty-Two, Or, lost on Lethe's silent shore, Disgrace our rising State no more. Another word I meant to say, (Kind customers, have patience, pray, My subject is the New Year's Day) How came it that mistaken man Has thus inverted nature's plan, And contradicted common reason By making this the mirthful season, When all is dreary, dull, and dead, The sun to southern climates fled To dart his fierce and downright beams Intensely on Brazilian streams; No daisies on the frozen plain, No daffodils to please the swain, The limpid wave compell'd to freeze, And not a leaf upon the trees!— 'Tis wrong—the very birds will say, Their New Year is the bloom of May; Then nature calls to soft delights, And they obey as she invites. And yet this happiness below, Which all would gain but few know how, Is not to time or place confin'd, 'Tis seated only in the mind; Let seasons vary as they will, Contentment leaves us happy still, Makes life itself pass smooth away, Makes every hour a New Year's day.

To the Senate[C] of York, with all due submission, Of honest Hugh Gaine the humble Petition;[215] An account of his Life he will also prefix, And some trifles that happened in seventy-six; He hopes that your Honours will take no offence, If he sends you some groans of contrition from hence, And, further, to prove that he's truly sincere, He wishes you all a happy New Year.

And, first, he informs, in his representation, That he once was a printer of good reputation, And dwelt in the street called Hanover Square, (You'll know where it is, if you ever was there) Next door to the dwelling[216] of doctor Brownjohn, (Who now to the drug-shop[217] of Pluto is gone) But what do I say—who e'er came to town, And knew not Hugh Gaine at the Bible and Crown. Now, if I was ever so given to lie, My dear native country I wouldn't deny; (I know you love Teagues) and I shall not conceal That I came from the kingdom where Phelim O'Neale And other brave worthies ate butter and cheese, And walk'd in the clover-fields up to their knees; Full early in youth, without basket or burden, With a staff in my hand, I passed over Jordan, (I remember my comrade was doctor Magraw,[D] And many strange things on the waters we saw, Sharks, dolphins, and sea-dogs, bonettas, and whales, And birds at the tropic, with quills in their tails) And came to your city and government seat, And found it was true you had something to eat; When thus I wrote home—"The country is good, "They have plenty of victuals and plenty of wood: "The people are kind, and, whatever they think, "I shall make it appear, I can swim where they'll sink; "Dear me! they're so brisk, and so full of good cheer, "By my soul, I suspect they have always new year, "And therefore conceive it is good to be here." So said, and so acted—I put up a press, And printed away with amazing success; Neglected my person, and looked like a fright, Was bothered all day, and was busy all night, Saw money come in, as the papers went out, While Parker and Weyman[E] were driving about, And cursing and swearing, and chewing their cuds, And wishing Hugh Gaine and his press in the suds: Ned Weyman was printer, you know to the king, And thought he had got all the world in a string, (Though riches not always attend on a throne) So he swore I had found the philosopher's stone, And called me a rogue, and a son of a bitch, Because I knew better than him to get rich. To malice like that 'twas in vain to reply— You had known by his looks he was telling a lie. Thus life ran away, so smooth and serene— Ah! these were the happiest days I had seen! But the saying of Jacob I found to be true, "The days of thy servant are evil and few!" The days that to me were joyous and glad, Are nothing to those which are dreary and sad! The feuds of the Stamp Act foreboded foul weather, And war and vexation all coming together: Those days were the days of riots and mobs, Tar, feathers, and tories, and troublesome jobs— Priests preaching up war for the good of our souls, And libels, and lying, and Liberty poles, From which, when some whimsical colours you waved, We had nothing to do, but look up and be saved— (You thought, by resolving, to terrify Britain— Indeed, if you did, you were damnably bitten) I knew it would bring an eternal reproach, When I saw you a-burning Cadwallader's[F] coach; I knew you would suffer for what you had done, When I saw you lampooning poor Sawney his son, And bringing him down to so wretched a level, As to ride him about in a cart with the devil.

Well, as I predicted that matters would be— To the stamp-act succeeded a tax upon Tea: What chest-fulls were scattered, and trampled, and drowned, And yet the whole tax was but threepence per pound! May the hammer of Death on my noddle descend, And Satan torment me to time without end, If this was a reason to fly into quarrels, And feuds that have ruined our manners and morals; A parson himself might have sworn round the compass, That folks for a trifle should make such a rumpus, Such a rout as to set half the world in a rage, Make France, Spain, and Holland with Britain engage, While the Emperor, the Swede, the Russ, and the Dane, All pity John Bull—and run off with his gain. But this was the season that I must lament— I first was a whig with an honest intent; Not a Yankee[218] among them talked louder or bolder, With his sword by his side, or his gun on his shoulder; Yes, I was a whig, and a whig from my heart, But still was unwilling with Britain to part— I thought to oppose her was foolish and vain, I thought she would turn and embrace us again, And make us as happy as happy could be, By renewing the æra of mild Sixty-Three: And yet, like a cruel, undutiful son, Who evil returns for the good to be done, Unmerited odium on Britain to throw,[219] I printed some treason for Philip Freneau, Some damnable poems reflecting on Gage,[220] The King and his Council, and writ with such rage, So full of invective, and loaded with spleen, So sneeringly smart, and so hellishly keen, That, at least in the judgment of half our wise men, Alecto herself put the nib to his pen.

At this time arose a certain king Sears,[221] Who made it his study to banish our fears: He was, without doubt, a person of merit, Great knowledge, some wit, and abundance of spirit; Could talk like a lawyer, and that without fee, And threatened perdition to all that drank tea. Long sermons did he against Scotchmen prepare,[222] And drank like a German, and drove away care; Ah! don't you remember what a vigorous hand he put To drag off the great guns, and plague captain Vandeput.[G] That night[H] when the Hero (his patience worn out) Put fire to the cannons and folks to the rout, And drew up his ship with a spring on her cable, And gave us a second confusion of Babel, And (what was more solid than scurrilous language) Poured on us a tempest of round shot and langrage; Scarce a broadside was ended 'till another began again —By Jove! it was nothing but Fire away Flanagan![I] Some thought him saluting his Sally's and Nancy's,[223] 'Till he drove a huge ball through the roof of Sam Francis;[J] The town by his flashes was fairly enlightened, The women miscarried, the beaux were all frighten'd; For my part, I hid in a cellar (as sages And Christians were wont in the primitive ages: Thus the Prophet of old that was wrapt to the sky, Lay snug in a cave 'till the tempest went by, But, as soon as the comforting spirit had spoke, He rose and came out with his mystical cloak) Yet I hardly could boast of a moment of rest, The dogs were a-howling, the town was distrest! But our terrors soon vanished, for suddenly Sears Renewed our lost courage and dried up our tears. Our memories, indeed, must have strangely decayed If we cannot remember what speeches he made, What handsome harangues upon every occasion, How he laughed at the whim of a British invasion! "P—x take 'em (said he) do ye think they will come? "If they should—we have only to beat on our drum, "And run up the flag of American freedom, "And people will muster by millions to bleed 'em! "What freeman need value such blackguards as these! "Let us sink in our channel some Chevaux de frise —"And then let 'em come—and we'll show 'em fair play— "But they are not madmen—I tell you—not they!" From this very day 'till the British came in, We lived, I may say, in the Desert of Sin; Such beating, and bruising, and scratching, and tearing; Such kicking, and cuffing, and cursing and swearing! But when they advanced with their numerous fleet, And Washington made his nocturnal retreat,[K] (And which they permitted, I say, to their shame, Or else your New Empire had been but a name) We townsmen, like women, of Britons in dread, Mistrusted their meaning, and foolishly fled; Like the rest of the dunces I mounted my steed, And galloped away with incredible speed, To Newark I hastened,—but trouble and care Got up on the crupper and followed me there! There I scarcely got fuel to keep myself warm, And scarcely found spirits to weather the storm; And was quickly convinced I had little to do, (The Whigs were in arms, and my readers were few) So after remaining one cold winter season, And stuffing my papers with something like treason, And meeting misfortunes and endless disasters, And forced to submit to a hundred new masters, I thought it more prudent to hold to the one— And (after repenting of what I had done, And cursing my folly and idle pursuits) Returned to the city, and hung up my boots.

As matters have gone, it was plainly a blunder, But then I expected the Whigs must knock under, And I always adhere to the sword that is longest, And stick to the party that's like to be strongest: That you have succeeded is merely a chance, I never once dreamt of the conduct of France!— If alliance with her you were promised—at least You ought to have showed me your Star in the East, Nor let me go off uninformed as a beast. When your army I saw without stockings or shoes, Or victuals—or money, to pay them their dues, (Excepting your wretched Congressional paper, That stunk in my nose like the smoke of a taper, A cart load of which for a dram might be spent all, That damnable bubble the old Continental, That took people in at this wonderful crisis, With its mottoes and emblems, and cunning devices; Which, bad as it was, you were forced to admire, And which was, in fact, the pillar of fire, To which you directed your wandering noses, Like the Jews in the desert conducted by Moses) When I saw them attended with famine and fear, Distress in their front, and Howe in their rear; When I saw them for debt incessantly dunned, Not a shilling to pay them laid up in your fund; Your ploughs at a stand, and your ships run ashore— When this was apparent (and need I say more?) I handled my cane, and I looked at my hat, And cryed—"God have mercy on armies like that!" I took up my bottle, disdaining to stay, And said—"Here's a health to the Vicar of Bray," And cocked up my beaver, and—strutted away.

Ashamed of my conduct, I sneaked into town, (Six hours and a quarter the sun had been down) It was, I remember, a cold frosty night, And the stars in the firmament glittered as bright As if (to assume a poetical stile) Old Vulcan had give them a rub with his file. 'Till this cursed night, I can honestly say, I ne'er before dreaded the dawn of the day; Not a wolf or a fox that is caught in a trap E'er was so ashamed of his nightly mishap— I couldn't help thinking what ills might befall me, What rebels and rascals the British would call me, And how I might suffer in credit and purse, If not in my person, which still had been worse: At length I resolved (as was surely my duty) To go for advice to parson Auchmuty;[L] The parson, who now I hope is in glory, Was then upon earth, and a terrible[224] tory, Not Cooper[M] himself, of ideas perplext, So nicely could handle and torture a text, When bloated with lies, through his trumpet he sounded The damnable sin of opposing a crowned head; Like a penitent sinner, and dreading my fate, In the grey of the morning I knocked at his gate; (No doubt he was vexed that I roused him so soon, For his saintship was mostly in blankets 'till noon.) At length he approached in his vestments of black— (Alas, my poor heart! it was then on the rack, Like a man in an ague, or one to be tried; I shook—and recanted, and blubbered, and sighed) His gown, of itself, was amazingly big, Besides, he had on his canonical wig, And frowned at a distance; but, when I came near, Looked pleasant and said—"What, Hugh, are you here! "Your heart, I am certain, is horribly hardened, "But if you confess—your sin will be pardoned; "In spite of my preachments, and all I could say, "Like the prodigal son, you wandered away, "Now tell me, dear penitent, which is the best, "To be with the rebels, pursued and distrest, "Devoid of all comfort, all hopes of relief, "Or else to be here, and partake the king's beef? "More people resemble the snake than the dove, "And more are converted by terror than love: "Like a sheep on the mountains, or rather a swine, "You wandered away from the ninety and nine: "Awhile at the offers of mercy you spurned, "But your error you saw, and at length have returned: "Our Master will therefore consider your case, "And restore you again to favour and grace, "Great light shall arise from utter confusion, "And rebels shall live to lament their delusion." "Ah, rebels! (said I) they are rebels indeed— "Chastisement, I hope, by the king is decreed: "They have hung up his subjects with bed-cords and halters, "And banished his prophets, and thrown down his altars. "And I—even I—while I ventured to stay, "They sought for my life—to take it away! "I therefore propose to come under your wing, "A foe to rebellion—a slave to the king."

Such solemn confession,[225] in scriptural stile Worked out my salvation, at least for a while; The parson pronounced me deserving of grace, And so they restored me to printing and place. But days, such as these, were too happy to last: The sand of felicity settled too fast! When I swore and protested I honoured the throne The least they could do was to let me alone; Though George I compared to an angel above, They wanted some solider proofs of my love; And so they obliged me each morning to come And turn in the ranks at the beat of the drum, While often, too often (I tell it with pain) They menaced my head with a hickory cane, While others, my betters, as much were opprest— But shame and confusion shall cover the rest. You, doubtless, will think I am dealing in fable When I tell you I guard an officer's stable— With usage like this my feelings are stung; The next thing will be, I must heave out the dung! Six hours in the day is duty too hard, And Rivington sneers whene'er I mount guard, And laughs till his sides are ready to split With his jests, and his satires, and sayings of wit: Because he's excused, on account of his post He cannot go by without making his boast, As if I was all that is servile and mean— But Fortune, perhaps, may alter the scene, And give him his turn to stand in the street, Burnt brandy supporting his animal heat—[226] But what for the king or the cause has he done That we must be toiling while he can look on? Great conquests he gave them on paper—'tis true[227] When Howe was retreating, he made him pursue; Alack! it's too plain that Britons must fall— When loaded with laurels—they go to the wall. From hence you may guess I do nothing but grieve, And where we are going I cannot conceive— The wisest among us a change are expecting, It is not for nothing, these ships are collecting, It is not for nothing, that Matthews, the mayor, And legions of Tories, for sailing prepare; It is not for nothing, that John Coghill Knap Is filing his papers, and plugging his tap; See Skinner himself, the fighting attorney, Is boiling potatoes, to serve a long journey; But where they are going, or meaning to travel, Would puzzle John Faustus himself to unravel, Perhaps to Penobscot, to starve in the barrens, Perhaps to St. John's, in the gulph of St. Lawrence; Perhaps to New-Scotland, to perish with cold, Perhaps to Jamaica, like slaves to be sold, Where, scorched by the summer, all nature repines, Where Phœbus, great Phœbus, too glaringly shines, And fierce from the zenith diverging his ray Oppresses the isle with a torrent of day. Since matters are thus, with proper submission Permit me to offer my humble Petition: (Though the form is uncommon, and lawyers may sneer, With truth I can tell you, the scribe is sincere.)

That, since it is plain we are going away, You will suffer Hugh Gaine unmolested to stay, His sand is near run (life itself is a span) So leave him to manage the best that he can: Whoe'er are his masters, or monarchs, or regents, For the future he's ready to swear them allegiance; The Crown he will promise to hold in disgrace:[228] The Bible—allow him to stick in its place, 'Till that, in due season, you wish to put down And bid him keep shop at the sign of the crown. If the Turk with his turban should set up at last here While he gives him protection, he'll own him his master, And yield due obedience (when Britain is gone) Though ruled by the sceptre of Presbyter John. My press, that has called you (as tyranny drove her) Rogues, rebels, and rascals, a thousand times over, Shall be at your service by day and by night, To publish whate'er you think proper to write; Those types which have raised George the third to a level With angels—shall prove him as black as the devil, To him that contrived him a shame and disgrace, Nor blest with one virtue to honour his race! Who knows but, in time, I may rise to be great, And have the good fortune to manage a State? Great noise among people great changes denotes, And I shall have money to purchase their votes— The time is approaching, I venture to say, When folks worse than me will come into play, When your double faced[229] people will give themselves airs, And aim to take hold of the helm of affairs, While the honest bold soldier, who sought your renown, Like a dog in the dirt, shall be crushed and held down. Of honours and profits allow me a share! I frequently dream of a president's chair! And visions full often intrude on my brain, That for me to interpret, would rather be vain. Blest seasons advance, when Britons[230] shall find That they can be happy, and you[231] can be kind, When Rebels no longer at Traitors shall spurn, When Arnold himself will in triumph return! But my paper informs me it's time to conclude; I fear my Address has been rather too rude— If it has—for my boldness your pardon I pray, And further, at present, presume not to say, Except that (for form's sake) in haste I remain Your humble Petitioner—honest—Hugh Gaine.[232]

His triumphs of a moment done, His race of desolation run, The Briton, yielding to his fears, To other shores with sorrow steers: To other shores—and coarser climes He goes, reflecting on his crimes, His broken oaths, a murdered Hayne, And blood of thousands, spilt in vain. To Cooper's stream, advancing slow, Ashley no longer tells his woe; No longer mourns his limpid flood Discoloured deep with human blood. Lo! where those social streams combine, Again the friends of Freedom join; And, while they stray, where once they bled, Rejoice to find their tyrants fled. Since memory paints that dismal day When British squadrons held the sway, And circling close on every side, By sea and land retreat denied— Can she recall that mournful scene, And not the virtues of a Greene, Who great in war—in danger tried, Has won the day, and crushed their pride. Through barren wastes and ravaged lands, He led his bold undaunted bands; Through sickly climes his standard bore Where never army marched before: By fortitude, with patience joined, (The virtues of a noble mind) He spread, where'er our wars are known, His country's honour and his own. Like Hercules, his generous plan Was to redress the wrongs of men; Like him, accustomed to subdue, He freed a world from monsters too. Through every want and every ill We saw him persevering still, Through Autumn's damps and Summer's heat, 'Till his great purpose was complete. Like the bold eagle, from the skies That stoops, to seize his trembling prize, He darted on the slaves of kings At Camden plains and Eutaw Springs. Ah! had our friends that led the fray Survived the ruins of that day, We should not damp our joy with pain, Nor, sympathizing, now complain. Strange! that of those who nobly dare Death always claims so large a share, That those of virtue most refined Are soonest to the grave consigned!— But fame is theirs—and future days On pillared brass shall tell their praise; Shall tell—when cold neglect is dead— "These for their country fought and bled."

Grown sick of war, and war's alarms, Good George has changed his note at last— Conquest and death have lost their charms; He, and his nation stand aghast, To think what fearful lengths they've gone, And what a brink they stand upon. Old Bute and North, twin sons of hell, If you advised him to retreat Before our vanquished thousands fell, Prostrate, submissive at his feet: Awake once more his latent flame, And bid us yield you all you claim.[235] The Macedonian wept and sighed Because no other world was found Where he might glut his rage and pride, And by its ruin be renowned; The world that Sawney wished to view George fairly had—and lost it too! Let jarring powers make war or peace, Monster!—no peace can greet your breast: Our murdered friends can never cease To hover round and break your rest! The Furies will your bosom tear, Remorse, distraction, and despair And hell, with all its fiends, be there! Cursed be the ship that e'er sets sail Hence, freighted for your odious shore; May tempests o'er her strength prevail, Destruction round her roar! May Nature all her aids deny, The sun refuse his light, The needle from its object fly, No star appear by night: 'Till the base pilot, conscious of his crime, Directs the prow to some more Christian[236] clime. Genius! that first our race designed, To other kings impart The finer feelings of the mind, The virtues of the heart; Whene'er the honours of a throne Fall to the bloody and the base, Like Britain's tyrant, pull them down, Like his, be their disgrace! Hibernia, seize each native right! Neptune, exclude him from the main; Like her that sunk with all her freight, The Royal George,[237] take all his fleet, And never let them rise again: Confine him to his gloomy isle, Let Scotland rule her half, Spare him to curse his fate awhile, And Whitehead,[A] thou to write his epitaph.

Dark glooms the day that sees me leave this shore, To which fate whispers I must come no more: From civil broils what dire disasters flow— Those broils condemn me to a land of woe Where barren pine trees shade the dreary steep, Frown o'er the soil or murmur to the deep, Where sullen fogs their heavy wings expand, And nine months' winter chills the dismal land! Could no kind stars have mark'd a different way, Stars that presided on my natal day?— Why is not man endued with power to know The ends and upshots of events below? Why did not heaven (some other gift deny'd) Teach me to take the true-born Buckskin side, Show me the balance of the wavering fates And fortune smiling on these new-born States! Friend of my heart!—my refuge and relief, Who help'd me on through seven long years of grief, Whose better genius taught you to remain In the soft quiet of your rural reign, Who still despised the Rebels and their cause, And, while you paid the taxes, damn'd their laws, And wisely stood spectator of the fray, Nor trusted George, whate'er he chose to say; Thrice happy thou, who wore a double face, And as the balance turn'd could each embrace; Too happy Janus! had I shar'd thy art, To speak a language foreign to my heart, And stoop'd from pomp and dreams of regal state, To court the friendship of the men I hate, These strains of woe had not been penn'd to-day, Nor I to foreign climes been forc'd away: Ah! George—that name provokes my keenest rage, Did he not swear, and promise, and engage His loyal sons to nurture and defend, To be their God, their father and their friend— Yet basely quits us on a hostile coast, And leaves us wretched where we need him most: His is the part to promise and deceive, By him we wander and by him we grieve; Since the first day that these dissentions grew, When Gage to Boston brought his blackguard crew,[239] From place to place we urge our vagrant flight To follow still this vapour of the night, From town to town have run our various race, And acted all that's mean and all that's base— Yes—from that day until this hour we roam, Vagrants forever from our native home! And yet, perhaps, fate sees the golden hour When happier hands shall crush rebellious power, When hostile tribes their plighted faith shall own And swear subjection to the British throne, When George the Fourth shall their petitions spurn, And banish'd Tories to their fields return. From dreams of conquest, worlds and empires won Britain awaking, mourns her setting sun, No rays of joy her evening hour illume, 'Tis one sad chaos, one unmingled gloom! Too soon she sinks unheeded to the grave, No eye to pity and no hand to save: What are her crimes that she alone must bend? Where are her hosts to conquer and defend— Must she alone with these new regions part, These realms that lay the nearest to her heart, But soar'd at once to independent power, Not sunk like Scotland in the trying hour?— See slothful Spaniards golden empires keep, And rule vast realms beyond the Atlantic deep; Must we alone surrender half our reign, And they their empires and their worlds retain? Britannia, rise—send Johnstone to Peru, Seize thy bold thunders and the war renew, Conquest or ruin—one must be thy doom, Strike—and secure a triumph or a tomb! But we, sad outcasts from our native reign, Driven from these shores, a poor deluded train, In distant wilds, conducted by despair, Seek, vainly seek, a hiding place from care! Even now yon' tribes, the foremost of the band, Croud to the ships and cover all the strand: Forc'd from their friends, their country, and their God, I see the unhappy miscreants leave the sod! Matrons and men walk sorrowing side by side And virgin grief, and poverty, and pride, All, all with aching hearts prepare to sail And late repentance that has no avail! While yet I stand on this forbidden ground I hear the death-bell of destruction sound, And threat'ning hosts with vengeance on their brow Cry, "Where are Britain's base adherents now?" These, hot for vengeance, by resentment led, Blame on our hearts the failings of the head; To us no peace, no favours they extend, Their rage no bounds, their hatred knows no end; In one firm league I see them all combin'd, We, like the damn'd, can no forgiveness find— As soon might Satan from perdition rise, And the lost angels gain their vanish'd skies As malice cease in their dark souls to burn, Or we, once fled, be suffer'd to return. Curs'd be the union that was form'd with France, I see their lillies and the stars advance! Did they not turn our triumphs to retreats, And prove our conquests nothing but defeats?— My heart misgives me as their chiefs draw near, I feel the influence of all potent fear, Henceforth must I, abandon'd and distrest, Knock at the door of pride, a beggar guest, And learn from years of misery and pain Not to oppose fair Freedom's cause again!— One truth is clear from changes such as these,[240] Kings cannot always conquer when they please, Nor are they rebels who mere freedom claim, Conquest alone can ratify the name— But great the task, their efforts to controul When genuine virtue fires the stubborn soul; The warlike beast in Lybian deserts plac'd To reign the master of the sun-burnt waste, Not tamely yields to bear a servile chain, Force may attempt it, and attempt in vain, Nervous and bold, by native valour led, His prowess strikes the proud invader dead, By force nor fraud from freedom's charms beguil'd He reigns secure the monarch of the wild. Tantalus.

Fair mistress of a warlike State, What crime of thine deserves this fate? While other ports to Freedom rise, In thee that flame of honour dies. With wars and horrors overspread, Seven years, and more, we fought and bled: Seized British hosts and Hessian bands, And all—to leave you in their hands. While British tribes forsake our plains, In you, a ghastly herd[242] remains: Must vipers to your halls[243] repair; Must poison taint that purest air? Ah! what a scene torments the eye: In thee, what putrid monsters lie! What dirt, and mud, and mouldering walls, Burnt domes, dead dogs, and funerals! Those grassy banks, where oft we stood,[244] And fondly viewed the passing flood; There, owls obscene, that daylight shun, Pollute the waters, as they run. Thus in the east—once Asia's queen— Palmyra's tottering towers are seen; While through her streets the serpent feeds, Thus she puts on her mourning weeds! Lo! Skinner there for Scotia hails The sweepings of Cesarean jails:[245] While, to receive the odious[246] freight, A thousand sable transports wait. Had he been born in days of old When men with gods their 'squires[247] enrolled, Hermes had claimed his aid above, Arch-quibbler in the courts of Jove.[248] O chief, that wrangled at the bar— Grown old in less successful war; What crowds of miscreants round you stand, What vagrants bow to your command!

1 The great, unequal conflict past, The Briton banish'd from our shore, Peace, heav'n-descended, comes at last, And hostile nations rage no more; From fields of death the weary swain Returning, seeks his native plain. 2 In every vale she smiles serene, Freedom's bright stars more radiant rise, New charms she adds to every scene, Her brighter sun illumes our skies; Remotest realms admiring stand, And hail the Hero of our land: 3 He comes!—the Genius of these lands— Fame's thousand tongues his worth confess, Who conquer'd with his suffering bands, And grew immortal by distress: Thus calms succeed the stormy blast, And valour is repaid at last. 4 O Washington!—thrice glorious name, What due rewards can man decree— Empires are far below thy aim, And sceptres have no charms for thee; Virtue alone has thy regard, And she must be thy great reward. 5 Encircled by extorted power, Monarchs must envy thy Retreat, Who cast, in some ill fated hour, Their country's freedom at their feet; 'Twas thine to act a nobler part For injur'd Freedom had thy heart. 6 For ravag'd realms and conquer'd seas Rome gave the great imperial prize, And, swell'd with pride, for feats like these, Transferr'd her heroes to the skies:— A brighter scene your deeds display, You gain those heights a different way. 7 When Faction rear'd her snaky head,[250] And join'd with tyrants to destroy, Where'er you march'd the monster fled, Tim'rous her arrows to employ; Hosts catch'd from you a bolder flame, And despots trembled at your name. 8 Ere war's dread horrors ceas'd to reign, What leader could your place supply?— Chiefs crowded to the embattled plain, Prepar'd to conquer or to die— Heroes arose—but none like you Could save our lives and freedom too. 9 In swelling verse let kings be read, And princes shine in polish'd prose; Without such aid your triumphs spread Where'er the convex ocean flows, To Indian worlds by seas embrac'd, And Tartar, tyrant of the waste. 10 Throughout the east you gain applause, And soon the Old World, taught by you, Shall blush to own her barbarous laws, Shall learn instruction from the New: Monarchs shall hear the humble plea, Nor urge too far the proud decree. 11 Despising pomp and vain parade, At home you stay, while France and Spain The secret, ardent wish convey'd, And hail'd you to their shores in vain: In Vernon's groves you shun the throne, Admir'd by kings, but seen by none. 12 Your fame, thus spread to distant lands, May envy's fiercest blasts endure, Like Egypt's pyramids it stands, Built on a basis more secure; Time's latest age shall own in you The patriot and the statesman too. 13 Now hurrying from the busy scene, Where thy Potowmack's waters flow, May'st thou enjoy thy rural reign, And every earthly blessing know; Thus He[A] whom Rome's proud legions sway'd, Return'd, and sought his sylvan shade.

14 Not less in wisdom than in war Freedom shall still employ your mind, Slavery shall vanish, wide and far, 'Till not a trace is left behind; Your counsels not bestow'd in vain Shall still protect this infant reign. 15 So when the bright, all-cheering sun From our contracted view retires, Though fools may think his race is run, On other worlds he lights his fires: Cold climes beneath his influence glow, And frozen rivers learn to flow. 16 O say, thou great, exalted name! What Muse can boast of equal lays, Thy worth disdains all vulgar fame, Transcends the noblest poet's praise, Art soars, unequal to the flight, And genius sickens at the height. 17 For states redeem'd—our western reign Restor'd by thee to milder sway, Thy conscious glory shall remain When this great globe is swept away, And all is lost that pride admires, And all the pageant scene expires.