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

1 O'er the rough main with flowing sheet The guardian of a numerous fleet, Seraphis from the Baltic came; A ship of less tremendous force Sail'd by her side the self-same course, Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name. 2 And now their native coasts appear, Britannia's hills their summits rear Above the German main; Fond to suppose their dangers o'er, They southward coast along the shore, Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain. 3 Full forty guns Seraphis bore, And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four, Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars— What flag that rides the Gallic seas Shall dare attack such piles as these, Design'd for tumults and for wars! 4 Now from the top-mast's giddy height A seaman cry'd—"Four sail in sight "Approach with favouring gales;" Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet, Stood off to sea these ships to meet, And closely brac'd his shivering sails. 5 With him advanc'd the Countess bold, Like a black tar in wars grown old: And now these floating piles drew nigh; But, muse, unfold what chief of fame In th' other warlike squadron came, Whose standards at his mast head fly. 6 'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle led As bold a crew as ever bled Upon the sky surrounded main; The standards of the Western World Were to the willing winds unfurl'd, Denying Britain's tyrant reign. 7 The Good Man Richard led the line; The Alliance next: with these combine The Gallic ship they Pallas call: The Vengeance, arm'd with sword and flame, These to attack the Britons came— But two accomplish'd all. 8 Now Phœbus sought his pearly bed: But who can tell the scenes of dread, The horrors of that fatal night! Close up these floating castles came; The Good Man Richard bursts in flame; Seraphis trembled at the sight. 9 She felt the fury of her ball, Down, prostrate down, the Britons fall; The decks were strew'd with slain: Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd; And, while the black artillery flash'd, Loud thunders shook the main. 10 Alas! that mortals should employ Such murdering engines, to destroy That frame by heav'n so nicely join'd; Alas! that e'er the god decreed That brother should by brother bleed, And pour'd such madness in the mind. 11 But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear; The rights of men demand thy care: For these you dare the greedy waves— No tyrant on destruction bent Has planned thy conquests—thou art sent To humble tyrants and their slaves. 12 See!—dread Seraphis flames again— And art thou, Jones, among the slain, And sunk to Neptune's caves below— He lives—though crowds around him fall, Still he, unhurt, survives them all; Almost alone he fights the foe. 13 And can thy ship these strokes sustain? Behold thy brave companions slain, All clasp'd in ocean's dark embrace. "Strike, or be sunk!"—the Briton cries— "Sink, if you can!"—the chief replies, Fierce lightnings blazing in his face. 14 Then to the side three guns he drew, (Almost deserted by his crew) And charg'd them deep with woe: By Pearson's flash he aim'd the balls; His main-mast totters—down it falls— Tremendous was the blow.[43] 15 Pearson as yet disdain'd to yield, But scarce his secret fears conceal'd, And thus was heard to cry— "With hell, not mortals, I contend; "What art thou—human, or a fiend, "That dost my force defy? 16 "Return, my lads, the fight renew!" So call'd bold Pearson to his crew; But call'd, alas! in vain; Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead; Some to their deep recesses fled, And more were bury'd in the main.[44] 17 Distress'd, forsaken, and alone, He haul'd his tatter'd standard down, And yielded to his gallant foe; Bold Pallas soon the Countess took, Thus both their haughty colours struck, Confessing what the brave can do. 18 But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buy These ships possest so gloriously, Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray: Thy barque that bore the conquering flame, That the proud Briton overcame, Even she forsook thee on thy way; 19 For when the morn began to shine, Fatal to her, the ocean brine Pour'd through each spacious wound; Quick in the deep she disappear'd, But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd, With conquest and with glory crown'd. 20 Go on, great man, to daunt the foe, And bid the haughty Britons know They to our Thirteen Stars shall bend; The Stars that veil'd in dark attire, Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire, But radiant now ascend; 21 Bend to the Stars that flaming rise In western, not in eastern, skies, Fair Freedom's reign restor'd. So when the Magi, come from far, Beheld the God-attending Star, They trembled and ador'd.

Accept, great men, that share of honest praise A grateful nation to your merit pays: Verse is too mean your merit to display, And words too weak our praises to convey. When first proud Britain raised her hostile hand With claims unjust to bind our native land, Transported armies, and her millions spent To enforce the mandate that a tyrant sent; "Resist! resist!" was heard through every state, You heard the call, and feared your country's fate; Then rising fierce in arms, for war arrayed, You taught to vanquish those who dared invade. Those British chiefs whom former wars had crowned With conquest—and in every clime renowned; Who forced new realms to own their monarch's law, And whom even George beheld with secret awe— Those mighty chiefs, compelled to fly or yield, Scarce dared to meet you on the embattled field; To Boston's port you chased the trembling crew, Quick, even from thence the British veterans flew— Through wintry waves they fled, and thought each wave Their last, best safety from a foe so brave![46] What men, like you, our warfare could command, And bring us safely to the promised land?— Not swoln with pride,[47] with victory elate— 'Tis in misfortune you are doubly great: When Howe victorious our weak armies chased, And, sure of conquest, laid Cesarea waste, When prostrate, bleeding, at his feet she lay, And the proud victor tore her wreathes away, Each gallant chief[48] put forth his warlike hand And raised the drooping genius of the land, Repelled the foe, their choicest warriors slain, And drove them howling to their ships again. While others kindle into martial rage Whom fierce ambition urges to engage, An iron race, by angry heaven designed To conquer first and then enslave mankind; Here chiefs and heroes[49] more humane we see, They venture life, that others may be free. O! may you live to hail that glorious day When Britain homeward shall pursue her way— That race subdued, who filled the world with slain And rode tyrannic o'er the subject main!— What few presumed, you boldly have atchieved, A tyrant humbled, and a world relieved. O Washington, who leadst this glorious train,[50] Still may the fates thy valued life maintain.— Rome's boasted chiefs, who, to their own disgrace, Proved the worst scourges of the human race, Pierced by whose darts a thousand nations bled, Who captive princes at their chariots led; Born to enslave, to ravage, and subdue— Return to nothing when compared to you; Throughout the world your growing fame has spread, In every country are your virtues read; Remotest India hears your deeds of fame, The hardy Scythian stammers at your name; The haughty Turk, now longing to be free, Neglects his Sultan to enquire of thee; The barbarous Briton hails you to his shores, And calls him Rebel, whom his heart adores. Still may the heavens prolong your vital date, And still may conquest on your banners wait: Whether afar to ravaged lands you go, Where wild Potowmac's rapid waters flow, Or where Saluda laves the fertile plain And, swoln by torrents, rushes to the main; Or if again to Hudson you repair To smite the cruel foe that lingers there— Revenge their cause, whose virtue was their crime, The exiled hosts from Carolina's clime. Late from the world in quiet mayest thou rise And, mourned by millions, reach your native skies— With patriot kings and generous chiefs to shine, Whose virtues raised them to be deemed divine: May Vasa[A] only equal honours claim, Alike in merits—not the first in fame!

Dear Sir, I'm so anxious to hear of your health, I beg you would send me a letter by stealth: I hope a few months will quite alter the case, When the wars are concluded, we'll meet and embrace. For I'm led to believe from our brilliant success, And, what is as clear, your amazing distress, That the cause of rebellion has met with a check That will bring all its patrons to hang by the neck. Cornwallis has managed so well in the South, Those rebels want victuals to put in their mouth; And Arnold has stript them, we hear, to the buff[52]— Has burnt their tobacco, and left them—the snuff. Dear Thomas, I wish you would move from that town Where meet all the rebels of fame and renown; When our armies, victorious, shall clear that vile nest You may chance, though a Tory, to swing with the rest. But again—on reflection—I beg you would stay— You may serve us yet better than if moved away— Give advice to Sir Harry of all that is passing, What vessels are building, what cargoes amassing; Inform, to a day, when those vessels will sail, That our cruisers may capture them all, without fail— By proceedings like these, your peace will be made, The rebellious shall swing, but be you ne'er afraid. I cannot conceive how you do to subsist— The rebels are starving, except those who 'list; And as you reside in the land of Gomorrah, You must fare as the rest do, I think, to your sorrow. Poor souls! if ye knew what a doom is decreed, (I mean not for you, but for rebels indeed), You would tremble to think of the vengeance in store, The halters and gibbets—I mention no more. The rebels must surely conclude they're undone, Their navy is ruined, their armies have run; It is time they should now from delusion awaken— The rebellion is done—for the Trumbull[53] is taken!

Hail, great destroyer (equalled yet by none) Of countries not your master's, nor your own; Hatched by some demon on a stormy day, Satan's best substitute to burn and slay; Confined at last, hemmed in by land and sea, Burgoyne himself was but a type of thee! Like his, to freedom was your deadly hate, Like his your baseness, and be his your fate: To you, like him, no prospect Nature yields, But ruined wastes and desolated fields[55]— In vain you raise the interposing wall, And hoist those standards that, like you, must fall, In you conclude the glories of your race, Complete your monarch's and your own disgrace. What has your lordship's pilfering arms attained?— Vast stores of plunder, but no State regained— That may return, though you perhaps may groan, Restore it, Charley,[56] for 'tis not your own— Then, lord and soldier, headlong to the brine Rush down at once—the devil and the swine. Wouldst thou at last with Washington engage, Sad object of his pity, not his rage? See, round thy posts how terribly advance The chiefs, the armies, and the fleets of France;[57] Fight while you can, for warlike Rochambeau Aims at your head his last decisive blow, Unnumbered ghosts from earth untimely sped, Can take no rest till you, like them, are dead— Then die, my Lord; that only chance remains To wipe away dishonourable stains, For small advantage would your capture bring, The plundering servant of a bankrupt king.

Dunmore Ever since I return'd to my dear native shore, No poet in Grubstreet was ever dunned more— I'm dunned by my barber, my taylor, my groom; How can I do else than to fret and to fume? They join to attack me with one good accord, From morning till night 'tis "my lord, and my lord." And there comes the cobler, so often denied— If I had him in private, I'd thresh his tough hide. Germaine Would you worry the man that has found you in shoes? Come, courage, my lord, I can tell you good news— Virginia is conquered, the rebels are banged,[59] You are now to go over and see them safe hanged: I hope it is not to your nature abhorrent To sign for these wretches a handsome death warrant— Were I but in your place, I'm sure it would suit To sign their death warrants, and hang them to boot. Dunmore My lord!—I'm amazed—have we routed the foe?— I shall govern again then, if matters be so— And as to the hanging, in short, to be plain, I'll hang them so well, they'll ne'er want it again. With regard to the wretches who thump at my gates, I'll discharge all their dues with the rebel estates; In less than three months I may send a polacca As deep as she'll swim, sir, with corn and tobacco. Germaine And send us some rebels—a dozen or so— They'll serve here in London by way of a show; And as to the Tories, believe me, dear cousin, We can spare you some hundreds to pay for the dozen.

From clouds of smoke, and flames that round me glow, To you, dear Clinton, I disclose my woe: Here cannons flash, bombs glance, and bullets fly; Not Arnold's[61] self endures such misery. Was I foredoomed in tortures[62] to expire, Hurled to perdition in a blaze of fire? With these blue flames can mortal man contend— What arms can aid me, or what walls defend? Even to these gates last night a phantom strode, And hailed me trembling to his dark abode: Aghast I stood, struck motionless and dumb, Seized with the horrors of the world to come. Were but my power as mighty as my rage, Far different battles would Cornwallis wage; Beneath his sword yon' threat'ning hosts should groan, The earth would quake with thunders all his own. O crocodile! had I thy flinty hide, Swords to defy, and glance the balls aside, By my own prowess would I rout the foe, With my own javelin would I work their woe— But fates averse, by heaven's supreme decree, Nile's serpent formed more excellent than me. Has heaven, in secret, for some crime decreed That I should suffer, and my soldiers bleed? Or is it by the jealous powers concealed, That I must bend, and they ignobly yield? Ah! no—the thought o'erwhelms my soul with grief: Come, bold Sir Harry, come to my relief; Come, thou brave man, whom rebels Tombstone call, But Britons, Graves[63]—come Digby, devil and all; Come, princely William, with thy potent aid, Can George's blood by Frenchmen be dismayed? From a king's uncle once Scotch rebels run, And shall not these be routed by a son? Come with your ships to this disastrous shore, Come—or I sink—and sink to rise no more; By every motive that can sway the brave Haste, and my feeble, fainting army save; Come, and lost empire o'er the deep regain, Chastise these upstarts that usurp the main; I see their first rates to the charge advance, I see lost Iris wear the flags of France; There a strict rule the wakeful Frenchman keeps; There, on no bed of down, Lord Rawdon sleeps! Tired with long acting on this bloody stage, Sick of the follies of a wrangling age, Come with your fleet, and help me to retire To Britain's coast, the land of my desire— For, me the foe their certain captive deem, And every trifler[64] takes me for his theme— Long, much too long in this hard service tried, Bespattered still, be-deviled, and belied; With the first chance that favouring fortune sends I fly, converted, from this land of fiends; Convinced, for me, she has no gems in store, Nor leaves one triumph, even to hope for more.

In youth, gay scenes attract our eyes, And not suspecting their decay Life's flowery fields before us rise, Regardless of its winter day. But vain pursuits and joys as vain, Convince us life is but a dream. Death is to wake, to rise again To that true life you best esteem. So nightly on some shallow tide, Oft have I seen a splendid show; Reflected stars on either side, And glittering moons were seen below. But when the tide had ebbed away, The scene fantastic with it fled, A bank of mud around me lay, And sea-weed on the river's bed.

"Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, "That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile "Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh, "Before this earthly prison of their bones; "That so the shadows be not unappeas'd, "Nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth." —Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus, Act I, Scene II.

A Chieftain join'd with[67] Howe, Burgoyne, and Gage, Once more, nor this the last, provokes my rage— Who saw these Nimrods first for conquest burn! Who has not seen them to the dust return? This ruffian[68] next, who scour'd our ravag'd fields, Foe to the human race,[69] Cornwallis yields!— None e'er before essay'd such desperate crimes, Alone he stood, arch-butcher of the times, Rov'd uncontroul'd this wasted country o'er, Strew'd plains with dead, and bath'd his jaws with gore?[70] 'Twas thus the wolf, who sought by night his prey, And plunder'd all he met with on his way, Stole what he could, and murder'd as he pass'd, Chanc'd on a trap, and lost his head at last. What pen can write, what human tongue can tell The endless murders of this man of hell![71] Nature in him disgrac'd the form divine; Nature mistook, she meant him for a—swine: That eye his forehead to her shame adorns; Blush! nature, blush—bestow him tail and horns!— By him the orphans mourn—the widow'd dame Saw ruin spreading in the wasteful flame; Gash'd o'er with wounds beheld with streaming eye A son, a brother, or a consort, die!— Through ruin'd realms bones lie without a tomb, And souls he sped to their eternal doom, Who else had liv'd, and seen their toils again Bless'd by the genius of the rural reign. But turn your eyes, and see the murderer fall,[72] Then say—"Cornwallis has atchiev'd it all."— Yet he preserves the honour and the fame That vanquish'd heroes only ought to claim— Is he a hero!—Read, and you will find Heroes are beings of a different kind:— Compassion to the worst of men is due, And mercy heaven's first attribute, 'tis true; Yet most presume it was too nobly done To grant mild terms to Satan's first-born son. Convinc'd we are, no foreign spot on earth But Britain only, gave this reptile[73] birth. That white-cliff'd isle, the vengeful dragon's[74] den, Has sent us monsters where we look'd for men. When memory paints their horrid deeds anew, And brings these murdering miscreants to your view, Then ask the leaders of these bloody bands, Can they expect compassion at our hands?— But may this year, the glorious eighty-one, Conclude successful, as it first begun;[75] This brilliant year their total downfall see, And what Cornwallis is, may Clinton be.[76] O come the time, nor distant be the day, When our bold navy shall its wings display; Mann'd by our sons, to seek that barbarous shore,[77] The wrongs revenging that their fathers bore: As Samuel hew'd the tyrant Agag down,[78] So hew the wearer of the British crown; Unpitying, next his hated offspring slay, Or into foreign lands the fiends convey:[79] Give them their turn to pine and die in chains, 'Till not one monster[80] of the race remains. Thou, who resid'st on those thrice happy shores, Where white rob'd peace her envied blessings pours, Stay, and enjoy the pleasures that she yields; But come not, stranger, to our wasted fields, For warlike hosts on every plain appear, War damps the beauties of the rising year: In vain the groves their bloomy sweets display; War's clouded winter chills the charms of May: Here human blood the trampled harvest stains; Here bones of men yet whiten all the plains; Seas teem with dead; and our unhappy shore Forever blushes with its children's gore. But turn your eyes—behold the tyrant fall, And think[81]—Cornwallis has atchiev'd it all.— All mean revenge Americans disdain, Oft have they prov'd it, and now prove again; With nobler fires their generous bosoms glow; Still in the captive they forget the foe:— But when a nation takes a wrongful cause, And hostile turns to heaven's and nature's laws; When, sacrificing at ambition's shrine, Kings slight the mandates of the power divine, And devastation spread on every side, To gratify their malice or their pride, And send their slaves their projects to fulfil, To wrest our freedom, or our blood to spill:— Such to forgive, is virtue too sublime; For even compassion has been found a crime. A prophet once, for miracles renown'd, Bade Joash smite the arrows on the ground— Taking the mystic shafts, the prince obey'd, Thrice smote them on the earth—and then he stay'd— Griev'd when he saw full victory deny'd, "Six times you should have smote," the prophet cry'd, "Then had proud Syria sunk beneath thy power, "Now thrice you smite her—but shall smite no more." Cornwallis! thou art rank'd among the great; Such was the will of all-controuling fate. As mighty men, who liv'd in days of yore, Were figur'd out some centuries before; So you with them in equal honour join, Your great precursor's name was Jack Burgoyne! Like you was he, a man in arms renown'd, Who, hot for conquest, sail'd the ocean round; This, this was he, who scour'd the woods for praise, And burnt down cities[A] to describe the blaze! So, while on fire, his harp Rome's tyrant strung, And as the buildings flam'd, old Nero sung. Who would have guess'd the purpose of the fates, When that proud boaster bow'd to conquering Gates!— Then sung the sisters[B] as the wheel went round, (Could we have heard the invigorating sound) Thus surely did the fatal sisters sing— "When just four years do this same season bring, "And in his annual journey, when the sun "Four times completely shall his circuit run, "An angel then shall rid you of your fears, "By binding Satan for a thousand years, "Shall lash the serpent[82] to the infernal shore, "To waste the nations and deceive no more, "Make wars and blood, and tyranny to cease, "And hush the fiends of Britain[83] into peace." Joy to your lordship, and your high descent, You are the Satan that the sisters meant. Too soon you found your race of ruin run, Your conquests ended, and your battles done! But that to live is better than to die, And life you chose, though life with infamy, You should have climb'd your loftiest vessel's deck,[84] And hung a millstone round your halter'd neck—[85] Then plung'd forever to the wat'ry bed, Hell in your heart, and vengeance on your head.[86] All must confess, that in regard to you,[87] 'Twas wrong to rob the devil of his due— For Hayne, for Hayne![88] no death but thine atones; For thee, Cornwallis, how the gallows groans! That injur'd man's, and all the blood you've shed, That blood shall rest on your devoted head; Asham'd to live, and yet afraid to die, Your courage slacken'd as the foe drew nigh— Ungrateful wretch, to yield your favourite band To chains and prisons in a hostile land: To the wide world your Negro friends to cast, And leave your Tories to be hang'd at last!— You should have fought with horror and amaze, 'Till scorch'd to cinders in the cannon blaze, 'Till all your host of Beelzebubs[89] was slain, Doom'd to disgrace no human shape again— As if from hell this horned host he drew,[90] Swift from the South the embodied ruffians[91] flew; Destruction follow'd at their cloven feet, 'Till you, Fayette, constrain'd them to retreat, And held them close, 'till thy fam'd squadron came, De Grasse, completing their eternal shame. When the loud cannon's unremitting glare And red hot balls compell'd you to despair, How could you stand to meet your generous foe? Did not the sight confound your soul with woe?— In thy great soul what god-like virtues shine, What inborn greatness, Washington, is thine!— Else had no prisoner trod these lands to-day, All, with his lordship, had been swept away, All doom'd alike death's vermin to regale, Nor one been left to tell the dreadful tale! But his own terms the vanquish'd murderer[92] nam'd— He nobly gave the miscreant[93] all he claim'd, And bade Cornwallis, conquer'd and distress'd, Bear all his torments in his tortur'd breast. Now curs'd with life, a foe to man and God, Like Cain, I drive you to the land of Nod. He with a brother's blood his hands did stain, One brother he, you have a thousand slain. And, O! may heaven affix some public mark[94] To know Cornwallis—may he howl and bark!— On eagle's wings explore your downward flight[95] To the deep horrors of the darkest night,[96] Where, rapt in shade on ocean's utmost bound,[97] No longer sun, nor moon, nor stars are found; Where never light her kindling radiance shed, But the dark comets rove with all their dead,[C] Doom'd through the tracks of endless space to run No more revolving to confound the sun. Such horrid deeds your spotted soul[98] defame We grieve to think your shape and ours the same! Enjoy what comfort in this life you can,[99] The form you have, not feelings of a man; Haste to the rocks, thou curse to human kind, There thou may'st wolves and brother tygers find; Eternal exile be your righteous doom And gnash your dragon's teeth in some sequester'd gloom; Such be the end of each relentless foe Who feels no pity for another's woe; So may they fall[100]—even you, though much too late, Shall curse the day you languished to be great; Haste from the torments of the present life,[101] Quick, let the halter end thee or the knife; So may destruction rush with speedy wing, Low as yourself, to drag your cruel king;[102] His head torn off, his hands, his feet, and all,[103] Deep in the dust may Dagon's image fall; His stump alone escape the vengeful steel, Sav'd but to grace the gibbet or the wheel.

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died; Their limbs with dust are covered o'er— Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; How many heroes are no more![105] If in this wreck of ruin, they Can yet be thought to claim a tear, O smite your gentle breast, and say The friends of freedom slumber here! Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain, If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted rural reign; Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest! Stranger, their humble graves adorn; You too may fall, and ask a tear; 'Tis not the beauty of the morn That proves the evening shall be clear.— They saw their injured country's woe; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear—but left the shield.[106] Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, The Britons they compelled to fly; None distant viewed the fatal plain, None grieved, in such a cause to die— But, like the Parthian, famed of old. Who, flying, still their arrows threw, These routed Britons, full as bold, Retreated, and retreating slew.[107] Now rest in peace, our patriot band; Though far from nature's limits thrown, We trust they find a happier land, A brighter sunshine of their own.

"Mala soluta navis exit alite Ferens olentem Mævium," &c.

With evil omens from the harbour sails The ill-fated barque that worthless Arnold bears,— God of the southern winds, call up the gales, And whistle in rude fury round his ears. With horrid waves insult his vessel's sides, And may the east wind on a leeward shore Her cables part while she in tumult rides, And shatter into shivers every oar. And let the north wind to her ruin haste, With such a rage, as when from mountains high He rends the tall oak with his weighty blast, And ruin spreads where'er his forces fly. May not one friendly star that night be seen; No moon, attendant, dart one glimmering ray, Nor may she ride on oceans more serene Than Greece, triumphant, found that stormy day, When angry Pallas spent her rage no more On vanquished Ilium, then in ashes laid, But turned it on the barque that Ajax[A] bore, Avenging thus her temple and the maid. When tossed upon the vast Atlantic main Your groaning ship the southern gales shall tear, How will your sailors sweat, and you complain And meanly howl to Jove, that will not hear! But if, at last, upon some winding shore A prey to hungry cormorants you lie, A wanton goat to every stormy power,[B] And a fat lamb, in sacrifice, shall die.

Why, Theon, wouldst thou longer groan Beneath a weight of years and woe, Thy youth is lost, thy pleasures flown, And time proclaims, "'Tis time to go." To willows sad and weeping yews With me a while, dear friend, repair,[110] Nor to the vault thy steps refuse, Thy constant home shall soon be there. To summer suns and winter moons Prepare to bid a long adieu, Autumnal seasons shall return And spring shall bloom, but not for you. Why so perplext with cares and toil To rest upon this darksome road, 'Tis but a thin, a thirsty soil, A barren and a bleak abode. Constrain'd to dwell with pain and care, These dregs of life are bought too dear, 'Tis better far to die than bear The torments of another year.[111] Subjected to perpetual ills A thousand deaths around us grow, The frost the tender blossom kills, And roses wither as they blow. Cold nipping winds thy fruits assail, The infant[112] apple seeks the ground, The peaches fall, the cherries fail, The grape receives a fatal wound. The breeze that gently ought to blow Swells to a storm and rends the main, The sun that charm'd the grass to grow Turns hostile and consumes the plain; The mountains waste, the shores decay, Once purling streams are dead and dry— 'Twas nature's work—'tis nature's play, And nature says that all must die. Yon' flaming lamp, the source of light, In chaos dark shall shroud his beam And leave the world to mother night, A farce, a phantom, or a dream. What now is young must soon be old, Whate'er we love, we soon must leave, 'Tis now too hot, 'tis now too cold— To live is nothing but to grieve. How bright the morn her course begun, No mists bedimm'd the solar sphere— The clouds arise—they shade the sun, For nothing can be constant here. Now hope the longing soul employs, In expectation we are blest; But soon the airy phantom flies, For, lo! the treasure is possest. Those monarchs proud that havoc spread, (While pensive nature[113] dropt a tear) Those monarchs have to darkness fled And ruin bounds their mad career. The grandeur of this earthly round, Where Theon[114] would forever be, Is but a name, is but a sound— Mere emptiness and vanity. Give me the stars, give me the skies, Give me the heaven's remotest sphere, Above these gloomy scenes to rise Of desolation and despair. Those native fires that warmed the mind Now languid grown too dimly glow, Joy has to grief the heart resigned And love itself is changed to woe. The joys of wine are all you boast, These for a moment damp thy pain; The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost— And darkness clouds the soul again. Then seek no more for bliss below, Where real bliss can ne'er be found, Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow And fairer flowers bedeck the ground. Where plants of life the plains invest And green eternal crowns the year, The little god within thy breast[115] Is weary of his mansion here. Like Phosphor clad in bright array[116] His height meridian to regain, He can, nor will no longer stay[117] To shiver on a frozen plain. Life's journey past, for death[118] prepare, 'Tis but the freedom of the mind, Jove made us mortal—his we are, To Jove, dear Theon,[119] be resigned.

Wars, cruel wars, and hostile Britain's rage Have banished long the pleasures of the stage; From the gay painted scene compelled to part, (Forgot the melting language of the heart) Constrained to shun the bold theatric show, To act long tragedies of real woe, Heroes, once more attend the comic muse; Forget our failings, and our faults excuse. In that fine language is our fable drest Which still unrivalled, reigns o'er all the rest; Of foreign courts the study and the pride, Who to know this abandon all beside; Bold, though polite, and ever sure to please; Correct with grace, and elegant with ease; Soft from the lips its easy accents roll, Formed to delight and captivate the soul: In this Eugenia tells her easy lay, The brilliant work of courtly Beaumarchais: In this Racine, Voltaire, and Boileau sung, The noblest poets in the noblest tongue. If the soft story in our play expressed Can give a moment's pleasure to your breast, To you, Great Men,[121] we must be proud to say That moment's pleasure shall our pains repay: Returned from conquest and from glorious toils, From armies captured and unnumbered spoils; Ere yet again, with generous France allied, You rush to battle, humbling British pride; While arts of peace your kind protection share, O let the Muses claim an equal care. You bade us first our future greatness see, Inspired by you, we languished to be free; Even here where Freedom lately sat distrest, See, a new Athens rising in the west! Fair science blooms, where tyrants reigned before, Red war, reluctant, leaves our ravaged shore— Illustrious heroes, may you live to see These new Republics powerful, great, and free; Peace, heaven born peace, o'er spacious regions spread, While discord, sinking, veils her ghastly head.

Where now these mingled ruins lie A temple once to Bacchus rose, Beneath whose roof, aspiring high, Full many a guest forgot his woes: No more this dome, by tempests torn, Affords a social safe retreat; But ravens here, with eye forlorn, And clustering bats henceforth will meet. The Priestess of this ruined shrine, Unable to survive the stroke, Presents no more the ruddy wine, Her glasses gone, her china broke. The friendly Host, whose social hand Accosted strangers at the door, Has left at length his wonted stand, And greets the weary guest no more. Old creeping Time, that brings decay, Might yet have spared these mouldering walls, Alike beneath whose potent sway A temple or a tavern falls. Is this the place where mirth and joy, Coy nymphs and sprightly lads were found? Indeed! no more the nymphs are coy, No more the flowing bowls go round. Is this the place where festive song Deceived the wintry hours away? No more the swains the tune prolong, No more the maidens join the lay: Is this the place where Nancy slept In downy beds of blue and green?— Dame Nature here no vigils kept, No cold unfeeling guards were seen. 'Tis gone!—and Nancy tempts no more, Deep, unrelenting silence reigns; Of all that pleased, that charmed before, The tottering chimney scarce remains! Ye tyrant winds, whose ruffian blast Through doors and windows blew too strong, And all the roof to ruin cast, The roof that sheltered us so long. Your wrath appeased, I pray be kind If Mopsus should the dome renew; That we again may quaff his wine, Again collect our jovial crew.

Prince William of the Brunswick race, To witness George's sad disgrace The Royal Lad came over Rebels to kill by Right Divine— Deriv'd from that illustrious line The beggars of Hanover. So many chiefs got broken pates In vanquishing the rebel States, So many nobles fell, That George the Third in passion cry'd, "Our royal blood must now be try'd; "'Tis that must break the spell: "To you (the fat pot-valiant Swine To Digby said) dear friend of mine, "To you I trust my boy. "The rebel tribes shall quake with fears, "Rebellion die when he appears; "My Tories leap with joy." So said, so done—the boy was sent, But never reach'd the continent, An Island held him fast— Yet there his friends danc'd rigadoons, The Hessians sung in High Dutch tunes, "Prince William's come at last." "Prince William comes!"—the Briton cry'd— "The glory of our empire wide "Shall now be soon restor'd— "Our monarch is in William seen, "He is the image of our queen, "Let William be ador'd!" The Tories came with long address, With poems groan'd the Royal press, And all in William's praise— The boy astonish'd look'd about To find their vast dominions out, Then answer'd in amaze, "Where all your empire wide can be, "Friends, for my soul I cannot see: "'Tis but an empty name; "Three wasted islands and a town "In rubbish bury'd—half burnt down, "Is all that we can claim: "I am of royal birth, 'tis true, "But what, alas! can princes do, "No armies to command? "Cornwallis conquer'd and distrest, "Sir Henry Clinton grown a jest, "I curse and leave the land."

Humbly Sheweth— That a silly old fellow, much noted of yore, And known by the name of John, earl of Dunmore, Has again ventured over to visit your shore. The reason of this he begs leave to explain— In England they said you were conquered and slain, (But the devil take him who believes them again)— So, hearing that most of you rebels were dead, That some had submitted, and others had fled, I mustered my Tories, myself at their head, And over we scudded, our hearts full of glee, As merry as ever poor devils could be, Our ancient dominion, Virginia, to see; Our shoe-boys, and tars, and the very cook's mate Already conceived he possessed an estate, And the Tories no longer were cursing their fate. Myself, (the don Quixote) and each of the crew, Like Sancho, had islands and empires in view— They were captains, and kings, and the devil knows who: But now, to our sorrow, disgrace, and surprise, No longer deceived by the Father of Lies,[A] We hear with our ears, and we see with our eyes:—

I have therefore to make you a modest request, (And I'm sure, in my mind, it will be for the best) Admit me again to your mansions of rest. There are Eden, and Martin, and Franklin, and Tryon,[125] All waiting to see you submit to the Lion, And may wait till the devil is king of Mount Sion:— Though a brute and a dunce, like the rest of the clan, I can govern as well as most Englishmen can; And if I'm a drunkard, I still am a man: I missed it some how in comparing my notes, Or six years ago I had joined with your votes; Not aided the negroes in cutting your throats.[126] Although with so many hard names I was branded, I hope you'll believe, (as you will if you're candid) That I only performed what my master commanded. Give me lands, whores and dice, and you still may be free; Let who will be master, we sha'nt disagree; If king or if Congress—no matter to me;— I hope you will send me an answer straitway, For 'tis plain that at Charleston we cannot long stay— And your humble petitioner ever shall pray. Dunmore. Charleston, Jan. 6, 1782.

Says Satan to Jemmy, "I hold you a bet "That you mean to abandon our Royal Gazette, "Or, between you and me, you would manage things better "Than the Title to print on so sneaking a letter. "Now being connected so long in the art "It would not be prudent at present to part; "And people, perhaps, would be frightened, and fret "If the devil alone carried on the Gazette." Says Jemmy to Satan (by the way of a wipe), "Who gives me the matter should furnish the type; "And why you find fault, I can scarcely divine, "For the types, like the printer, are certainly thine. "'Tis yours to deceive with the semblance of truth, "Thou friend of my age, and thou guide of my youth! "But, to prosper, pray send me some further supplies, "A sett of new types, and a sett of new lies."

My lords, I can hardly from weeping refrain, When I think of this year and its cursed campaign;[129] But still it is folly to whine and to grieve, For things will yet alter, I hope and believe. Of the four southern States we again are bereav'd, They were just in our grasp (or I'm sadly deceiv'd): There are wizards and witches that dwell in those lands, For the moment we gain them, they slip from our hands. Our prospects at present most gloomy appear; Cornwallis returns with a flea in his ear, Sir Henry is sick of his station we know— And Amherst, though press'd, is unwilling to go. The Hero[130] that steer'd for the cape of Good Hope With Monsieur Suffrein was unable to cope— Many months are elaps'd, yet his task is to do— To conquer the cape, and to conquer Peru: When his squadron at Portsmouth he went to equip He promis'd great things from his fifty-gun ship; But let him alone—while he knows which is which, He'll not be so ready "to die in a ditch." This session, I thought to have told you thus much, "A treaty concluded, and peace with the Dutch"— But as stubborn as ever, they vapour and brag, And sail by my nose with the Prussian flag. The empress refuses to join on our side, As yet with the Indians we're only ally'd: (Though such an alliance is rather improper, For we English are white, but their colour is copper.) The Irish, I fear, have some mischief in view; They ever have been a most troublesome crew— If a truce or a treaty hereafter be made, They shall pay very dear for their present free trade. Dame Fortune, I think, has our standards forsaken, For Tobago, they say, by Frenchmen is taken; Minorca's besieg'd—and as for Gibraltar, By Jove, if it's taken I'll take to the halter. It makes me so wroth, I could scold like Xantippe When I think of our losses along Mississippi— And see in the Indies that horrible Hyder, His conquests extending still wider and wider. 'Twixt Washington, Hyder, Don Galvez, De Grasse, By my soul we are brought to a very fine pass— When we've reason to hope new battles are won, A packet arrives—and an army's undone!— In the midst of this scene of dismay and distress, What is best to be done, is not easy to guess, For things may go wrong though we plan them aright, And blows they must look for, whose trade is to fight. In regard to the rebels, it is my decree That dependent on Britain they ever shall be; Or I've captains and hosts that will fly at my nod And slaughter them all—by the blessing of God. But if they succeed, as they're likely to do, Our neighbours must part with their colonies too: Let them laugh and be merry, and make us their jest, When La Plata revolts, we shall laugh with the rest— 'Tis true that the journey to castle St. Juan Was a project that brought the projectors to ruin; But still, my dear lords, I would have you reflect, Who nothing do venture can nothing expect. If the Commons agree to afford me new treasures, My sentence once more is for vigorous measures: Accustom'd so long to head winds and bad weather, Let us conquer or go to the devil together.

Since life is uncertain, and no one can say, How soon we may go, or how long we shall stay, Methinks he is wisest who soonest prepares, And settles in season his worldly affairs: Some folks are so weak they can scarce avoid crying, And think when they're making their wills they are dying; 'Tis surely a serious employment—but still, Who e'er died the sooner for making his will? Let others be sad when their lives they review, But I know whom I've serv'd—and him faithfully too; And though it may seem a fanatical story, He often has show'd me a glimpse of his glory. Imprimis, my carcase I give and devise To be made into cakes of a moderate size, To nourish those tories whose spirits may droop, And serve the king's army with Portable Soup. Unless I mistake, in the scriptures we read That "worms on the dead shall deliciously feed," The scripture stands true—and that I am firm in, For what are our tories and soldiers but vermin?— This soup of soups can't be call'd that of beef, And this may to some be a matter of grief: But I'm certain the Bull would occasion a laugh, That beef Portable Soup should be made of a Calf. To the king, my dear master, I give a full sett (In volumes bound up) of the Royal Gazette, In which he will find the vast record contain'd Of provinces conquer'd and victories gain'd. As to Arnold the traitor and Satan his brother, I beg they will also accept of another; And this shall be bound in Morocco red leather, Provided they'll read it like brothers together. But if Arnold should die, 'tis another affair, Then Satan surviving shall be the sole heir; He often has told me he thought it quite clever, So to him and his heirs I bequeath it forever. I know there are some (that would fain be thought wise) Who say my Gazette is the record of lies; In answer to this, I shall only reply— All the choice that I had was to starve or to lie. My fiddles, my flutes, French horns and guittars[A] I leave to our heroes now weary of wars— To the wars of the stage they more boldly advance, The captains shall play and the soldiers shall dance.[B]

To Sir Henry Clinton, his use and behoof, I leave my French brandy of very high proof; It will give him fresh spirits for battle and slaughter And make him feel bolder by land and by water: Yet I caution the knight, for fear he do wrong, 'Tis avant la viande et apres le poisson[C] It will strengthen his stomach, prevent it from turning, And digest the affront of his effigy burning.

To Baron Knyphausen,[133] his heirs and assigns, I bequeath my old hock, and my Burgundy wines, To a true Hessian drunkard no liquors are sweeter, And I know the old man is no foe to the creature. To a general, my namesake,[D] I give and dispose Of a purse full of clipp'd, light, sweated half joes; I hereby desire him to take back his trash, And return me my Hannay's infallible Wash.[E]

My chessmen and tables, and other such chattels I give to Cornwallis renowned in battles: By moving of these (not tracing the map) He'll explain to the king how he got in the trap. To good David Mathews[135] (among other slops) I give my whole cargo of Maredant's drops, If they cannot do all, they may cure him in part, And scatter the poison that cankers his heart: Provided, however, and nevertheless, That what other estate I enjoy and possess At the time of my death (if it be not then sold) Shall remain to the Tories to have and to hold. As I thus have bequeath'd them both carcase and fleece, The least they can do is to wait my decease; But to give them what substance I have, ere I die, And be eat up with vermin, while living—not I— In Witness whereof (though no ailment I feel) Hereunto I set both my hand and my seal; (As the law says) in presence of witnesses twain, 'Squire John Coghill Knap,[F] and brother Hugh Gaine.

James Rivington, (L.S.) New-York, Feb. 20, 1782.

Well—now (said the devil) it looks something better! Your title is struck on a charming new Letter: Last night in the dark, as I gave it a squint, I saw my dear partner had taken the hint. I ever surmised (though 'twas doubted by some) That the old types were shadows of substance to come: But if the new Letter is pregnant with charms, It grieves me to think of those cursed King's Arms! The Dieu et mon droit (his God and his right) Is so dim, that I hardly know what is meant by't; The paws of the Lion can scarcely be seen, And the Unicorn's guts are most shamefully lean! The Crown is so worn of your master the Despot, That I hardly know whether 'tis a crown or a pisspot: When I rub up my day-lights, and look very sharp I just can distinguish the Irishman's Harp: Another device appears rather silly, Alas! it is only the shade of the Lilly! For the honour of George, and the fame of our nation, Pray give his escutcheons a rectification— Or I know what I know, (and I'm a queer shaver) Of Him and his Arms I'll be the In-grave-r.

From the regions of night, with his head in a sack, Ascended a person accoutred in black, And upward directing his circular eye whites; (Like the Jure-divino political Levites) And leaning his elbow on Rivington's shelf, While the printer was busy, thus mus'd with himself: "My mandates are fully complied with at last, "New arms are engrav'd, and new letters are cast: "I therefore determine and freely accord, "This servant of mine shall receive his reward." Then turning about, to the printer he said, "Who late was my servant shall now be my Aid; "Since under my banners so bravely you fight, "Kneel down!—for your merits I dubb you a knight, "From a passive subaltern I bid you to rise "The Inventor as well as the Printer of lies."

When a certain great king, whose initial is G, Shall force stamps upon paper, and folks to drink tea; When these folks burn his tea, and stampt paper, like stubble, You may guess that this king is then coming to trouble. But when a petition he treads under his feet, And sends over the ocean an army and fleet; When that army, half-starved, and frantic with rage, Shall be coop'd up with a leader whose name rhymes to cage, When that leader goes home, dejected and sad, You may then be assur'd the king's prospects are bad: But when B and C with their armies are taken, This king will do well if he saves his own bacon. In the year seventeen hundred and eighty and two, A stroke he shall get that will make him look blue; In the years eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, You hardly shall know that the king is alive;[139] In the year eighty-six[140] the affair will be over, And he shall eat turnips that grow in Hanover. The face of the lion then shall become pale, He shall yield fifteen teeth, and be sheer'd of his tail. O king, my dear king, you shall be very sore, The Stars and the Lilly shall run you on shore, And your lion shall growl, but never bite more.

True to his trade—the slave of fortune still— In a sweet isle, where never winter reigns, I found him at the foot of a tall hill, Mending old sails, and chewing sugar canes: Pale ivy round him grew, and mingled vines, Plaintains, bananas ripe, and yellow pines. And flowering night-shade, with its dismal green, Ash-coloured iris, painted by the sun, And fair-haired hyacinth was near him seen, And China pinks by marygolds o'er-run:— "But what (said he) have men that sail the seas, "Ah, what have they to do with things like these! "I did not wish to leave those shades, not I, "Where Amoranda turns her spinning-wheel; "Charmed with the shallow stream, that murmured by, "I felt as blest as any swain could feel, "Who, seeking nothing that the world admires, "On one poor valley fixed his whole desires. "With masts so trim, and sails as white as snow, "The painted barque deceived me from the land, "Pleased, on her sea-beat decks I wished to go, "Mingling my labours with her hardy band; "To reef the sail, to guide the foaming prow "As far as winds can waft, or oceans flow. "To combat with the waves who first essayed, "Had these gay groves his lightsome heart beguiled, "His heart, attracted by the charming shade, "Had changed the deep sea for the woody wild; "And slighted all the gain that Neptune yields "For Damon's cottage, or Palemon's fields. "His barque, the bearer of a feeble crew, "How could he trust when none had been to prove her; "Courage might sink when lands and shores withdrew, "And feeble hearts a thousand deaths discover: "But Fortitude, tho' woes and death await, "Still views bright skies, and leaves the dark to fate. "From monkey climes where limes and lemons grow, "And the sweet orange swells her fruit so fair, "To wintry worlds, with heavy heart, I go "To face the cold glance of the northern bear, "Where lonely waves, far distant from the sun, "And gulphs, of mighty strength, their circuits run. "But how disheartening is the wanderer's fate! "When conquered by the loud tempestuous main, "On him, no mourners in procession wait, "Nor do the sisters of the harp complain.— "On coral beds and deluged sands they sleep, "Who sink in storms, and mingle with the deep. "'Tis folly all—and who can truly tell "What storms disturb the bosom of that main, "What ravenous fish in those dark climates dwell "That feast on men—then stay, my gentle swain! "Bred in yon' happy shades, be happy there, "And let these quiet groves claim all your care." So spoke poor Ralph, and with a smooth sea gale Fled from the magic of the enchanting shore, But whether winds or waters did prevail, I saw the black ship ne'er returning more, Though long I walked the margin of the main, And long have looked—and still must look in vain!

Deciding Fates, in Homer's stile, we shew, And bring contending gods once more to view.

As Jove the Olympian (who both I and you know, Was brother to Neptune, and husband to Juno) Was lately reviewing his papers of state, He happened to light on the records of Fate: In Alphabet order this volume was written— So he opened at B, for the article Britain— She struggles so well, said the god, I will see What the sisters in Pluto's dominions decree. And first, on the top of a column he read "Of a king with a mighty soft place in his head, "Who should join in his temper the ass and the mule, "The third of his name, and by far the worst fool: "His reign shall be famous for multiplication, "The sire and the king of a whelp generation: "But such is the will and the purpose of fate, "For each child he begets he shall forfeit a State: "In the course of events, he shall find to his cost "That he cannot regain what he foolishly lost; "Of the nations around he shall be the derision, "And know by experience the rule of Division." So Jupiter read—a god of first rank— And still had read on—but he came to a blank: For the Fates had neglected the rest to reveal— They either forgot it, or chose to conceal: When a leaf is torn out, or a blot on a page That pleases our fancy, we fly in a rage— So, curious to know what the Fates would say next, No wonder if Jove, disappointed, was vext. But still as true genius not frequently fails, He glanced at the Virgin, and thought of the Scales; And said, "To determine the will of the Fates, "One scale shall weigh Britain, the other the States." Then turning to Vulcan, his maker of thunder, Said he, "My dear Vulcan, I pray you look yonder, "Those creatures are tearing each other to pieces, "And, instead of abating, the carnage increases. "Now, as you are a blacksmith, and lusty stout ham-eater, "You must make me a globe of a shorter diameter; "The world in abridgment, and just as it stands "With all its proportions of waters and lands; "But its various divisions must so be designed, "That I can unhinge it whene'er I've a mind— "How else should I know what the portions will weigh, "Or which of the combatants carry the day?" Old Vulcan complied, (we've no reason to doubt it) So he put on his apron and strait went about it— Made center, and circles as round as a pancake, And here the Pacific, and there the Atlantic. An axis he hammered, whose ends were the poles, (On which the whole body perpetually rolls) A brazen meridian he added to these, Where four times repeated were[143] ninety degrees. I am sure you had laughed to have seen his droll attitude, When he bent round the surface the circles of latitude, The zones and the tropics, meridians, equator, And other fine things that are drawn on salt water. Away to the southward (instructed by Pallas) He placed in the ocean the Terra Australis, New Holland, New Guinea, and so of the rest— America lay by herself in the west: From the regions where winter eternally reigns, To the climes of Peru he extended her plains; Dark groves, and the zones did her bosom adorn, And the Crosiers,[A] new burnished, he hung at Cape Horn.

The weight of two oceans she bore on her sides, With all their convulsions of tempests and tides; Vast lakes on her surface did fearfully roll, And the ice from her rivers surrounded the pole. Then Europe and Asia he northward extended, Where under the Arctic with Zembla they ended; (The length of these regions he took with his garters, Including Siberia, the land of the Tartars.) In the African clime (where the cocoa-nut tree grows) He laid down the desarts, and even the negroes, The shores by the waves of four oceans embraced, And elephants strolling about in the waste. In forming East India, he had a wide scope, Beginning his work at the cape of Good Hope; Then eastward of that he continued his plan, 'Till he came to the empire and isles of Japan. Adjacent to Europe he struck up an island, (One part of it low, but the other was high land) With many a comical creature upon it, And one wore a hat, and another a bonnet. Like emmits or ants in a fine summer's day, They ever were marching in battle array, Or skipping about on the face of the brine, Like witches in egg-shells (their ships of the line). These poor little creatures were all in a flame, To the lands of America urging their claim, Still biting, or stinging, or spreading their sails; (For Vulcan had formed them with stings in their tails).

So poor and so lean, you might count all their ribs,[B] Yet were so enraptured with crackers and squibs, That Vulcan with laughter almost split asunder, "Because they imagined their crackers were thunder." Due westward from these, with a channel between, A servant to slaves, Hibernia was seen, Once crowded with monarchs, and high in renown, But all she retained was the Harp and the Crown! Insulted forever by nobles and priests,[144] And managed by bullies, and governed by beasts, She looked!—to describe her I hardly know how— Such an image of death in the scowl on her brow. For scaffolds and halters were full in her view, And the fiends of perdition their cutlasses drew: And axes and gibbets around her were placed, And the demons of murder her honours defaced. With the blood of the worthy her mantle was stained, And hardly a trace of her beauty remained. Her genius, a female, reclined in the shade, And, sick of oppression,[145] so mournfully played, That Jove was uneasy to hear her complain, And ordered his blacksmith to loosen her chain: Then tipt her a wink, saying, "Now is your time, "(To rebel is the sin, to revolt is no crime) "When your fetters are off, if you dare not be free "Be a slave and be damned,[146] but complain not to me." But finding her timid, he cried in a rage— "Though the doors are flung open, she stays in the cage! "Subservient to Britain then let her remain, "And her freedom shall be, but the choice[147] of her chain," At length, to discourage all stupid pretensions, Jove looked at the globe, and approved its dimensions, And cried in a transport—"Why what have we here! "Friend Vulcan, it is a most beautiful sphere! "Now while I am busy in taking apart "This globe that is formed with such exquisite art, "Go, Hermes, to Libra, (you're one of her gallants) "And ask, in my name, for the loan of her balance." Away posted Hermes, as swift as the gales, And as swiftly returned with the ponderous scales, And hung them aloft to a beam in the air, So equally poised, they had turned with a hair. Now Jove to Columbia his shoulders applied, But aiming to lift her, his strength she defied— Then, turning about to their godships, he says— "A body so vast is not easy to raise; "But if you assist me, I still have a notion "Our forces, united, can put her in motion, "And swing her aloft, (though alone I might fail) "And place her, in spite of her bulk, in our scale; "If six years together the Congress have strove, "And more than divided the empire with Jove; "With a Jove like myself, who am nine times as great, "You can join, like their soldiers, to heave up this weight." So to it they went, with handspikes and levers, And upward she sprung, with her mountains and rivers! Rocks, cities, and islands, deep waters and shallows, Ships, armies, and forests, high heads and fine fellows: "Stick to it!" cries Jove, "now heave one and all! "At least we are lifting 'one-eighth of the ball!' "If backward she tumbles—then trouble begins, "And then have a care, my dear boys, of your shins!" When gods are determined what project can fail? So they gave a hard shove, and she mounted the scale; Suspended aloft, Jove viewed her with awe— And the gods,[C] for their pay, had a hearty—huzza!

But Neptune bawled out—"Why Jove you're a noddy, "Is Britain sufficient to poise that vast body? "'Tis nonsense such castles to build in the air— "As well might an oyster with Britain compare." "Away to your waters, you blustering bully," Said Jove, "or I'll make you repent of your folly, "Is Jupiter, Sir, to be tutored by you?— "Get out of my sight, for I know what to do!" Then searching about with his fingers for Britain, Thought he, "this same island I cannot well hit on; "The devil take him who first called her the Great: "If she was—she is vastly diminished of late!" Like a man that is searching his thigh for a flea. He peeped and he fumbled, but nothing could see; At last he exclaimed—"I am surely upon it— "I think I have hold of a Highlander's bonnet." But finding his error, he said with a sigh, "This bonnet is only the island of Skie!"[D] So away to his namesake the planet he goes, And borrowed two moons to hang on his nose.

Through these, as through glasses, he saw her quite clear, And in raptures cried out—"I have found her—she's here! "If this be not Britain, then call me an ass— "She looks like a gem in an ocean of glass. "But, faith, she's so small I must mind how I shake her; "In a box I'll inclose her, for fear I should break her: "Though a god, I might suffer for being aggressor, "Since scorpions, and vipers, and hornets possess her; "The white cliffs of Albion I think I descry— "And the hills of Plinlimmon appear rather nigh— "But, Vulcan, inform me what creatures are these, "That smell so of onions, and garlick, and cheese?" Old Vulcan replied—"Odds splutter a nails! "Why, these are the Welch, and the country is Wales! "When Taffy is vext, no devil is ruder— "Take care how you trouble the offspring of Tudor! "On the crags of the mountains hur living hur seeks, "Hur country is planted with garlick and leeks; "So great is hur choler, beware how you teaze hur, "For these are the Britons—unconquered by Cæsar."[148] "But now, my dear Juno, pray give me my mittens, "(These insects I am going to handle are Britons) "I'll draw up their isle with a finger and thumb, "As the doctor extracts an old tooth from the gum." Then he raised her aloft—but to shorten our tale, She looked like a clod in the opposite scale— Britannia so small, and Columbia so large— A ship of first rate, and a ferryman's barge! Cried Pallas to Vulcan, "Why, Jove's in a dream— "Observe how he watches the turn of the beam! "Was ever a mountain outweighed by a grain? "Or what is a drop when compared to the main?" But Momus alledged—"In my humble opinion, "You should add to Great-Britain her foreign dominion, "When this is appended, perhaps she will rise, "And equal her rival in weight and in size." "Alas! (said the monarch), your project is vain, "But little is left of her foreign domain; "And, scattered about in the liquid expanse, "That little is left to the mercy of France; "However, we'll lift them, and give her fair play"— And soon in the scale with their mistress they lay; But the gods were confounded and struck with surprise, And Vulcan could hardly believe his own eyes! For (such was the purpose and guidance of fate) Her foreign dominions diminished her weight— By which it appeared, to Britain's disaster, Her foreign possessions were changing their master. Then, as he replaced them, said Jove with a smile— "Columbia shall never be ruled by an isle— "But vapours and darkness around her may rise, "And tempests conceal her awhile from our eyes; "So locusts in Egypt their squadrons display, "And rising, disfigure the face of the day; "So the moon, at her full, has a frequent eclipse, "And the sun in the ocean diurnally dips. "Then cease your endeavours, ye vermin of Britain— (And here, in derision, their island he spit on) "'Tis madness to seek what you never can find, "Or to think of uniting what nature disjoined; "But still you may flutter awhile with your wings, "And spit out your venom and brandish your stings: "Your hearts are as black, and as bitter as gall, "A curse to mankind—and a blot on the Ball."[E]

Burgoyne Let those who will, be proud and sneer And call you an unwelcome peer, But I am glad to see you here: The prince that fills the British throne, Unless successful, honours none; Poor Jack Burgoyne!—you're not alone. Cornwallis Thy ships, De Grasse, have caused my grief— To rebel shores and their relief There never came a luckier chief: In fame's black page it shall be read, By Gallic arms my soldiers bled— The rebels thine in triumph led. Burgoyne Our fortunes different forms assume, I called and called for elbow-room,[150] Till Gates discharged me to my doom;[151] But you, that conquered far and wide, In little York thought fit to hide, The subject ocean at your side. Cornwallis And yet no force had gained that post— Not Washington, his country's boast, Nor Rochambeau, with all his host, Nor all the Gallic fleet's parade— Had Clinton hurried to my aid, And Sammy Graves been not afraid. Burgoyne For head knocked off, or broken bones, Or mangled corpse, no price atones; Nor all that prattling rumour says, Nor all the piles that art can raise, The poet's or the parson's praise. Cornwallis Though I am brave, as well as you, Yet still I think your notion true; Dear brother Jack, our toils are o'er— With foreign conquests plagued no more, We'll stay and guard our native shore.

When the Washington ship by the English was beat, They sent her to England to shew their great feat, And Sandwich straitway, as a proof of his spunk, Dashed out her old name, and called her the Monk. "This Monk hated Rebels (said Sandy)—'od rot 'em— "So heave her down quickly, and copper her bottom; "With the sloops of our navy we'll have her enrolled, "And manned with picked sailors to make her feel bold; "To shew that our king is both valiant and good, "Some guns shall be iron, and others be wood, "And, in truth, (though I wish not the secret to spread) "All her guns should be wooden—to suit with his head."

What brilliant events have of late come to pass, No less than the capture of Monsieur de Grasse! His majesty's printer has told it for true, As we had it from him, so we give it to you. Many folks of discernment the story believed, And the devil himself it at first had deceived, Had it not been that Satan imported the stuff, And signed it George Rodney, by way of high proof.[154] Said Satan to Jemmy, "Let's give them the whappers— "Some news I have got that will bring in the coppers, "And truth it shall be, though I pass it for lies, "And making a page of your newspaper size. "A wide field is open to favour my plan, "And the rebels may prove that I lie—if they can; "Since they jested and laughed at our lying before, "Let it pass for a lie, to torment them the more. "My wings are yet wet with the West-India dew, "And Rodney I left, to come hither to you, "I left him bedeviled with brimstone and smoke, "The French in distress, and their armament broke. "For news so delightful, with heart and with voice "The Tories of every degree may rejoice; "With charcoal and sulphur shall utter their joy "'Till they all get as black as they paint the old Boy." Thus, pleased with the motion, each cutting a caper, Down they sat at the table, with pen, ink, and paper; In less than five minutes the matter was stated, And Jemmy turned scribe, while Satan dictated. "Begin (said the devil) in the form of a Letter, "(If you call it true copy, 'tis so much the better) "Make Rodney assert he met the French fleet, "Engaged it, and gave 'em a total defeat. "But the better to vamp up a show of reality, "The tale must be told with circumstantiality, "What vessels were conquered by Britain's bold sons, "Their quotas of men, and their number of guns. "There's the Villa de Paris—one hundred and ten— "Write down that George Rodney has killed half her men— "That her hull and her rigging are shattered and shaken, "Her flag humbled down, and her admiral taken. "Le Cesar, 'tis true, is a seventy-four, "But the Villa de Paris was thirty-six more; "With a grey goose's quill if that ship we did seize on, "Le Cesar must fall, or I'll know what's the reason. "The next that I fix on to take is the Hector, "(Her name may be Trojan, but shall not protect her) "Don't faulter, dear comrade, and look like a goose, "If we've taken these three, we can take Glorieuse. "The last mentioned ship runs their loss up to four, "Le Diadem sunk, shall make it one more; "And now, for the sake of round numbers, dear cousin, "Write Ardent, and then we have just half-a-dozen!" Jemmy smiled at the notion, and whispered "O fy! "Indeed 'tis a shame to persuade one to lie"— But Satan replied—"Consider, my son, "I am a prince of the winds, and have seen what is done: "With a conquest like this, how bright we shall shine! "That Rodney has taken six ships of the line, "Will be in your paper a brilliant affair; "How the Tories will laugh, and the rebels will swear. "But farther, dear Jemmy, make Rodney to say, "If the sun two hours longer had held out the day, "The rest were so beaten, so baisted, so tore, "He had taken them all, and he knew not but more." So the partners broke up, as good friends as they met, And soon it was all in the Royal Gazette; The Tories rejoiced at the very good news, And said, There's no fear we shall die in our shoes. Now let us give credit to Jemmy, forsooth, Since once in a way he has hit on the truth: If again he returns to his practice of lies, He hardly reflects where he'll go when he dies. But still, when he dies, let it never be said That he rests in his grave with no verse at his head; But furnish, ye poets, some short epitaph, And something like this, that readers may laugh: Here lies a King's Printer, we needn't say who: There is reason to think that he tells what is true: But if he lies here, 'tis not over-strange, His present position is but a small change, So, reader, pass on—'tis a folly to sigh, For all his life long he did little but lie.

Come all ye lads who know no fear, To wealth and honor with me steer In the Hyder Ali privateer, Commanded by brave Barney. She's new and true, and tight and sound, Well rigged aloft, and all well found— Come away and be with laurel crowned, Away—and leave your lasses. Accept our terms without delay, And make your fortunes while you may, Such offers are not every day In the power of the jolly sailor. Success and fame attend the brave, But death the coward and the slave, Who fears to plow the Atlantic wave, To seek the bold invaders. Come, then, and take a cruising bout, Our ship sails well, there is no doubt, She has been tried both in and out, And answers expectation. Let no proud foes whom Europe bore, Distress our trade, insult our shore— Teach them to know their reign is o'er, Bold Philadelphia sailors! We'll teach them how to sail so near, Or to venture on the Delaware, When we in warlike trim appear And cruise without Henlopen. Who cannot wounds and battle dare Shall never clasp the blooming fair; The brave alone their charms should share, The brave are their protectors. With hand and heart united all, Prepared to conquer or to fall, Attend, my lads, to honour's call, Embark in our Hyder Ali. From an Eastern prince[156] she takes her name, Who, smit with Freedom's sacred flame, Usurping Britons brought to shame, His country's wrongs avenging; See, on her stern the waving stars— Inured to blood, inured to wars, Come, enter quick, my jolly tars, To scourge these warlike Britons. Here's grog enough—then drink a bout, I know your hearts are firm and stout; American blood will never give out, And often we have proved it. Though stormy oceans round us roll, We'll keep a firm undaunted soul, Befriended by the cheering bowl, Sworn foes to melancholy: While timorous landsmen lurk on shore, 'Tis ours to go where cannons roar— On a coasting cruise we'll go once more, Despisers of all danger; And Fortune still, who crowns the brave, Shall guard us over the gloomy wave A fearful heart betrays a knave— Success to the Hyder Ali.

O'er the waste of waters cruising, Long the General Monk had reigned; All subduing, all reducing, None her lawless rage restrained: Many a brave and hearty fellow Yielding to this warlike foe, When her guns began to bellow Struck his humbled colours low. But grown bold with long successes, Leaving the wide watery way, She, a stranger to distresses, Came to cruise within Cape May: "Now we soon (said captain Rogers) "Shall their men of commerce meet; "In our hold we'll have them lodgers, "We shall capture half their fleet. "Lo! I see their van appearing— "Back our topsails to the mast— "They toward us full are steering "With a gentle western blast: "I've a list of all their cargoes, "All their guns, and all their men: "I am sure these modern Argos "Cant escape us one in ten: "Yonder comes the Charming Sally "Sailing with the General Greene— "First we'll fight the Hyder Ali, "Taking her is taking them: "She intends to give us battle, "Bearing down with all her sail— "Now, boys, let our cannon rattle! "To take her we cannot fail. "Our eighteen guns, each a nine pounder, "Soon shall terrify this foe; "We shall maul her, we shall wound her, "Bringing rebel colours low."— While he thus anticipated Conquests that he could not gain, He in the Cape May channel waited For the ship that caused his pain. Captain Barney then preparing, Thus addressed his gallant crew— "Now, brave lads, be bold and daring, "Let your hearts be firm and true; "This is a proud English cruiser, "Roving up and down the main, "We must fight her—must reduce her, "Though our decks be strewed with slain. "Let who will be the survivor, "We must conquer or must die, "We must take her up the river, "Whate'er comes of you or I: "Though she shews most formidable "With her eighteen pointed nines, "And her quarters clad in sable, "Let us baulk her proud designs. "With four nine pounders, and twelve sixes "We will face that daring band; "Let no dangers damp your courage, "Nothing can the brave withstand. "Fighting for your country's honour, "Now to gallant deeds aspire; "Helmsman, bear us down upon her, "Gunner, give the word to fire!" Then yard arm and yard arm meeting, Strait began the dismal fray, Cannon mouths, each other greeting, Belched their smoky flames away: Soon the langrage, grape and chain shot, That from Barney's cannons flew, Swept the Monk, and cleared each round top, Killed and wounded half her crew. Captain Rogers strove to rally But they from their quarters fled, While the roaring Hyder Ali Covered o'er his decks with dead. When from their tops their dead men tumbled, And the streams of blood did flow, Then their proudest hopes were humbled By their brave inferior foe. All aghast, and all confounded, They beheld their champions fall, And their captain, sorely wounded, Bade them quick for quarters call. Then the Monk's proud flag descended, And her cannon ceased to roar; By her crew no more defended, She confessed the contest o'er. Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses, You have humbled one proud foe, No brave action this surpasses, Fame shall tell the nations so— Thus be Britain's woes completed, Thus abridged her cruel reign, 'Till she ever, thus defeated, Yields the sceptre of the main.

The dog that is beat has a right to complain— Sir Harry returns a disconsolate man, To the face of his master, the Lord's[159] oil-anointed, To the country provided for thieves disappointed. Our freedom, he thought, to a tyrant must fall, He concluded the weakest must go to the wall; The more he was flattered, the bolder he grew— He quitted the old world to conquer the new. But in spite of the deeds he has done in his garrison, (And they have been curious beyond all comparison) He now must go home, at the call of his king, To answer the charges that Arnold may bring. But what are the acts that this chief has atchieved?— If good, it is hard he should now be aggrieved, And the more, as he fought for his national glory, Nor valued, a farthing, the right of the story. This famous great man, and two birds[A] of his feather, In the Cerberus frigate came over together; But of all the bold chiefs that re-measure the trip, Not two have been known to return in one ship.[160]

Like children that wrestle and scuffle in sport, They are very well pleased as long as unhurt, But a thump on the nose, or a blow in the eye, Ends the fray—and they go to their daddy and cry. Sir Clinton, thy deeds have been mighty and many, You said all our paper was not worth a penny, ('Tis nothing but rags,[B] quoth honest Will Tryon, Are rags to discourage the Sons of the Lion?)

But Clinton thought thus—"It is folly to fight, "When things may by easier methods come right, "There is such an art as counterfeit-ation— "And I'll do my utmost to honour our nation; "I'll shew this damned country that I can enslave her, "And that by the help of a skilful engraver, "And then let the rebels take care of their bacon, "We'll play them a trick, or I'm vastly mistaken." But the project succeeded not quite to your liking, So you paid off your artist and gave up bill striking; But 'tis an affair I am glad you are quit on, You had surely been hanged had you tried it in Britain. At the taking of Charleston you cut a great figure, The terms you propounded were terms full of rigour, Yet could not foresee poor Charley's[C] disgrace, Nor how soon your own colours would go to the case.

When the town had surrendered, the more to disgrace ye, (Like another true Briton that did it at 'Statia) You broke all the terms yourself had extended, Because you supposed the rebellion was ended; Whoever the Tories marked out as a Whig, If gentle, or simple, or little, or big, No matter to you—to kill 'em and spite 'em, You soon had 'em up where the dogs couldn't bite 'em. Then thinking these rebels were snug and secure, You left them to Rawdon and Nesbit Balfour: (The face of the latter a mask should be drawed on, And to fish for the devil my bait should be Rawdon.) Returning to York with your ships and your plunder, And boasting that rebels must shortly knock under, The first thing that struck you, as soon as you landed, Was the fortress at West-Point, where Arnold commanded. Thought you, "If friend Arnold this fort will deliver, "We then shall be masters of all Hudson's river, "The east and the south losing communication, "The Yankies will die by the act of starvation." So off you sent André (not guided by Pallas) Who soon purchased Arnold, and with him the gallows; Your loss I conceive than your gain was far greater, You lost a good fellow, and got a vile[161] traitor. Now Carleton comes over to give you relief, A knight like yourself, and commander in chief, But the chief he will get, you may tell the dear honey, Will be a black eye, hard knocks, and no money. Now with—"Britons, strike home!" your sorrows dispel, Away to your master, and honestly tell, That his arms and his artists can nothing avail, His men are too few, and his tricks are too stale. Advise him at length to be just and sincere; Of which not a sympton as yet doth appear, As we plainly perceive from his sending Sir Guy The Treaty to break with our Gallic Ally.[162]

From Britain's famed island once more I come over, (No island on earth is in prowess above her) With powers and commissions your hearts to recover! Our king, I must tell you, is plagued with a phantom (Independence they call it) that hourly doth haunt him, And relief, my dear rebels, you only can grant him. Tom Gage and Sir Harry, Sir William, (our boast) Lord Howe, and the rest that have travelled the coast, All failed in their projects of laying this ghost: So unless the damned spectre myself can expel It will yet kill our monarch, I know very well, And gallop him off on his lion to hell. But I heartily wish, that, instead of Sir Guy, They had sent out a seer from the island of Skie, Who rebels, and devils, and ghosts could defy: So great is our prospect of failing at last, When I look at the present, and think of the past, I wish with our heroes I had not been classed; For though, to a man, we are bullies and bruisers, And covered with laurels, we still are the losers, 'Till each is recalled with his Tory accusers: But the war now is altered, and on a new plan; By negociation we'll do what we can— And I am an honest, well-meaning old man; Too proud to retreat, and too weak to advance, We must stay where we are, at the mercy of chance, 'Till Fortune shall help us to lead you a dance. Then lay down your arms, dear rebels—O hone! Our king is the best man that ever was known, And the greatest that ever was stuck on a throne: His love and affection by all ranks are sought; Here take him, my honies, and each pay a groat— Was ever a monarch more easily bought? In pretty good case and very well found, By night and by day we carry him round: He must go for a groat, if we can't get a pound. Break the treaties you made with Louis Bourbon; Abandon the Congress, no matter how soon, And then, all together, we'll play a new tune. 'Tis strange that they always would manage the roast, And force you their healths and the Dauphin's to toast; Repent, my dear fellows, and each get a post: Or, if you object that one post is too few, We generous Britons will help you to two, With a beam laid across—that will certainly do. The folks that rebelled in the year forty-five, We used them so well that we left few alive, But sent them to heaven in swarms from their hive. Your noble resistance we cannot forget, 'Tis nothing but right we should honour you yet; If you are not rewarded, we die in your debt. So, quickly submit and our mercy implore, Be as loyal to George as you once were before, Or I'll slaughter you all—and probably more. What puzzled Sir Harry, Sir Will, and his brother, Perhaps may be done by the son of my mother, With the Sword in one hand and a Branch in the other. My bold predecessors (as fitting their station) At their first coming out, all spoke Proclamation; 'Tis the custom with us, and the way of our nation. Then Kil-al-la-loo!—Shelaly, I say;— If we cannot all fight, we can all run away— And further at present I choose not to say.

Balderi patris scamna Parata scio in aula: Bibemus Cerevisiam Ex concavis crateribus craniorum. Non gemit vir fortis contra mortem Magnifici in Odini domibus, &c.

Brave deeds atchieved, at death's approach I smile, In Balder's hall I see the table spread, The enlivening ale shall now reward my toil, Quaffed from their sculls, that by my faulchion bled. Heroes no more at death's approach shall groan: In lofty Odin's dome all sighs forbear— Conscious of bloody deeds, my fearless soul Mounts to great Odin's hall, and revels there.

Before the brazen age began, And things were yet on Saturn's plan, None knew what sovereign bliss there lay In ruling, were it but a day. Each with spontaneous food content, His life in Nature's affluence spent; The sun was mild, serene and clear, And walked in Libra all the year; No tempests did the heaven deform, 'Twas not too cold nor yet too warm; People were then at small expence, They dug no ditch, and made no fence, No patentees by sleight or chance For Indian lands got double grants, Not for their wants, but just to say, "If you come here, expect to pay." Base grasping souls, your pride repress; Beyond your wants must you possess? If ten poor acres will supply A rustic and his family, Why, Jobbers, would you have ten score, Ten thousand and ten thousand more? It is a truth well understood, "All would be tyrants if they could." The love of sway has been confessed The ruling passion of the breast: Those who aspire to govern states, If baulked by disapproving fates, Resolve their purpose to fulfil, And scheme for tenants at their will. Ten thousand acres, fit for toil, In Indiana's fertile soil— Ten thousand acres! come, agree— Timon is named[166] the patentee, And, as the longing stomach craves, He'll honour fools and flatter knaves. If Rome, of old, to greatness rose Triumphant over all her foes, None need believe that people then Were more in strength than modern men; If o'er the world their eagles waved, 'Twas property their freedom saved;[167] From lands, not shared amongst the few, An independent spirit grew: Each on a small and scanty spot, With much ado his living got, Inured to labour from his birth,[168] Each Roman soldier tilled the earth, Great as a monarch on the throne By having something of his own.

Old Judas the traitor (nor need we much wonder) Falling down from the gallows, his paunch split asunder, Affording, 'tis likely, a horrible scent Rather worse than the sulphur of hell, where he went. So now this bra' chieftain, who long has suspended And kept out of view what his master intended, Bursts out all at once, and an inside discloses, Disgusting the Tories, who stop up their noses. The short of the matter is this, as I take it— New-York of true Britons is plainly left naked, And their conduct amounts to an honest confession, That they cannot depend on the run-a-way Hessian. In such a dilemma pray what should they do? Hearts loyal, to whom should they look but to You?— You know pretty well how to handle the spade, To dig their canals and to make a parade; The city is left to your valiant defence, And of course it will be but of little expence, Since there is an old fellow that looks somewhat sooty Who, gratis, will help you in doing your duty— "In doing our duty!—'tis duty indeed "(Says a Tory) if this be the way that we speed; "We never loved fighting, the matter is clear— "If we had, I am sure we had never come here. "George we owned for our king, as his true loyal sons, "But why will he force us to manage his guns?— "Who 'list in the army or cruise on the wave, "Let them do as they will—'tis their trade to be brave. "Guns, mortars and bullets,[170] we easily face, "But when they're in motion—it alters the case; "To skirmish with Huddies[A] is all our desire "For though we can murder, we cannot stand fire.