Volume 3 / Part 4 — POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU (continued 2)

Nor He,[D] that once, with fire and sword, This western world alarm'd: Throughout our clime whose thunders roar'd, Whose legions round us swarm'd— Once more his tyrant arm invades A race[E] that dare be free: His Myrmidons, with murdering blades, In one base cause agree!— Ill fate attend on every scheme That tends to darken Reason's beam: And, rising with gigantic might In Virtue's cause, I see unite Worlds, under Freedom's Tree!

Valour, at length, by Fortune led, The Rights of Man restores; And Gallia, now from bondage freed, Her rising sun adores: On Equal Rights, her fabric plann'd, Storms idly round it rave, No longer breathes in Gallic land A monarch, or a slave! At distance far, and self-remov'd From all he own'd and all he lov'd, See!—turn'd his back on Freedom's blaze, In foreign lands the Emigrant strays, Or finds an early grave!

Enroll'd with these—and close immur'd, The gallant chief[F] is found, That, once, admiring crowds ador'd, Through either world renown'd, Here, bold in arms, and firm in heart, He help'd to gain our cause, Yet could not from a tyrant part, But, turn'd to embrace his laws!— Ah! hadst thou stay'd in fair Auvergne,[G] And Truth from Paine vouchsaf'd to learn; There, happy, honour'd, and retir'd, Both hemispheres had still admir'd, Still crown'd you with applause.

See!—doom'd to fare on famish'd steeds, The rude Hungarians fly; Brunswick, with drooping courage leads Death's meagre family: In dismal groups, o'er hosts of dead, Their madness they bemoan, No friendly hand to give them bread, No Thionville their own! The Gaul, enrag'd as they retire, Hurls at their heads his blaze of fire— What hosts of Frederick's reeking crew Dying, have bid the world adieu, To dogs their flesh been thrown! Escap'd from death, a mangled train In scatter'd bands retreat: Where, bounding on Silesia's plain, The Despot[H] holds his seat; With feeble step, I see them go The heavy news to tell Where Oder's lazy waters flow, Or glides the swift Moselle; Where Rhine his various journey moves Through marshy lands and ruin'd groves, Or, where the vast Danubian flood (So often stain'd by Austrian blood) Foams with the autumnal swell.

But shall they not some tidings bear Of Freedom's sacred flame, And shall not groaning millions hear The long abandon'd name?— Through ages past, their spirits broke, I see them spurn old laws, Indignant, burst the Austrian yoke, And clip the Eagle's[I] claws: From shore to shore, from sea to sea They join, to set the wretched free, And, driving from the servile court Each titled slave—they help support The Democratic Cause!

O France! the world to thee must owe A debt they ne'er can pay: The Rights of Man you bid them know, And kindle Reason's Day! Columbia, in your friendship blest, Your gallant deeds shall hail— On the same ground our fortunes rest, Must flourish, or must fail: But—should all Europe's slaves combine Against a cause so fair as thine, And Asia aid a league so base— Defeat would all their aims disgrace, And Liberty Prevail! Philadelphia, December 19, 1792.

These gallant men that some so much despise Did not, like mushrooms, spring up in a night: By them instructed, France again shall rise, And every Frenchman learn his native right. American! when in your country's cause You march'd, and dar'd the English lion's jaws, Crush'd Hessian slaves, and made their hosts retreat, Say, were you not Republican—complete? Forever banish'd, now, be prince and king, To Nations and to Laws our reverence due: And let not language to my memory bring, A word that might recall the infernal crew, Monarch!—henceforth I blot it from my page, Monarchs and slaves too long disgrace this age; But thou, Republican, that some disclaim, Shalt save a world, and damn a tyrant's fame. Friends to Republics, cross the Atlantic brine, Low in the dust see regal splendour laid: Hopeless forever, sleeps the Bourbon line Long practis'd adepts in the murdering trade! With patriot care the nation's will expressing Republicans shall prove all Europe's blessing, Pull from his height each blustering Noble down And chace all modern Tarquins from the throne.

Discharg'd by France, no more the royal pair Claim from a nation's love a nation's care: Their splendid race no more a palace holds,— While Louis frets, Antonietta scolds; Folly's sad victims, fortune's bitter sport, They take their stand among the "common sort," Doom'd through the world, in sad reverse, to roam, Perhaps—without a shelter or a home! To shew our pity for their short-liv'd reign What shall we do, or how express our pain? Since for their persons no relief is found But cruel mobs degrade them to the ground, To shew how deeply we regret their fall We hang their portraits in our Senate Hall!

Thus briefly sketch'd the sacred Rights of Man, How inconsistent with the Royal Plan! Which for itself exclusive honour craves, Where some are masters born, and millions slaves. With what contempt must every eye look down On that base, childish bauble call'd a crown, The gilded bait, that lures the crowd, to come, Bow down their necks, and meet a slavish doom; The source of half the miseries men endure, The quack that kills them, while it seems to cure. Rous'd by the Reason of his manly page, Once more shall Paine a listening world engage: From Reason's source, a bold reform he brings, In raising up mankind, he pulls down kings, Who, source of discord, patrons of all wrong, On blood and murder have been fed too long: Hid from the world, and tutor'd to be base, The curse, the scourge, the ruin of our race, Theirs was the task, a dull designing few, To shackle beings that they scarcely knew, Who made this globe the residence of slaves, And built their thrones on systems form'd by knaves— Advance, bright years, to work their final fall, And haste the period that shall crush them all. Who, that has read and scann'd the historic page But glows, at every line, with kindling rage, To see by them the rights of men aspers'd, Freedom restrain'd, and Nature's law revers'd, Men, rank'd with beasts, by monarchs will'd away, And bound young fools, or madmen to obey: Now driven to wars, and now oppress'd at home, Compell'd in crowds o'er distant seas to roam, From India's climes the plundered prize to bring To glad the strumpet, or to glut the king. Columbia, hail! immortal be thy reign: Without a king, we till the smiling plain; Without a king, we trace the unbounded sea, And traffic round the globe, through each degree; Each foreign clime our honour'd flag reveres, Which asks no monarch, to support the Stars: Without a king, the Laws maintain their sway, While honour bids each generous heart obey. Be ours the task the ambitious to restrain, And this great lesson teach—that kings are vain; That warring realms to certain ruin haste, That kings subsist by war, and wars are waste: So shall our nation, form'd on Virtue's plan, Remain the guardian of the Rights of Man, A vast Republic, fam'd through every clime, Without a king, to see the end of time.

Thou Liberty! celestial light So long conceal'd from Gallic lands, Goddess, in ancient days ador'd By Gallia's conquering bands: Thou Liberty! whom savage kings Have plac'd among forbidden things, Tho' still averse that man be free, Secret, they bow to Liberty— O, to my accents lend an ear, Blest object of each tyrant's fear, While I to modern days recall The Lyric muse of ancient Gaul. Ere yet my willing voice obeys The transports of the heart, The goddess to my view displays A temple rear'd in ancient days, Fit subject for the muse's art. Now, round the world I cast my eye, With pain, its ruins I descry: This temple once to Freedom rais'd Thermopylae! in thy fam'd strait— I see it to the dust debas'd, And servile chains, its fate! In those fair climes, where freedom reign'd, Two thousand years degrade the Grecian name, I see them still enslav'd, enchain'd; But France from Rome and Athens caught the flame— A temple now to heaven they raise Where nations bound in ties of peace With olive-boughs shall throng to praise The gallant Gaul, that bade all discord cease. Before this Pantheon, fair and tall, The piles of darker ages fall, And freemen here no longer trace The monuments of man's disgrace: Before its porch, at Freedom's tree Exalt the Cap of Liberty, The cap[A] that once Helvetia knew (The terror of the tyrant crew) And on our country's altar trace The features of each honour'd face— The men that strove for equal laws, Or perish'd, martyrs in their cause.

Ye gallant chiefs, above all praise, Ye Brutuses of ancient days! Tho' fortune long has strove to blast, Your virtues are repaid at last. Your heavenly feasts awhile forbear And deign to make my song your care; My lyre a bolder note attains, And rivals old Tyrtœus' strains; The ambient air returns the sound, And kindles rapture all around. With thee begins the lofty theme, Eternal Nature—power supreme, Who planted Freedom in the mind, The first great right of all mankind: Too long presumptuous folly dar'd To veil our race from thy regard; Tyrants on ignorance form'd their plan, And made their crimes, the crimes of man, Let victory but befriend our cause And reason deign to dictate laws; And once mankind their rights reclaim And honour pay to thy great name.— But O! what cries our joys molest, What discord drowns sweet music's feast! What demon, from perdition, leads Night, fire and thunder o'er our heads! In northern realms, prepar'd for fight, A thousand savage clans unite.— To avenge a faithless Helen's doom All Europe's slaves, determin'd, come Freedom's fair fabric to destroy And wrap in flames our modern Troy! These these are they—the murdering bands, Whose blood, of old, distain'd our lands, By our forefathers chac'd and slain, The monuments of death remain: Hungarians, wet with human blood, Ye Saxons fierce, so oft subdued By ancient Gauls on Gallic plains, Dread, dread the race that still remains: Return, and seek your dark abodes, Your dens and caves in northern woods, Nor stay to tell each kindred ghost What thousands from your tribes are lost. A friend[B] from hell, of murderous brood, Stain'd with a hapless husband's blood, Unites with Danube[C] and the Spree,[C] Who arm to make the French their prey: To check their hosts and chill with fear, Frenchmen, advance to your frontier. There dig the Eternal Tomb of kings, Or Poland's fate each monster brings, Mows millions down, your cause defeats, And Ismael's horrid scene[D] repeats.

Ye nations brave, so long rever'd, Whom Rome, in all her glory, fear'd; Whose stubborn souls no tyrant broke To bow the neck to Cæsar's yoke— Scythians! whom Romans never chain'd; Germans! that unsubdued remain'd, Ah! see your sons, a sordid race, With despots leagu'd, to their disgrace Aid the base cause that you abhor, And hurl on France the storm of war. Our bold attempts shake modern Rome, She bids her kindred despots come; From Italy her forces draws To waste their blood in Tarquin's cause: A hundred hords of foes advance, Embodying on the verge of France; 'Mongst these, to guide the flame of war, I see Porsenna's[E] just a score, While from the soil, by thousands, spring Scevola's[F] to destroy each king.

O Rome! what glory you consign To those who court your ancient fame! Frenchmen, like Romans, now shall shine, And copying them, their ancient honours claim. O France, my native clime, my country dear, While youth remains, may I behold you free, Each tyrant crush'd, no threatening despot near To endanger Liberty! By you unfetter'd be all human kind, No slaves on earth be known And man be blest, in friendship join'd, From Tyber to the Amazon!

God save the Rights of Man! Give us a heart to scan Blessings so dear: Let them be spread around Wherever man is found, And with the welcome sound Ravish his ear. Let us with France agree, And bid the world be free, While tyrants fall! Let the rude savage host Of their vast numbers boast— Freedom's almighty trust Laughs at them all! Though hosts of slaves conspire To quench fair Gallia's fire, Still shall they fail: Though traitors round her rise, Leagu'd with her enemies, To war each patriot flies, And will prevail. No more is valour's flame Devoted to a name, Taught to adore— Soldiers of Liberty Disdain to bow the knee, But teach Equality To every shore. The world at last will join To aid thy grand design, Dear Liberty! To Russia's frozen lands The generous flame expands: On Afric's burning sands Shall man be free! In this our western world Be Freedom's flag unfurl'd Through all its shores! May no destructive blast Our heaven of joy o'ercast, May Freedom's fabric last While time endures. If e'er her cause require!— Should tyrants e'er aspire To aim their stroke, May no proud despot daunt— Should he his standard plant, Freedom will never want Her hearts of oak!

Like Sybil's leaves, abroad he spread His sheets, to awe the aspiring crew: Stock-jobbers fainted while they read; Each hidden scheme display'd to view— Who could such doctrines spread abroad So long, and not be clapper-claw'd! Content with slow uncertain gains, With heart and hand prepar'd he stood To send his works to distant plains, And hills beyond the Ohio-flood— And, since he had no time to lose, Preach'd whiggish lectures with his news. Now death, with cold unsparing hand, (At whose decree even Capets fall) From life's poor glass has shook his sand, And sent him, fainting, to the wall— Because he gave you some sad wipes, O Mammon! seize not thou his types. What shall be done, in such a case?— Shall I, because my partner fails, Call in his bull-dogs from the chace To loll their tongues and drop their tails— No, faith—the title-hunting crew No longer fly than we pursue.

The chiefs that bow to Capet's reign, In mourning, now, their weeds display; But we, that scorn a monarch's chain, Combine to celebrate the Day To Freedom's birth that put the seal, And laid in dust the proud Bastille. To Gallia's rich and splendid crown, This mighty Day gave such a blow As Time's recording hand shall own No former age had power to do: No single gem some Brutus stole, But instant ruin seiz'd the whole. Now tyrants rise, once more to bind In royal chains a nation freed— Vain hope! for they, to death consign'd, Shall soon, like perjur'd Louis, bleed: O'er every king, o'er every queen Fate hangs the sword, and guillotine. "Plung'd in a gulf of deep distress France turns her back—(so traitors say) Kings, priests, and nobles, round her press, Resolv'd to seize their destin'd prey: Thus Europe swears (in arms combin'd) To Poland's doom is France consign'd." Yet those, who now are thought so low From conquests that were basely gain'd, Shall rise tremendous from the blow And free Two Worlds, that still are chain'd, Restrict the Briton to his isle, And Freedom plant in every soil. Ye sons of this degenerate clime, Haste, arm the barque, expand the sail; Assist to speed that golden time When Freedom rules, and monarchs fail; All left to France—new powers may join, And help to crush the cause divine. Ah! while I write, dear France Allied, My ardent wish I scarce restrain, To throw these Sybil leaves aside, And fly to join you on the main: Unfurl the topsail for the chace And help to crush the tyrant race!

The People in Europe are much to be praised, That in fighting they choose to be passing their days; If their wars were abolished, there's room to suppose Our Printers would growl, for the want of New-News. May our tidings of warfare be ever from thence, Nor that page be supplied at Columbia's expence! No kings shall rise here, at the nod of a court, Ambition, or Pride, with men's lives for to sport. In such a display of the taste of the times— The murder of millions—their quarrels and crimes, A horrible system of ruin we scan, A history, truly descriptive of man: A Being, that Nature designed to be blest— With abundance around him—yet rarely at rest, A Being, that lives but a moment in years, Yet wasting his life in contention and wars; A Being, sent hither all good to bestow, Yet filling the world with oppression and woe! But, consider, ye sages, (and pray be resigned) What ills would attend a reform of mankind— Were wars at an end, and no nation made thinner, My neighbour, the gun-smith, would go without dinner; The Printers, themselves, for employment would fail, And soldiers, by thousands, be starving in jail.

One Sabbath-day morning said Sampson to Sue "I have thought and have thought that a Title will do; Believe me, my dear, it is sweeter that syrup To taste of a title, as cooked up in Europe; "Your ladyship" here and "your ladyship" there, "Sir knight," and "your grace," and "his worship the mayor!" But here, we are nothing but vulgar all over, And the wife of a cobbler scarce thinks you above her: What a country is this, where Madam and Miss Is the highest address from each vulgar-born cur, And I—even I—am but Mister and Sir! Your Equal-Right gentry I ne'er could abide That all are born equal, by Me is denied: And Barlow and Paine shall preach it in vain; Look even at brutes, and you'll see it confest That some are intended to manage the rest; Yon' dog of the manger, how stately he struts! You may swear him well-born, from the size of his guts; Not a better-born whelp ever snapped at his foes, All he wants is a Glass to be stuck on his Nose: And then, my dear Sue, between me and you, He would look like the gemman whose name I forget, Who lives in a castle and never pays debt." "My dear (answered Susan) 'tis said, in reproach, That you climb like a bear when you get in a coach: Now, your nobles that spring from the nobles of old, Your earls, and your knights, and your barons, so bold, From Nature inherit so handsome an air They are noblemen born, at first glance we may swear: But you, that have cobbled, and I, that have spun, 'Tis wrong for our noddles on Titles to run: Moreover, you know, that to make a fine show, Your people of note, of arms get a coat; A boot or a shoe would but sneakingly do, And would certainly prove our nobility New." "No matter (said Sampson) a coach shall be bought: Though the low-born may chatter, I care not a groat; Around it a group of devices shall shine, And mottoes, and emblems—to prove it is mine; Fair liberty's Cap, and a Star, and a Strap; A Dagger, that somewhat resembles an Awl, A pumpkin-faced Goddess supporting a Stall: All these shall be there—how people will stare! And Envy herself, that our Title would blast May smile at the motto,—the First shall be Last."[A]

Resolved for a chace, All Frenchmen to face, Bold Boston from Halifax sailed, With a full flowing sheet, The pride of the fleet, Not a vessel she saw, but she hailed; With Courtney, commander, who never did fear, Nor returned from a fight with a "flea in his ear." As they stered for the Hook, Each swore by his book, "No prayers should their vengeance retard; "They would plunder and burn, "They would never return "Unattended by Captain Bompard! "No Gaul can resist us, when once we arouse, "We'll drown the monsieurs in the wash of our bows." A sail now appeared, When toward her they steered, Each crown'd with his Liberty-Cap; Under colours of France did they boldly advance, And a small privateer did entrap— The time may have been when their nation was brave, But now, their best play is to cheat and deceive. Arrived at the spot Where they meant to dispute, Thus Courtney sent word, in a heat: "Since fighting's our trade, "Their bold Ambuscade "Must be sunk, or compelled to retreat: "Tell Captain Bompard, if his stomach's for war, "To advance from his port, and engage a bold tar." Brave Captain Bompard When this challenge he heard, Though his sails were unbent from the yards, His topmasts struck down, And his men half in town; Yet sent back his humble regards— The challenge accepted; all hands warned on board, Bent, their sails, swore revenge, and the frigate unmoored. The Boston, at sea, Being under their lee, For windward manœuvred in vain; 'Till night coming on, Both laid by 'till dawn, Then met on the watery plain, The wind at north-east, and a beautiful day, And the hearts of the Frenchmen in trim for the fray. So, to it they went, With determined intent The fate of the day to decide By the virtues of powder; (No argument louder Was e'er to a subject applied) A Gaul with a Briton in battle contends, Let them stand to their guns, and we'll see how it ends. As the Frenchman sailed past, Boston gave him a blast, Glass bottles, case knives, and old nails, A score of round shot, And the devil knows what, To cripple his masts and his sails. The Boston supposed it the best of her play To prevent him from chacing—if she ran away. The Frenchman most cool, (No hot-headed fool,) Returned the broadside in a trice; So hot was the blast, He disabled one mast, And gave them some rigging to splice, Some holes for to plug, where the bullets had gone, Some yards to replace, and some heads to put on. Three glasses, and more, Their cannons did roar, Shot flying in horrible squads; 'Midst torrents of smoke, The Republican spoke, And frightened the Anglican gods! Their frigate so mauled, they no longer defend her, And, Courtney shot down—they bawled out to surrender! "O la! what a blunder "To provoke this French thunder! "We think with the devil he deals— "But since we dislike "To surrender and strike, "Let us try the success of our heels: "We may save the king's frigate by running away, "The Frenchman will have us—all hands—if we stay!" So squaring their yards, On all Captain Bompard's, A volley of curses they shed— Having got their Discharge, They bore away large, While the Frenchman pursued, as they fled. But vain was his haste—while his sails he repaired, He ended the fray in a chace— The Gaul got the best of the fight, 'tis declared; The Briton—the best of the race!

Because some pumpkin-shells and lobster claws, Thrown o'er his garden walls by Crab-tree's duke, Have chanc'd to light within your meagre jaws, (A dose, at which all honest men would puke:) Because some treasury-luncheons you have gnaw'd, Like rats, that prey upon the public store: Must you, for that, your crude stuff belch abroad, And vomit lies on all that pass your door! To knavery's tribe my verse still fatal found, Alike to kings and coblers gives their due: Spruce tho' you be, your heels may drum the ground, And make rare pass-time for the sportive crew. Why all these hints of menace, dark and sad, What is my crime, that thus Ap-Shenkin raves? No secret-service-money have I had For waging two years' war with fools and knaves. Abus'd at court, unwelcome to the Great— This page of mine no well-born aspect wears: On honest yeomen I repose its fate, Clodhopper's dollar is as good as theirs. Why wouldst thou then with ruffian hand destroy A wight, that wastes his ink in Freedom's cause: Who, to the last, his arrows will employ To publish Freedom's rights, and guard her laws! O thou! that hast a heart so flinty hard Thus oft, too oft, a poet to rebuke, From those that rhyme you ne'er shall meet regard; Of Crab-tree's dutchy—you shall be no Duke.

Hot, dry winds forever blowing, Dead men to the grave-yards going: Constant hearses, Funeral verses; Oh! what plagues—there is no knowing! Priests retreating from their pulpits!— Some in hot, and some in cold fits In bad temper, Off they scamper, Leaving us—unhappy culprits! Doctors raving and disputing, Death's pale army still recruiting— What a pother One with t'other! Some a-writing, some a-shooting. Nature's poisons here collected, Water, earth, and air infected— O, what pity, Such a City, Was in such a place erected!

On prancing steed, with spunge at nose, From town behold Sangrado fly; Camphor and Tar where'er he goes Th' infected shafts of death defy— Safe in an atmosphere of scents, He leaves us to our own defence. 'Twas right to fly! for well, I ween, In Stygian worlds, all scribes agree, No blushing blossom e'er was seen, Or running brook, or budding tree: No splendid meats, no flowing bowls, Smile on the meagre feast of souls: No sprightly songs, to banish grief, No balls, the Elysian beaus prepare, And he that throve on rounds of beef, On onion shells shall famish there— Monarchs are there of little note, And Cæsar wears a shabby coat. Chloes on earth, of air and shape, Whose eyes destroy'd poor love-lorn wights, There lower their topsails to the cap, Rig in their booms and furl their kites:— Where Cupid's bow was never bent, What lover asks a maid's consent? All this, and more, Sangrado knew, (In Lucian is the story told) Took horse—clapped spurs—and off he flew, Leaving his Sick to fret and scold; Some soldiers, thus, to honour lost, In day of battle quit their post.

With the nerves of a Sampson, this son of the sledge, By the anvil his livelihood got; With the skill of old Vulcan could temper an edge; And struck—while his iron was hot. By forging he lived, yet never was tried, Or condemned by the laws of the land; But still it is certain, and can't be denied, He often was burnt in the hand. With the sons of St. Crispin no kindred he claimed, With the last he had nothing to do; He handled no awl, and yet in his time Made many an excellent shoe. He blew up no coals of sedition, but still His bellows was always in blast; And we will acknowledge (deny it who will) That one Vice, and but one, he possessed. No actor was he, or concerned with the stage, No audience, to awe him, appeared; Yet oft in his shop (like a crowd in a rage) The voice of a hissing was heard. Tho' steelling[78] was certainly part of his cares, In thieving he never was found; And, tho' he was constantly beating on bars, No vessel he e'er ran aground. Alas and alack! and what more can I say Of Vulcan's unfortunate son?— The priest and the sexton have borne him away, And the sound of his hammer is done.

Can love of fame the gentle muse inspire Where he that hoards the most has all the praise; Where avarice, and her tribe, each bosom fire, All heap the enormous store for rainy days; Proving by such perpetual round of toil That man was born to grovel on the soil? Expect not, in these times of rude renown That verse, like your's, will have the chance to please: No taste for plaintive elegy is known, Nor lyric ode—none care for things like these— Gold, only gold, this niggard age delights, That honours none but money-catching wights. Sink not beneath the mean abusive strain Of puny wits, dull sycophants in song, Who, post, or place, or one poor smile to gain, Besiege Mambrino's door, and round him throng Like insects creeping to the morning sun To enjoy his heat—themselves possessing none. All must applaud your choice, to quit a stage Where knaves and fools in every scene abound; Where modest worth no patron can engage— But boisterous folly walks her noisy round; Some narrow-hearted demi-god adores, And Fortune's path with servile step explores.

—Opifer per Orbem dicor. "In this the God, benevolent to man, Lulls every woe, and deadens every pain."

When the first men to this world's climates came Smit by the winter's rude inclement blast, Unskilled to raise the wall, or wake the fire, Badly, in narrow huts, their lives they passed. Conscious of pains they knew not how to cure, In vain they sighed, and sighing begged relief, No druggist came, by art or reason taught With strength of potent herbs, to calm their grief. Fierce tortures to allay, some reverend sage Preach'd Patience to the pangs, that could not hear; For restless anguish doomed her victim still To groan thro' life, and sigh from year to year, At length from Jove, and heaven's etherial dome Sky-walking Hermes came to view these plains: He looked—and saw what fate or gods had done, And gave the Poppy, to relieve all pains. Then to the sons of grief his speech addressed, "Through this dull flower is shed such potent dew, "When pain distracts—drink this—and drown in sleep "All ills, that Nature sent to torture you. "From other worlds, by other beings trod, "To these bleak climes this plundered plant I bore; "Receive a gift, all worthy of a god, "Since pain, when hushed to sleep,—is pain no more."

"While other lads their books forsake, Or sigh to meet the hours of play: You, Lycidas, no leisure take, But still through learned volumes stray:— With years so few, ah why so grave; Why every hour to books a slave? Hence, Lycidas, I pray, retire: Go with your mates, and take your play— Not him I prize, or much admire, Who, curious, hangs on all I say: The lad that's wise before his time, Will be a coxcomb in his prime. Stay not too close in learning's shop;— 'Till time a riper mind prepares, The ball, the marble, and the top Are books, that should divide your cares— The lads that life's gay morn enjoy, I'm pleased to see them act the boy. I hate the pert, I hate the bold, Who, proud of years but half a score, With none but men would converse hold, And things beyond their reach explore: Like the famed Cretan, soaring high, To melt their waxen wings and die."

In shallow streams, a league from town, (Its baby Light-House tumbled down) Extends a country, full in view, Beheld by all, but known to few. Surrounded by the briny waste No haven here has Nature placed; But those who wish to pace it o'er Must land upon the open shore. There as I sailed, to view the ground; No blooming goddesses I found— But yellow hags, ordained to prove The death, and antidote of love. Ten stately trees adorn the isle, The house, a crazy, tottering pile, Where once the doctor plied his trade On feverish tars and rakes decayed. Six hogs about the pastures feed (Sweet mud-larks of the Georgia breed) Who, while the hostess deals out drams, Can oysters catch, and open clams. Upon its surface, smooth and clean, A world, in miniature, is seen; Though scarce a journey for a snail We meet with mountain, hill, and vale. To those that guard this stormy place, Two cities stare them in the face: There, York its spiry summits rears, And here Cummunipaw appears. The tenant, now but ill at ease, Derives no fuel from his trees: And Jersey boats, though begged to land, All leave him on the larboard hand. Some monied man, grown sick of care, To this neglected spot repair: What Nature sketched, let art complete, And own the loveliest Country Seat.

Lured by some corporal's smooth address, His scarlet coat and roguish face, One Half A Joe on drum head laid, A tavern treat—and reckoning paid; See yonder simple lad consigned To slavery of the meanest kind. With only skill to drive a plough A musquet he must handle now; Must twirl it here and twirl it there, Now on the ground, now in the air: Its every motion by some rule Of practice, taught in Frederick's school,[A] Must be directed—nicely true— Or he be beaten black—and blue.

A sergeant, raised from cleaning shoes, May now this country lad abuse:— On meagre fare grown poor and lean, He treats him like a mere machine, Directs his look, directs his step, And kicks him into decent shape, From aukward habits frees the clown, Erects his head—or knocks him down. Last Friday week to Battery-green The sergeant came with this Machine— One motion of the firelock missed— The Tutor thumped him with his fist: I saw him lift his hickory cane, I heard poor Jeffery's head complain!— Yet this—and more—he's forced to bear; And thus goes on from year to year, 'Till desperate grown at such a lot, He drinks—deserts—and so is shot!

In shallow caves, with shrill voic'd conchs hung round, And pumpkin-shells, responding all they hear, A bard, call'd Shylock, catches every sound, Governs their tone, pricks up his lengthy ear: In putrid ink then dips his pen of lead And scribbles down what learn'd Pomposo said. Bard of the lengthy ode! whose knavish paw Ne'er touch'd the helm, besprent with odious pitch! 'Twas better far, you knew, to practice Law, Whine at the church, or in the court-house screech: No soul had you to face the wintry blast, Combat the storm, or climb the tottering mast. Then why so wroth, thou bard of narrow soul, If wavering Fortune bade me seek the brine: I drank no nectar from your leaden bowl, Nor from your poems filch'd a single line: When I do that—then publish from your caves, Who robs a beggar—is the worst of knaves!

Be advised by a friend, who advises but rarely, Be cautious of praising 'till praise is earned fairly: There was a sage Ancient this truth did bequeath, "That merit is only determined by death." Panegyric I'm sorry to see you engage in— Old Nero, at first, was a Titus, or Trajan: The Indians of Siam bow down to a Log, And Egypt is said to have worshipped a Dog.[A]

If you will be throwing your jewels to swine, No wonder they rend you—whenever they dine— Pray, leave it to puppies to cry up their worth, And to dunces, to honour the day of their birth. Whoever the road to preferment would find, With the eyes of a Dutchman must look at mankind; From the basest of motives, cry cowards are brave, And laugh in his sleeve—when he flatters a knave.

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

I pity him, who, at no small expense, Has studied sound instead of sense: He, proud some antique gibberish to attain; Of Hebrew, Greek, or Latin, vain, Devours the husk, and leaves the grain. In his own language Homer writ and read, Nor spent his life in poring on the dead: Why then your native language not pursue In which all ancient sense (that's worth review) Glows in translation, fresh and new? He better plans, who things, not words, attends, And turns his studious hours to active ends; Who Art through every secret maze explores, Invents, contrives—and Nature's hidden stores From mirrours, to their object true, Presents to man's obstructed view, That dimly meets the light, and faintly soars:— His strong capacious mind By fetters unconfin'd Of Latin lore and heathen Greek, Takes Science in its way, Pursues the kindling ray 'Till Reason's morn shall on him break!

Since Shylock's Book has walk'd the circles here, What numerous blessings to our country flow! Whales on our shores have run aground, Sturgeons are in our rivers found; Nay, ships have on the Delaware sail'd, A sight most new! Wheat has been sown, harvests have grown, And Shylock held strange dialogues with Sue. On coaches, now, gay coats of arms are wore By some, who hardly had a coat before: Silk gowns instead of homespun, now, are seen, And, sir, 'tis true ('twixt me and you) That some have grown prodigious fat, That were prodigious lean!

A few short years, at most, will bound our span; ("Wretched and few," the Hebrew patriarch said) Live while you may, be jovial while you can; Too soon our debt to Nature, must be paid. When Nature fails, the man exists no more, And death is nothing but an empty name, Spleen's odious offspring, in some gloomy hour;— The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream. You ask me, where those numerous hosts have fled That once existed on this changeful ball? If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,[A] Where ere their birth they were, they now are all.

Seek not for Paradise!—'tis not for you Where, high in heaven, its sweetest blossoms blow; Nor even, where gliding to the Persian main, Your waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow, What is this Death, ye thoughtless mourners, say? Death is no more than never-ceasing change: New forms arise, while other forms decay, Yet, all is life throughout creation's range. The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine, The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow, The Apalachian, and the Ararat, Sooner or later, must to ruin go. Hills sink to plains, and man returns to dust; That dust supports a reptile or a flower; Each changeful atom, by some other nursed, Takes some new form, to perish in an hour. When Nature bids thee from the world retire, With joy thy lodging leave, a sated guest, In sleep's blest state (our Dullman's fond desire) Existing always—always to be blest. Like insects busy in a summer's day, We toil and squabble, to increase our pain: Night comes at last, and weary of the fray, To dust and silence all are sent again! Beneath my hand what numerous crowds retire— By the cold turf for ages, now, oppressed! Millions have fallen—and millions must expire, Doomed by the impartial Power to endless rest. In vain with stars He decked yon' spangled skies, And bade the mind to heaven's bright regions soar, And brought so far to your admiring eyes A glimpse of glories, that shall blaze no more! What is there here, that man should wish to bear A weight of years?—such rage to madness vext; Wan, wasting, grief, and ever musing care, Distressful pain, and poverty perplext?— What is there here, but tombs and monuments— Tyrants—who misery spread through every shore; Wide wasting wars, the scourge of innocence; Fevers and plagues, with all their noxious store? Before we called this wrangling world our home, In undisturbed abodes we sweetly slept: But when dame Nature made that world our doom, 'Twas then our troubles came—and then we wept! Though humbled now, disheartened, or distressed, Yet, when returning to the peaceful ground, With heroes, kings, and conquerors we shall rest; Shall sleep as sweetly, and no doubt, as sound. Ne'er shall we hope to see the day-light spring Or from the up-lifted window lean to hear (Fore-runner of the scarlet-mantled morn) The early note of wakeful Chanticleer! Oblivion there, expands her raven wing:— We soon must go where all the dead are gone, Trace the dull path, explore the gloomy road To that dark country, where I see no dawn. Then why these sobs, these useless floods of woe, That vainly flow for the departed dead? If doomed to wander on the coasts below, What are to them these floods of grief you shed? Since heaven in rapture doth their hours employ— If empty sighs, or groans, could reach them there, These funeral howls would damp their heaven of joy, Would make them wretched, and renew their care. The joys of wine, immortal as my theme, To days of mirth the aspiring soul invite: Life, void of this, a punishment I deem, A Greenland winter, robbed of heat and light. Ah! envy not, ye sages too precise, The drop from life's gay tree, that kills our woe— Noah himself, the wary and the wise, A vineyard planted—and the vines did grow. (Of social soul was he)—the grape he pressed, And drank the juice, oblivious to his care: Sorrow he banished from his place of rest, And sighs, and sextons, had no business there. Such bliss be our's through every changing scene: The jovial face bespeaks the glowing heart; If heaven be joy, wine is to heaven a-kin, Since wine, on earth, can heavenly joys impart. Mere glow-worms are we all—a moment shine!— I, like the rest, in giddy circles run, And grief shall say, when I this breath resign, His glass is empty, and his sermon done!

Give to the wretched, drink that's strong, (Said David's Son) but we, more wise, With Cyder, from the hogshead, rough, Molasses-Beer, and such dull stuff, The miseries of the imprison'd host prolong. "Shut up in jail from day to day (Methinks I hear a Debtor say) "Victims to public rage and private spite, "All that we had to keep our spirits up "Was glowing wine that fill'd the cheering cup, "This banish'd care, and check'd the rising sigh "Chac'd grief from every heart, gave joy to every eye. "And will ye not this only comfort leave, "Ye men that frame the public laws?— "Parted from children, friends, and wives, "How heavily the moments roll: "What comfort have we of our lives "If you deny this cordial of the soul? "'Tis this that kills the tedious hour, "Puts misery out of fortune's power. "'Tis this that to the dial's hand lends wings, "Gives to the beggar all the pride of kings, "Sheds joy throughout our gloomy cage "And bids us scorn the little tyrant's rage, "They that are unconfin'd drink what they will— "Who gave the right to limit men in jail? "Because misfortune sent us here "Must we for that be drench'd with 'table beer,' "Or, in its stead, with Adam's ale?— "Relent—relent! contrive some other plan; "Wine is the dearest, choicest friend of man— "They that are out of jail, of all degrees, "Can spend their leisure as they please, "We, that are in, must pass it as we can."

The man that doth an Elephant pursue Whose capture gains a mighty price, Amidst the chace, heeds not the barking crew, Or lesser game of rats and mice. On ocean's waste who chace the royal flag Stop not to take the privateer; Who mean to seize the steed, neglect the nag; No squirrel-hunter kills a deer. Reptile! your venom ever spits in vain— To honour's coat no drop adheres:— To court!—return to Britain's tyrant reign, White-wash her king, and scowr her peers. Some scheming knaves, that strut in courtly guise, May vile abuse, through you, impart— But they that on no Treasury lean, despise Your venal pen—your canker'd heart.

With eastern[93] winds and flowing sail To these sequestered haunts we came, Where verdant trees and chrystal streams Adorn the sloping, winding vale; Where, from the breezy grove we claim, Our heaven on earth—poetic dreams. These simple scenes have pleasures more Than all the busy town can show— More pleasure here Philanthus took, And more he prized this lonely shore, His pen, his pencil, and his book, Than all the groves Madeira bore: Here still is seen a hermit's cell, Who, fond the haunts of men to fly, Enjoyed his heaven beneath this shade: In mouldering caves so blest to dwell, He sought not from the flowers that die, A verdure, that would never fade. To crowded courts and would-be kings, Where fawning knaves are most caressed, Who would, though oft' invited, go— When here so many charming things By Nature to perfection dressed, To please the man of fancy, grow? The native of this happy spot No cares of vain ambition haunt: Pleased with the partner of his nest, Life flows—and when the dream is out, The earth, which once supplied each want, Receives him—fainting—to her breast.

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

Emperors and kings! in vain you strive Your torments to conceal— The age is come that shakes your thrones, Tramples in dust despotic crowns, And bids the sceptre fail. In western worlds the flame began: From thence to France it flew— Through Europe, now, it takes its way, Beams an insufferable day, And lays all tyrants low. Genius of France! pursue the chace Till Reason's laws restore Man to be Man, in every clime;— That Being, active, great, sublime Debas'd in dust no more. In dreadful pomp he takes his way O'er ruin'd crowns, demolish'd thrones— Pale tyrants shrink before his blaze— Round him terrific lightnings play— With eyes of fire, he looks them through, Crushes the vile despotic crew, And Pride in ruin lays.

Like some fair girl in beauty's bloom, To court her, see what suitors come! An heiress, she, to large estate, What rivals for her favours wait! All haste to clasp her in their arms, Each sees in her a thousand charms— The Gems that on her bosom glow Attract where love was cold—'till now. Freed from a cruel parent's care, This maid so wealthy and so fair Of each that for possession sues Can hardly tell which beau to choose. Proud of his vast extended reign, (His fancied empire o'er the main) The Briton came, with haughty stride, Preferr'd his suit—but was denied. She thought his style, by much, too rude, By ruffians she would not be woo'd; From Man she wish'd to choose a mate, But not in such a savage state. A Dane, a Dutchman, and a Swede All hop'd to enjoy the charming maid: The Russian, bred in frost and snow, Made love to her that said—no, no. The Spaniard grave, with cloak and sword, Some favour from the nymph implor'd— Vain were his tears and coaxing art— She could not bear a jealous heart. The Turk himself, to engage her love, From Asia's coasts began to move; While faded lay his Tartar crown He sigh'd to make this girl his own. In vain they paid the fond address— No Pope, no Sultan would she bless— No monarch, tho' allur'd with art, Could gain her wealth, or touch her heart. The Frenchman comes—salutes the fair— She likes his gallant, marshal air!— With eager eye, around her waist He clasp'd his arms, and her embrac'd: Smit with his lofty, generous mien, She admires the Gaul, as soon as seen, Grants him her Commerce—yields her charms, And takes a hero to her arms!

When the Senate assembled had shut up their door, And had left us no clew their designs to explore, The people were anxious, and whispered their care, But their voice was too weak for the dignified ear. Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down. At length the Sanhedrim were ready to rise, And the crowd were distending their ears and their eyes; But the rabble had nothing to hear or to view, Says the twenty, the secret's too sacred for you, Ye are down, down, down, keep ye down. But Stephens T. Mason, a man we revere, With his name bid the infamous treaty appear, 'Twas the act of a freeman, who join'd with the Ten, To save us from tyranny, rank us with men, Altho' down, down, and like to be down. He gave his assistance, enlighten'd our eyes, And a cloud from all quarters begins to arise, Vox Dei, Vox Populi, truly but one, Shall tell dark designers—our will shall be done Till you're down, down, twenty times down.

Americans! behold the fruits, The end of all your vain pursuits, Whole years in blood and warfare spent To save this injur'd continent.— How must it mortify your pride To take once more the British side; How will your eyes contain their tears When all the sad effect appears! This Treaty in one page confines The sad result of base designs; The wretched purchase here behold Of traitors—who their country sold. Here, in their proper shape and mien Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen. And few, a chosen few, must know The Mysteries that lurk below. Go home, ye merchants, poor and lean, And kiss the—hand—of Britain's queen. I see you of your cargoes stript Your vessels stolen, your seamen whipt, I see them from their decks compell'd To wander o'er the wat'ry field;— In British ships, by force detain'd I see the gallant sailor band Engage the power that lent us aid When Britain here her entry made— I see them mix'd with George's sons, I see them torn by gallic guns, Disfigur'd, in the ocean cast To find a resting place at last. Philosophy! thou friend of man, Teach me these strange events to scan; Aid me to learn the secret cause That alien seems from Nature's laws, Why on this stage of human things Man bows his neck to tyrant kings? Say did the God, when life he gave, Design his Image for a slave?— Necessity, the tyrant's law, All human race doth this way draw, All prompted by the same desire The vigorous youth, and aged sire— Observe, the coward and the bold Agree to have their freedom sold; Physician, lawyer, and divine All make oblation at this shrine. Yet from this dismal state of things In time a new creation springs; From vile materials, fresh, shall rise And fill the earth, and air, and skies; In various forms appear again, Popes, Presidents, and gentlemen: So Jove pronounc'd among the Gods, Olympus trembling as he nods!

Lo! to the gates of long forgotten Rome Active as flame, the gallic legions come, While pale with fear to their despotic wastes On shorten'd wing the Austrian army hastes. Where, consecrated to the pagan god The silent vestal graced his dark abode, Where Cæsars, once, in awful grandeur reign'd, Or, Vandals ruin'd what of Rome remain'd, Or where, excresence of a later age, The mitred pontiff trod religion's stage, There march the heroic bands that bring defeat, Or bring reform on superstition's seat. And may their march to honor's purpose tend, May each new conquest all the past transcend, Still may those hosts their first great plan pursue, And honor, freedom, virtue keep in view. Thus taught; and still propitious heaven their trust, All past mis-rule shall crumble to the dust, Nor will saint Peter, more, their cause regard, Lost are his keys and every gate unbarr'd, No sacred reliques from some saintly grave, No saint Sebastian shall from ruin save: All, all must yield; submissive to the dart Of Gaul's firm legions led by Bonaparte, Who, sent by heaven, to Rome's disastrous walls Loud and more loud for his last victim calls; While superstition's dark inveterate train Turns pale, and sickens at their blasted reign, And hosts reviving, round the standard throng, Exult, and wonder how they slept so long.

Confusion to that iron sway Which bids the brute, not man, obey, And dooms him to Siberian soil, Chains, whips, and vassalage, and toil. This female wolf, whom wolves did nurse, So long of polar worlds the curse, This Catharine, skill'd in royal arts, To the dark world at last departs. In style, the second of her name, She to the crown by treason came; To Peter, drowsy, royal drone, She gave a prison for a throne. She would have sent her Tartar bands To waste and ravage gallic lands, She would have sent her legions o'er, Columbia! to invade your shore!— But, even in conquest, she foresaw Destruction to despotic law; She fear'd, in hordes returning home, That liberty would with them come. She fear'd the savage from the den Would see and learn the rights of men; And hence, in time, destruction bring To hell's vicegerents—queen and king. No thanks to her! she fear'd her beasts, Enslaved by kings, enslaved by priests, Even if all freedom they o'er ran, Would learn the dignity of man; And kept them home, and held them there, Oppression's iron reign to bear; And never meet a beam of light, Involved in worse than Zembla's night. Now she is dead, and Paul will rise As fierce as she, but not as wise; He may his barbarous millions send, He may the fall of France intend; But they who see with keener eye Will see them faint, will see them fly; With hostile step will see them come To turn their backs, or meet their doom.

Wherever this volume[102] may chance to be read For the feast of good humor a table I spread; Here are dishes by dozens; whoever will eat Will have no just cause to complain of the treat. If the best of the market is not to be had I'll help you to nothing that's seriously bad;[103] To sense and to candor no place I refuse, Pick here and pick there, and wherever you choose.[104] If I give you a frolic I hope for no fray; My style I adapt to the taste of the day, The feast of amusement we draw from all climes, The best we can give in a run of hard times.[105] The guest, whom the pepper of satire may bite Is wrong, very wrong, if he shows us his spite;[106] Should a fit of resentment be-ruffle his mind, Sit still, I would tell him, be calm and resign'd.[107] In the service of freedom forever prepared, We have done[108] our endeavor the goddess to guard; This idol, whom reason should only adore, And banish'd from Europe,[109] to dwell on our shore. In a country like this, exalted by fame, The trade of an author[110] importance may claim Which monarchs would never permit them to find, Whose views are to chain and be-darken the mind. Ye sons of Columbia! our efforts befriend; To you all the tyrants of Europe shall bend Till reason at length shall illumine the ball[111] And man from his state of debasement recall. Republics of old, that are sunk in the dust, Could once like our own, of their liberty boast; Both virtue and wisdom in Athens appear'd, Each eye saw their charms, and all bosoms revered. But as virtue and morals fell into disgrace Pride, splendor, and folly stept into their place; Where virtues domestic no longer were known, Simplicity lost, and frugality flown. Where the virtues, that always a republic adorn, Were held in contempt, or were laugh'd into scorn, There, tyrants and slaves were the speedy effect Of virtue dishonor'd or fall'n to neglect:[112] Then tyrants and slaves, the worst plagues of this earth, From the lapse of good manners[113] were hatch'd into birth; And soon the base maxim all popular grew, And allowed, that the many were made for the few. From the fate of republics, or Athens, or Rome, Tis time we should learn a sad lesson at home— From their faults and their errors a warning receive, And steer from the shoals where they both found a grave. Columbians! forever may freedom remain, And virtue forever that freedom maintain; To these, all attracting, all views should submit All labors of learning, all essays of wit. Tis time a new system of things was embraced To prevail on a planet so often debased;[114] As here, with our freedom, that system began, Here, at least keep it pure—for the honor of man.

The cause that rests on reason's ground, Shall potent through the world be found, Mankind must yield to that decree Which humbles pride and tyranny. O'er this wide globe what darkness broods, What misery, murder, wars and feuds!— Does man deserve the solar light While he performs the deeds of night? When to the gates of modern Rome We see the gallic legions come, Their triumphs should, in honor, be To make them men, and make them free. In these new wars new views we trace, Not fetters for the human race, And, France, where'er you dart your rays Old superstition's reign decays. But look again!—what myriads join The vast reform to undermine! What labor, bribes, and deep-laid schemes To quench the sun, and reason's beams! Shall these succeed? and will that sun Continue, still, his race to run O'er scenes that he must blush to see Disorder, chains, and tyranny? Must systems, still, of monstrous birth, Enslave mankind, deform this earth? No!—to the question answers fate, These efforts come an age too late. In such a system to combine, Columbia, can the wish be thine! Could such a thought assail your heart, To take that base, ungrateful part. From Britain's yoke so lately freed Would she her hosts, her legions lead To crush that power, which jointly gain'd And once her sinking cause sustain'd? From all true hearts be banish'd far The thought of so profane a war— A curse would on her arms attend And all her well-earn'd honors end. Fortune no more your toils would crown, Your flag would fall before her frown; No gallant men the foe would dare, No Greenes no Washingtons appear; No chiefs, that check'd the pride of kings On Monmouth's plains—at Eutaw springs; But blundering hordes, not brave or warm, With broken heart, and nerveless arm, Would sail, to attack your gallic foe, Would strive in vain a cause t'o'erthrow Which, sink or not, will live in fame, While Europe can one patriot claim.

How bold this project, to defy The artillery of a summer sky: Round you, unmoved, the lightning plays, While others perish in the blaze. The fluid fire, in deafening peals, Along the warm conductor steals; And thence directed to the ground, It glances off without a wound! Thus guarded, while the heavens are bowed, You, fearless, see the passing cloud; And Jove's red bolts unheeded fall, Near You, who slight, or scorn them all. The beaver on your sacred scull, (Secure as Salamander's wool) Assists to keep from your rigg'd head The flash that strikes us, wretches, dead. But while the sulphur of the skies, Disarmed, from this fair lady flies; Or while the warm electric fire In flashes darts along her spire, She, not so merciful or kind, (Or we, not guarded to her mind) By Cupid's darts, procures our fall, By Cupid's arrows kills us all.

By Science taught, on silken wings Beyond our grovelling race you rise, And, soaring from terrestial things, Explore a passage to the skies— O, could I thus exalted sail, And rise, with you, beyond the Jail! Ah! when you rose, impell'd by fear Each bosom heav'd a thousand sighs; To you each female lent a tear, And held the 'kerchief to her eyes: All hearts still follow'd, as you flew, All eyes admir'd a sight so new. Whoe'er shall thus presume to fly, While downward with disdain they look Shall own this journey, through the sky, The dearest jaunt they ever took; And choose, next time, without reproach, A humbler seat in Inskeep's coach. The birds, that cleave the expanse of air, Admiring, view your globe full-blown, And, chattering round the painted car, Complain your flight out-does their own: Beyond their track you proudly swim, Nor fear the loss of life or limb. How vast the height, how grand the scene That your enraptured eye surveys, When, towering in your gay machine, You leave the astonish'd world to gaze, And, wandering in the ætherial blue, Our eyes, in vain, your course pursue. The Orb of Day, how dazzling bright! In paler radiance gleams the Moon, And Terra, whence you took your flight, Appears to you—a meer balloon: Its noisy crew no longer heard, Towns, cities, forests, disappear'd. Yet, travelling through the azure road, Soar not too high for human ken; Reflect, our humble safe abode Is all that Nature meant for men: Take in your sails before you freeze, And sink again among the trees.

Sound without sense, and words devoid of force, Through which no art could find a clue, And mean and shackling was the whole discourse That kept me, Tully, long from you. Heads of harangues, to heads less general, split, Seem'd like small laths, cleft from some heavy log; I heard the inference, that no object hit— All congelation, vapor, smoke, or fog. And what avail'd the argument unsound That nothing proved, or on the expecting mind Forced no conviction—just as well might sound To the deaf ear with sentiments abound. Long did we wait for application time To find what sense or reason might apply:— It came—attended with the false sublime, And thread-bare truths, no mortal could deny. Repeated thoughts, and periods of a mile, Remarks devoid of dignity or power, Exploded notions, dress'd in brilliant style, Exhausted patience, and consumed the hour. Thus when of old some town some folks besieged, Before the walls the invader sat him down, While those who mann'd them, at their foes enraged, Threw many a load of ancient lumber down; And wore them out, with tumbling on their heads Bricks, tiles, and paving-stones, huge logs of timber, Pump-water, cold or boiling, shovels, spades,— And more, by far, than you or I remember. Ah, speaker! with artillery like your own Hard will it be one Federal to awake, Trust me, although you scold, and chafe, and frown, You may besiege, but are not like to take Their three wall'd town.

"In the rag, in the rag—whewgh!— "O well-flown dart."— Shakespeare's King Lear.

A Satire is arrived this day, And it must be repelled this night: Ye Powers! assist us what to say, For, from ourselves, we nothing write. We could have laughed at all you said, But when you writ—it struck us dead!— Megara!—do forbear to write, Or rage with less malignant spite. Leave it to men to snap and snarl— Be you the sweet engaging girl— Great in your smiles—weak in your arm— All vengeance, with no power to harm. I'll borrow from a scribbling set A Raven's feather, black as jet, And with the vengeance of the pen Create confusion in your Den. This, from an impulse all unknown, Shall temper down your heart of stone, Turn storms of hail to showers of rain, And bring your happy smiles again. But still, unwilling to resent What folly for a Satire meant, Peruse a fable that may blast, And your number one—make number last. In ancient times, no matter when, A lady, in some ancient reign (Perhaps in Greece, perhaps in Rome, Perhaps in countries nearer home.) This lady, rather fond of Fun, Had put a suit of armour on: With bow and arrows, and her fan She conquered many an honest man. One day she met, in a desart waste A wight unseemely to her taste; His brow, she thought, had too much frown; Thought she, "I'll fetch the fellow down." And strait she bends her twanging bow, And to his breast the arrows go! They tore a passage through his vest, But bounded from his solid chest. Another dart she aimed, and missed, Then boarded him, and bit his fist— Her grinders left a trifling mark— They were not grinders of a shark. She scampered then, and, as she flew, Another feeble arrow threw, Which though intended for one spot, It glanced aside, and touched him not. Enraged, he threw his mantle off, And said, She shall be plagued enough! Then, swift as fate, her pace defied, Out went her trot, and joined her side.— Megara was in such a glow!— When thus the ruffian hailed her, "Hoa!— What, Madam, are your spirits low?— Heave to!—you are my prisoner now!"— Megara saw that all was gone!— She saw, her teeth would now be drawn: She saw her weapons were his prize, She saw it, and with flowing eyes, And with a feeble squeak or two, She faintly bawled out, Who are you? Altavola "From whence I came, or what I am, "Perhaps I may inform you, Ma'am: "I come from lands of Pure Delight, "Where female warriors do not Bite. "You view me with an eye of scorn!— "When I was old you were unborn: "When I aspired on eagle's wings "You were among unthought of things. "And did you hope to escape my rage, "You toy-shop on a strolling stage! "You insect of a puny race, "You baggage formed of gauze and lace! "The proudest strength you can assume, "Shakes not one feather from my plume. "My lot is in the æther cast, "I sail upon the northern blast; "Am mostly seen when whirlwinds rise, "And love the storm that rends the skies. "When thunders roar and lightnings flash, "Then is my time to cut a dash: "The clouds of hell alarm me less "Than you, some sad old fashioned dress. "And, if to answer some great end, "I to this wrangling world descend, "With force unknown, and pinions strong, "I travel quick and stay not long. "My spear is like a weaver's beam, "And pointed well at each extreme; "It flies with a tremendous force, "And rivals lightning in its course. "Of all things that are seen or known, "I hate a Calm—and say, Begone "Stagnation from this rolling ball, "Or slumbers in this Dreadful All! "I rise upon the drift of snow— "In polar frosts my spirits glow— "In the torrid zone, I temperate keep, "And wake!—when you, Megara, sleep. "I come from ghosts, that dreary brood, "Whose aspect would congeal your blood! "A people on the infernal coast, "Who know me well, and love me most. "I courted there, and found her kind, "A ghostess, suited to my mind; "Her wedding gown was flounced with soot, "And near her nose hung snuff and smut: "She pointed to her father's gate, "(A graveyard was his whole estate) "The bars were weak, the boards were thin, "She sung a psalm—and took me in. "Of shadowy stuff my parents were, "Composed of fogs, or framed of air: "He sold his brimstone to the skies, "While nitre kindled in Her eyes. "They feasted on the vapours blue, "Their glass of wine was evening dew; "On Etna's top they made their bed, "And there was I, their devil, bred. "My prowess is almost adored, "I blunt the edge of Orion's sword; "I seize Aquarius by the throat, "Nor care for Libra, or the Goat. "My word is, when I meet my foes, "Here's to the Lucky Wind that blows! "And, instant, all is sighs and groans, "And battered heads, and broken bones. "I now reward you for your spite— "I draw my weapon—see, how bright! "My last exploit in war I crown, "And thus—and thus—I throw you down! "Ah, miscreant! why that scream of death? "I only meant to—draw your teeth!— "Oh no!—I scorn to take your life— "Go, Madam,—be a prudent wife. "But, lady, I would have you know "You lose your arrows and your bow: "They are indeed of slender make, "And, in your hands might kill a rake: "So, to prevent such fatal harms, "I leave you destitute of arms— "I now must go!"—he, laughing, said, And vanished to the Stygian shade. This contest with Megara done, Thou dear, defeated Amazon!— As happy, now, as man can be, I hang my pen on yonder tree: It only asks one day of rest, It yields to every changing blast— Yes—let it stay suspended there, And strike My Colours—if you dare!

As late at a feast that she gave to Munroe, Her mark of attention to show, Young liberty gave her libations to flow, To honor where honor is due. Return'd from the country that trampled on crowns Where high in opinion he stood, Dark malace attack'd him, with sneers, and with frowns, But he met the applause of the good. To the Knight of the Sceptre unwelcome he came But freedom his merit confess'd— He look'd at their malice, and saw it was fame, And pity forgave them the rest. Good humor, and pleasure, and friendship did join, And reason the pleasure increased; And the hero, who captured the British Burgoyne, Presided and honor'd the feast. On a broomstick from hell, with a quill in his hand, Baal-Zephou came riding the air; He look'd, and he saw that among the whole band Not a single apostate was there. Disappointed, he sigh'd, but still hover'd about Till the toasts, with a vengeance, began— He met the first four; when the next they gave out[A] To his cavern he fled back again.

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

Once more, our annual debt to pay, We meet on this auspicious day That will, through every coming age, Columbia's patriot sons engage. From this fair day we date the birth, Of freedom's reign, restored to earth, And millions learn, too long depraved, How to be govern'd, not enslaved.[122] Thou source of every true delight Fair peace, extend thy sway, While to thy temple we invite All nations on this day.[123] O dire effects of tyrant power! How have ye darken'd every hour, And made those hours embitter'd flow That nature meant for joys below. With sceptred pride, and brow of awe Oppression gave the world her law, And man, who should such law disdain, Resign'd to her malignant reign. Here on our quiet native coast No more we dread the warring host That once alarm'd, when Britain rose, And made Columbia's sons her foes. Parent of every cruel art That stains the soul, that steels the heart, Fierce war, with all thy bleeding band, Molest no more this rising land. May thy loud din be changed for peace, All human woe and warfare cease, And nations sheath the sword again To find a long, pacific reign.[124] Soon may all tyrants disappear And man to man be less severe; The ties of love more firmly bind, Not fetters, that enchain mankind. But virtue must her strength maintain, Or short, too short, is freedom's reign, And, if her precepts we despise, Tyrants and kings again will rise.[125] No more an angry, plundering race, May man in every clime embrace, And we on this remoter shore, Exult in bloody wars no more. On this returning annual day May we to heaven our homage pay, Happy, that here the time's began That made mankind the friend of man!—

Say—shall we pause, and here conclude our page, Or waft it onward to the coming age?— Just as You say, whose efforts shook his throne, And plucked the brightest gem from George's crown— Who, armed in Freedom's cause with hearts of steel, Have through these stormy times toiled for the common weal; Nor quit that standard thousands have deserted, By foreign arts, or gold, or titles re-converted. If You, propitious to the press and pen, Gave vigour to the cause that roused up men When slavery's sons approached with Britain's fleet, Still we demand your aid—for Britain hates you yet: Not with the sword and gun she now contends But wages silent war, and by corruption bends, Foe to the system that enlightens man, Here, thrones she would erect, and frustrate Freedom's plan. Here, on this virgin earth, the soil unstained, Where yet no tyrant has his purpose gained, Keep bright that flame which every bosom fired When Hessian hirelings from these lands retired, When, worn and wasted, all that murdering crew And British squadrons from the Hudson flew; When, leagued with France, you darts of vengeance hurled, And bade defiance to the despot world. Ye heirs and owners of the future age Who soon will shove old actors from the stage, To you the care of liberty they trust When Washington and Gates are laid in dust— When Jefferson, with Greene, in long repose Shall sleep, unconscious of your bliss or woes, Seeming to say, Be wise, be free, my sons, Nor let one tyrant trample on our bones.

From Penn's famous city what hosts have departed, The streets and the houses are nearly deserted, But still there remain Two Vipers, that's plain, Who soon, it is thought, yellow flag will display; Old Porcupine preaching, And Fenno beseeching Some dung-cart to wheel him away. Philadelphians, we're sorry you suffer by fevers, Or suffer such scullions to be your deceivers; Will. Pitt's noisy whelp With his red foxy scalp Whom the kennels of London spew'd out in a fright, Has skulk'd over here To snuffle and sneer, Like a puppy to snap, or a bull dog to bite. If cut from the gallows, or kick'd from the post, Such fellows as these are of England the boast But Columbia's disgrace! Begone from that place That was dignified once by a Franklin and Penn, But infested by you And your damnable crew Will soon be deserted by all honest men.

Unless it be for mere defence May shipwrights fail to launch you hence, At best, the comrade of old Nick— Some folks will smile to see you stick. But now, suppose the matter done, And her the element upon; What cause have we mad wars to wage Or join the quarrels of the age? Remote from Europe's wrangling race, Who show us no pacific face Let's tread negociation's track Before we venture to attack. But to the seas if we must go, 'Tis clearly seen who is the foe, Who hastens, at no distant date, To repossess his lost estate. I see them raise the storm of war, To cloud the gay columbian star, I see them, bloody, brave and base Make us the object of their chase. Their ships of such superior might All we possess will put to flight, Or bear them off, with all on board, To make a meal for George the third. One frigate, only, will not do— She must retreat while they pursue, To make her drink affliction's cup, And, heaven preserve us, eat her up. A navy of stupendous strength 'Tis plain, must be our lot at length, To sweep the seas, to guard the shore, And crush their haughtiest seventy four. Those puny ships that now we frame, (The way that England plays her game) Will to their bull-dogs fall a prey The hour we get them under weigh.—

The builders had the ship prepared, And near her stood a triple guard, For fear of secret foes. Some, tiptoe stood to see her start, And would have said, with all their heart, In raptures, there she goes! The stubborn ship, do what they could, Convinced them, she was made of wood Though plann'd with art supreme; All art, all force the ship defy'd— Nor brilliant day, nor top of tide Could urge her to the stream. Some, with their airs aristocratic, And some with honors diplomatic, Advanced to see the show: In vain the builder to her call'd— In vain the shipwrights pull'd and haul'd— She could not—would not go. Each anti-federal, with a smile Observed the yet unfloating pile As if he meant to say, Builder, no doubt, you know your trade, A constitution you have made But should her ways have better laid. Well now to heave the ship afloat, To move from this unlucky spot, Take our advice, and give them soon, What should have long ago been done, Amendments—You Know What.

In former days your starch'd divines From notes of twenty thousand lines Held many a long dispute; One argued this, one argued that, And reverend wigs, as umpires sat, All sophists to confute. They dwelt on things beyond their ken And teazed and puzzled simple men To hold them in the dark; But their long season now is past, The churchman's horn has blown its blast, Things take a different mark. Physicians now to quiet pain Stick lancet in the patient's vein That burns with feverish heat: The next contend, they're wholly wrong, That life will leak away ere long If thus the case they treat. Meantime a practice gets about, Perhaps to make some doctors pout: Old Shelah, with her herbs and teas, And scarce a shilling for her fees, In many instances, at least, When deaths and funerals increased, Did more to dispossess the fever, Did more from dying beds deliver Than all the hippocratian host Could by the lancet's virtue boast; To which, I trow, full many a ghost Will have a grudge forever.

Blest is the man who shuns the place Where Demo's love to meet, Who scorns to gnaw their bread and cheese, And hates their small beer treat: But in the glare of splendid halls Doth place his whole delight, And there by day eats force-meat balls, And roasted hogs by night. He, like some thrifty pumpkin vine, Near Hartford that doth grow, Shall creep, and spread, and twist, and twine, And shade the weeds below. Puff'd by all dunces far and near He'll swell to station high, While Democrats confus'd appear As he rides rattling by. Not so the man of vulgar birth, And Democratic phiz; Want, toil, and every plague on earth, Shall certainly be his. Poor as a snake, and ever vile Shall his condition be, Who to the men of royal style Neglects to bend the knee. He, with the herd of little note, May starve on bread and cheese, And soon shall be without a coat Or sent to pay jail-fees.

Madam!—Stay where you are, 'Tis better, sure, by far Than venturing on an element of danger, Where heavy seas and stormy gales May wreck your hulk and rend your sails, Or Europe's black-guards treat you like a stranger, When first you stuck upon your ways (Where half New England came to gaze) We antifederals thought it something odd That where all art had been display'd, And even the builder deem'd a little god, He had your ways not better laid. Omens, indeed, are now exploded, But you have something dismal boded: Say—must the navy-system go to rack, And things advance at such a rate That every wisely govern'd state Will hold the author of the scheme a quack. O frigate Constitution! stay on shore: Why would you meet old Ocean's roar? Was man design'd To be confin'd In those fire-spitting hells a navy nam'd, Where Vice herself, abash'd, asham'd, Turns from the horrid scene of blood and bones, And mangled carcases of men; and grunts and groans. Remaining on the stocks, in gloomy pride, Without an anchor thou shalt safely ride; No pumping there, To make men swear, Waves you'll despise, Tho' fierce they rise To heaven when storms and tempests blow: Steady as fate, unmov'd will you appear When other ships the foaming surges tear— No fear of broaching to. Nor useless need you be, if right we deem, For harmless purposes you proper seem— Scorn to be made a bloody, murdering den; Let folks of sense At less expense Convert you into stores—to bring in rents; Stow pumpkins there—or anything but Men.

"Lodge where you must, drink small-beer where you can, "But eat no roast pig, if no Federal man."

Duncan, with truth it may be said, Your mouth was made for rye or barley bread; What claim have you to halls of state, Whose business is to stand and wait, Subserviant to command? What right have you to white-bread, superfine, Who were by nature destin'd for "a swine"— As said good Edmund Burke, The drudge of Britain's dirty work, Whose mighty pamphlets rous'd the royal band! When passing by a splendid dome of pride By speculation built (and built so vast That there a standing army might reside) Say, Duncan, stood you not aghast, When gazing up (like fox that look'd for grapes) You saw so many things in curious shapes, Trees rang'd along the table, And sugar-columns, far above the rabble, With roses blooming in October, And wisdom's figure—dull and sober. Ah! how you smack'd your lips, and look'd so wishful When pigs and poultry—many a lovely dish-full, Imparted to your nose the savoury scent For royal noses—not for Duncan's—meant. For things like these you, caitiff, were not born— A pewter spoon was for your chops intended; Some shins of beef, and garlands made of thorn— On things like these has Freedom's feast depended. Though in the days of fight you musquet carried, Or wandered up and down, a cannon-hauling, Better you might in Jericho have tarried And rebel-starving made your loyal calling. Among our far-fam'd chieftains that are dead (Like beer set by in mug without a lid, And sure, a half-gill glass I'll put it all in) I'll toast your health—yes, to the very brim And to the little gaping world proclaim You are a Hero fallen: One of the wights who dar'd all death, or wound, And warr'd for two and sixpence in the pound. Of public virtue you're a rare example— Go, mind your hoe, your pick-ax, or your spade; A hut of six foot square shall be your "temple," And all your honour—strutting on parade. But pray, beware of public good; It will not always find you food, And if your son should anything inherit, Bequeath him not your public spirit, But sixpence, to be train'd to sawing wood.

No easy task that press assumes Which takes the lead in Freedom's band, And scatters in nocturnal glooms The blaze of Reason through our land: Each empty bellows would, no doubt, Rise, and aspire to put it out. Blamed though you are, pursue your way; Night evermore precedes the sun; Whate'er some angry king's-men say, You play a game that must be won: The bliss of man—is the great prize That yet at stake with tyrants lies. When first a mean, designing few Their poisonous dregs by Herald spread; An antidote, by such as you, Was at the root of mischief laid; With a simple herb from Reason's plains You kept all right in Freedom's veins. Now hostile views, and low design Are busy to annoy your page, Controul its strength, its fires confine, And war with sense and reason wage: They hope, with fogs to quench the sun, They hope your useful race is run. But though some narrow hearts contrive To shove you from your mounted car; Right pleasantly we see you drive, And hardly heed their little war: Like insects, creeping in the dirt, They merely serve to make you sport. Who looks at Kings, a court, a queen, With childish pomp, and borrowed fame, But wonders from what genius mean Their chaos of confusion came— Yet those on little things depend, And every reptile is their friend.

"That one may write—and write—and be a villain, "At least, I'm sure it may be so in—Denmark."—Hamlet.

"While with the loss of blood and spirits some faint, "Others are seen to rise, triumphant, "O'er slaughter'd thousands sent to Pluto's shores, "Where Stygian water in dull torrent roars— "What hosts, what myriads fell, "By lancet and by calomell, "All gone, in Philadelphia's epidemic, "And sent the substance of mankind to mimic." So said that Man divine Bold Peter Porcupine, Who through these climes his vast subscription spread, And rais'd four thousand ghosts; and struck with dread, All Democratic knaves, Disorganizing slaves— He with bold wit, And spirit and spit, From Nova Scotia to the woods of Maine, True federalism did maintain; And through those mighty thriving states, Distributed his dainty, blackguard bits. Ah—Peter!—Thou, poor lousy numps Who loadest little horses' rumps, And mak'st them trot and sweat, On sandy road Beneath the load Of trash call'd Peter Porcupine's Gazette. What have you done to claim Columbia's love That she—like some base— Should court a scoundrel from a foreign shore And make him tool to—some apostate Jove, Ah! now I see poor Carolina's horses, With pedlar's pack, Pil'd high on back, Pursuing their mean, blackguard courses, Through solitary groves and woods of pine Transporting Goods, like thine, ————Damned stuff! Of which Columbia, sure, has had—enough— There Pickens, Sumpter, Greene, for freedom fought, And Liberty her wonders wrought. What do I hear? And have we lent thee wings To waft thy poison into Eutaw Springs? Those, clearer than Castalia's waters, found, For many a hero, dead, who might have claim'd Life—but for brutish George, Who, having robb'd and plunder'd half the east, Came here to close his Vulture's feast. Now, Peter! take advice from Doctor Rush; And—convert to the system you would crush; Pray, let him draw your blackguard blood; (And calomell might, also, do some good.) Four thousand drops exhausted from your veins Will save the future exercise of canes: And, tell him to be speedy with his lancet, For 'tis a truth; and many dare advance it, That howe'er in life well fed, No Doctor bleeds a man—when dead.

O thou, marked out by Fate from vulgar swine, Among the learned of our age to shine, On whom 'squires, ladies, parsons, come to gaze, Bold, science-loving pig, Who, without gown or wig Can force your way through learning's thorny maze —How many high learned wights in days of old (Whom Fame has with the great enrolled) Starved by their wits—were banished, hanged, or sold; —While you, on better ages fallen, O lucky swine! Can by your wit on pyes and sweetmeats dine— When house and lands are gone and spent, Then learning is most excellent— (So says a proverb through the world well known)— You, that were pigged to grovel in a stye, Have left your swill for science high:— Without a rival of your race, You hold a most distinguished place— All that the heart can wish flows in to you, Who real happiness pursue, And are well fed, on whate'er hog stye thrown. Now, if one had the chance to choose one's state On this world's stage, and not controuled by Fate, Who would not wish to have his little brains Lodged in the head of Learned Pig, Rather than be a man, and toil, and sweat, and dig With all the sense the human scull contains. With Us, we all are wise, we all things know, But every pig—inferior is to you— The rest are fools and simpletons—and so— What, next, will be the science You attain? Science!—to You, that opens all her store?— Already have you in your sapient brain More than most aldermen—and gumption more Than some, who capers cut on Congress floor. May we not hope, in this improving age Of human things—to see on Terra's stage Hogs take the lead of men, and from their styes To honours, riches, office, rise! Adepts in Latin, Commerce, Physick, Law?— From what is seen, such inference we draw—

"Thus Cain of old, poor Abel slain, "Departing from his native plain, "In land of Nod, beneath the heaven's frowns, "Built sky-topt towers and federal towns."

Enough of learned pigs, Pigg'd for immense designs, And shame our men of mighty wigs— Enough of Peter Porcupines, Whose quills, like pop-guns shooting at a fort, Be sure have done the Demos mighty hurt, A subject now of real weight inspires, That soon will kindle every muse's fires, No less than federal town, Immortal in renown, Which in her district—ten miles square The center fills, like spider in her web Catching all silly flies that venture near, And fattening on the folly of the tribe. When fates decreed, Or nature said "This spot is destin'd for a future town," Between them both they so contriv'd the matter (Altho' perhaps not wholly wrong the latter) That this should be a town of silent halls And like Palmyra famous in the east, Erect her columns huge and lofty walls— Yet there in vain for men do travellers seek, And hardly meet a townsman once a week! Virginia's sons, as through this town they pass Each cries, "Alas, No sound of fiddle here, All dull and drear, No merry bells that jingle on the ear, No glittering females, balls, or billiards dear— No fighting cocks, no gallant steeds for racing: Well-stap my vitals—is it not distressing? No gallant ship with canvas swelling high Engag'd in war or commerce passes by; But corn-boats mean from Alleghany hills, Or buck-wheat laden hulks from country mills!" Amidst these huge hotels and regal domes Frequent some townsman walks, as midst the tombs, And cries, "The founders of this city blundered In rearing up such piles for eighteen hundred: Waiting for that must Congress absent stay?— Ah! curse the Law's delay! Rather than hold them there, (Though, doubtless, it may sadly grieve her) May Philadelphia twelve months every year Be plagu'd and blooded for the yellow fever!"

Where Hudson, once, in all his pride In surges burst upon the shore They plant amidst his flowing tide Moles, to defy his loudest roar; And lofty mansions grow where late Half Europe might discharge her freight. From northern lakes and wastes of snow The river takes a distant rise, Now marches swift, now marches slow, And now adown some rapid flies Till join'd the Mohawk, in their course They travel with united force. But cease, nor with too daring aim Encroach upon this giant flood; No rights reserved by nature, claim, Nor on his ancient bed intrude:— The river may in rage awake And time restore him all you take. The eastern stream, his sister, raves To see such moles her peace molest A London built upon her waves, The weight of mountains on her breast: With quicken'd flow she seeks the main As on her bed new fabrics gain. Bold streams! and may our verse demand Is there not coast for many a mile, And soils, as form'd by nature's hand That border all Manhattan's isle: Then why these mounds does avarice raise And build the haunts of pale disease. Yet in your aim to clip their wing (It asks no wizard to descry,) That time the woful day will bring When Hudson's passion, swelling high, May in a foam his wrongs repay And sweep both house and wharf away.

Thus launch'd at length upon the main And soon prepar'd the seas to roam, In your capacious breast ere long Will many an idler find a home That sells his freedom for a song, Quits fields and trees For boisterous seas, To tread his native soil no more, And see—but not possess the shore. Well! let them go—can there be loss In those who Nature's bounty slight, From rural vales and freedom's shades To this dull cage who take their flight, The axe, the hoe, The plough forego, The buxom milk-maid's simple treat, The bliss of country life forget, For tumult here And toil severe, A gun their pillow when they sleep, And when they wake, are wak'd to weep. Dick Brothers said, "The time will come, "When war no more shall prowl the sea, "Nor men for pride or plunder roam, "And my millenium brings them home, "How'eer dispers'd through each degree." If Richard proves a prophet true, Why may not we be quiet too, And turn our bull-dogs into lambs, Saw off the horns of battering rams As well as Europe's sons? Ye Quakers! see with pure delight, The times approach when men of might, And squadrons roving round the ball, Shall fight each other not at all, Or fight with wooden guns. And yet that Being you address Who shaped old Chaos into form, May speak—and with a word suppress The tryant and the storm.