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

With aspect wild, in ranting strain You bring the brilliant period near, When monarchy will close her reign And wars and warriors disappear; The lion and the lamb will stray, And, social, walk the woodland way. I fear, with superficial view You contemplate dame nature's plan:— She various forms of being drew, And made the common tryant—man: She form'd them all with wise design, Distinguish'd each, and drew the line. Observe the lion's visage bold His iron tooth, his murderous claw, His aspect cast in anger's mould; The strength of steel is in his paw: Could he be meant with lambs to stray Or feed along the woodland way? Since first his race on earth began War was his trade and war will be: And when he quits that ancient plan With milder natures to agree, He will be changed to something new And have some other part to do. One system see through all this frame, Apparent discord still prevails; The forest yields to active flame, The ocean swells with stormy gales; No season did the God decree When leagued in friendship these should be. And do you think that human kind Can shun the all-pervading law— That passion's slave we ever find— Who discord from their nature draw:— Ere discord can from man depart He must assume a different heart. Yet in the slow advance of things A time may come our race may rise, By reason's aid to stretch their wings, And see the light with other eyes; And when the ancient mist is pass'd; To find their nature changed at last, The sun himself, the powers ordain, Should in no perfect circle stray; He shuns the equatorial plane, Prefers an odd serpentine way, And lessens yearly, sophists prove, His angle in the voids above. When moving in his ancient line, And no oblique ecliptic near, With some new influence he may shine But you and I will not be here To see the lion shed his teeth Or kings forget the trade of death.

"To bleed or not to bleed—that is the question! Whether 'tis better in our beds to suffer The slights and snufflings of outrageous doctors, Or by the Lancet—quit them."

In ancient days divines, in dismal humour, With disputation kept the presses going; Wrangled about some wonderous mighty things The difference "'twixt a shadow and a shade," And scribbled much of "way of man with maid." At length, as fades the crown Their bludgeons they lay down; And you, wise doctors, take the wrangle up, Each cursing all who will not drink his cup. Ah, Philadelphians! still to knaves a prey, Take your old philosophic way; When from the native spring you seiz'd your draught, Health bloom'd on every face, and all was gay— Dejection was remote—and Nature laugh'd. A question now, of mighty weight is put, Whether, to bleed a man is best, or not, When scarce three drops (or not one drop) remains In the poor devil's veins!— Well! you decide, who are in Galen read— Take Boorhaave's, if you please—whatever system— (Why are men such that doctors can enlist 'em?) Whether your methods be the right or wrong, And man's existence shorten or prolong, We feverish fellows, must be—put to bed. The secret has leak'd out—be cautious doctors (The whole shall be disclos'd in room with lock'd doors) Old women, with their simple herbs and teas (And asking hardly two-pence for their fees) Disarm this dreadful epidemic fever; Make it as tame and innocent, (Whether home-bred or from West Indies sent) As Continental soldier, turn'd to Weaver.

If Ephraim on his bed complains Of feverish pulse and boiling veins, And throbs and pulses in his brains, Then round him flock a ghastly crew Of doctors old and doctors new, And doctors, some—the Lord knows who. Hoping the men had learned their trade, Poor Ephraim begs them for their aid, And promises they shall be paid. Each quotes some book, by way of sham, Or reads some text from Sydenham, Which some approve, and some condemn. At once he hears a barbarous noise, Like that from herds of butchers' boys, That ever hope of life destroys. He promises all bills to pay, But they proceed in angry fray— Poor Ephraim frets—and well he may. Each looks at each with vengeful eyes, As if contending for a prize He wants his share—when Ephraim dies. One talks of cure by Calomel; But his wise brother, Sydrophel, Swears, 'tis the readiest way to hell. While one the lancet recommends, Another for a blister sends, And each his every cure defends. Weary of all they have to say, At last the patient faints away: Poor Ephraim swoons—and well he may. In Fancy's dreams, he thinks he roams In realms where doctor Satan foams, With Sydrophels and Curry-combs. Revived at length, he begs release, And whines, "Do let your quarrels cease, Do, doctors, let me die in peace. "Oh! had I sent for doctress Nan, Or anything but cruel man, To put me on my legs again: "She, with her cooling tamarind tea, At least would not have murdered me— Come! if you love me, do agree. "She would have held my dizzy head— She would have something to me read— Or would have somewhat cheering said. "Good heavens! you cannot all be right— O do not scratch!—O do not bite!— Good doctors, do not, do not fight!"— Here they began a louder fray— Oh! Ephraim's dead!—to them all play— Poor Ephraim dies!—and well he may.

Ye congress men and men of weight, Who fill the public chairs, And many a favor have conferr'd On some, unknown to Mars; And ye, who hold the post of fame, The helmsmen of our great affairs, Afford a calm, attentive ear To her who handled sword and spear, A heroine in a bold career, Assist a war-worn dame. With the same vigorous soul inspired As Joan of Arc, of old, With zeal against the Briton fired, Her spirit warm and bold, She march'd to face her country's foes Disguised in male attire: Where'er they prowl'd through field or town With steady step she follow'd on; Resolved the conflict to sustain, She met them on the hill, the plain, And hostile to the English reign, She hurl'd the blasting fire. Now for such generous toils endured, Her day of warfare done, In life's decline at length reward This faithful amazon: She asks no thousands at your hands, Though mark'd with many a scar; She asks no share of indian lands, Though lands you have to spare: But something in the wane of days To make her snug, and keep her warm, A cottage, and the cheery blaze, To shield her from the storm; And something to the pocket too, Your bounty might afford, Of her, who did our foes pursue With bayonet, gun, and sword. Reflect how many tender ties A female must forego Ere to the martial camp she flies To meet the invading foe: How many bars has nature placed, And custom many more, Lest slighted woman should be graced With trophies gain'd in war. All these she nobly overcame, And scorn'd a censuring age, Join'd in the ranks, her road to fame, Despis'd the Briton's rage; And men, who, with contracted mind, All arrogant, condemn And make disgrace in womankind What honor is in them.

All human things must have their rise, And Rome advanced from little size Till future ages saw her grown The mistress of the world, then known. So, bounding on Potowmac's flood, Where ancient oaks so lately stood An infant city grows apace Intended for a ruling race. Here capitols of awful height— Already burst upon the sight, And buildings, meant for embryo kings Display their fronts and spread their wings. This city bodes no common fate— All other towns, as books relate, With huts at first were thinly spread, With hovels mean, or humble shed. But matters here are quite reversed, Here, palaces are built the first, And late will common rustics come In such abodes to find a home. Meantime, it will be fair and just (Nor will our congress fret, we trust) If while the poor at distance lurk— Themselves do their own dirty work. Rome's earliest citizens were thieves, So history tells, and man believes, May matters be again reversed, May they who here inhabit first Instruct the late historians pen To write—that they were honest men.

Why travel so far from your insular home, Ye cockneys of London, and all in a foam, To talk, and to talk, with coxcombical phiz, And tell what a nuisance democracy is: Twas a lesson we learn'd When you were concern'd In wishing success to the vast preparations To conquer and pillage the royal-plantations. We Americans far from your king-ridden isle Do humbly beseech you, all democrat haters, For fear that your bodies or souls you defile, Would fairly go off, with your lies and your satires: The monarch you worship requests your assistance, And how can you help him at such a long distance? Tis an Englishman's creed, And they all have agreed That, out of old England, there's nothing, they swear, That can with old England—dear England—compare; So, away to old England, or we'll send you there. A swarm is arrived from the hives of the east, Determined to sap the republic's foundation; And who is their leader, their scribe, and their priest? Why, Porcupine Peter, The democrat-eater, Transported by Pitt, at the charge of the nation, To preach to the demos a new revelation. His patrons in England, and some who are here, Consented to join in his sink of scurrility, And gave him, tis certain, four thousand a year To print a damn'd libel, to please our nobility: Where I—is the hero of all that is said I—Corporal Cobbett[A]-a man of the blade! If his countrymen thought That for nothing we fought And they mean to regain, by the aid of his press, A country they lost, to their shame and disgrace, Let them fairly engage In some liberal page: We can give them an answer, not relish'd by some, Who will see their friend Peter go, whimpering, home.

By the gods of the poets, Apollo and Jove, By the muse who directs me, the spirits that move, I council you, Peter, once more, to retire Or satire shall pierce, with her arrows of fire. Be careful to stop in your noisy career, Or homeward retreat, for your danger is near: The clouds are collecting to burst on your head, Their sulphur to dart, or their torrents to shed. Along with the tears, I foresee you will weep, In the cave of oblivion I put you to sleep;— This dealer in scandal, this bladder of gall, This sprig of Parnassus must go to the wall. From a star of renown in the reign of night He has dwindled away to a little rush-light: Then snuff it, and snuff it, while yet it remains And Peter will leave you the snuff for your pains.—

Men of this passing age!—whose noble deeds Honour will bear above the scum of Time: Ere this eventful century expire, Once more we greet you with our humble rhyme: Pleased, if we meet your smiles, but—if denied, Yet, with Your sentence, we are satisfied. Catching our subjects from the varying scene Of human things; a mingled work we draw, Chequered with fancies odd, and figures strange, Such, as no courtly poet ever saw; Who writ, beneath some Great Man's ceiling placed; Travelled no lands, nor roved the watery waste. To seize some features from the faithless past; Be this our care—before the century close: The colours strong!—for, if we deem aright, The coming age will be an age of prose: When sordid cares will break the muses' dream, And Common Sense be ranked in seat supreme. Go, now, dear book; once more expand your wings: Still in the cause of Man severely true: Untaught to flatter pride, or fawn on kings;— Trojan, or Tyrian,[A]—give them both their due.— When they are right, the cause of both we plead, And both will please us well,—if both will read.

Attracted by the taper's rays, How carelessly you come to gaze On what absorbs you in its blaze! O Fly! I bid you have a care: You do not heed the danger near; This light, to you a blazing star. Already you have scorch'd your wings: What courage, or what folly brings You, hovering near such blazing things? Ah me! you touch this little sun— One circuit more and all is done!— Now to the furnace you are gone!— Thus folly with ambition join'd, Attracts the insects of mankind, And sways the superficial mind: Thus, power has charms which all admire, But dangerous is that central fire— If you are wise in time retire.—

An Indian, who lived at Muskingum, remote, Was teazed by a parson to join his dear flock, To throw off his blanket and put on a coat, And of grace and religion to lay in a stock. The Indian long slighted an offer so fair, Preferring to preaching his fishing and fowling; A sermon to him was a heart full of care, And singing but little superior to howling. At last by persuasion and constant harassing Our Indian was brought to consent to be good; He saw that the malice of Satan was pressing, And the means to repel him not yet understood. Of heaven, one day, when the parson was speaking, And painting the beautiful things of the place, The convert, who something substantial was seeking, Rose up, and confessed he had doubts in the case.— Said he, Master Minister, this place that you talk of, Of things for the stomach, pray what has it got; Has it liquors in plenty?—If so I'll soon walk off And put myself down in the heavenly spot. You fool (said the preacher) no liquors are there! The place I'm describing is most like our meeting, Good people, all singing, with preaching and prayer; They live upon these without eating or drinking. But the doors are all locked against folks that are wicked; And you, I am fearful, will never get there:— A life of Repentance must purchase the ticket, And few of you, Indians, can buy it, I fear. Farewell (said the Indian) I'm none of your mess; On victuals, so airy, I faintish should feel, I cannot consent to be lodged in a place Where's there's nothing to eat and but little to steal.

In a town I could mention, a lawyer resided As cunning as Satan, and fond of disputes; In wrangles and quarrels he ever confided, To keep on his docquet a long string of suits. Of little importance, nay, paltry and mean, The matter contested, a pig or a hen; But one thing he stuck to, he ever was seen To have for his pleading just one pound ten. With pleasure he saw that the quarrels increased, Each day he had business from wranglesome men, But all to the 'squire was a holiday feast While he got his dear Fee, the one pound ten. A parchment, Caveto, hung up in his hall Which cautioned the reader to read and attend, That for one pound ten he would quibble and brawl, Twist, lie, and do all things a cause to defend. Sometimes when the limits of lots were disputed He would put all to rights in the turn of a straw; From the tenth of an inch he his pocket recruited Till he made the two parties curse lawyer and law. Thus matters went on, and the lawyer grown rich Fed high, and swilled wine 'till the dropsy began To bloat up his guts to so monstrous a pitch, You would hardly have known him to be the same man. At last he departed, and when he had died, His worship arriving at Beelzebub's den; How much is the entrance (demanded the guide?—) Old Devil made answer, 'Tis One Pound Ten.

Musician of the west! whose vast design Schemes our new states with England to combine; How vain the hope, with violin and bow, Such feeble arms, to work internal wo! How weak the attempt our union to divide With not a sword or pistol at your side! Not even a drum your engineer employs:— He's right—a drum would blast the plot, by noise: All must be done in midnight silence, all Your plans must ripen or your projects fall. Unknown, unseen, till in the destined hour Descends the stroke of trans-atlantic power! By music's note to sway the western wild Indeed is new;—we heard it and we smiled. In cold December's iron-hearted reign Would you with blushing blossoms deck the plain; Would you with sound immure the Thirteen Stars, Or plant a garland on the front of Mars? To sound, not sense, once brutes, they say, advanced, When Orpheus whistled, fauns and satyrs danced— You are no Orpheus—and it may be true He play'd some tunes that are unknown to you. Hopes, such as yours, on cat-gut who would place; On tenor, treble, counter, or the bass: Who arm'd with horse-hair, hopes a world to win Who gains dominion from a violin? Such if there was, in times, the lord knows when, He must have been at least the first of men— But now—the world would have not much to prize In such a warfare where no soldier dies: Thus would it say—by sad experience taught, 'Oh! may we never fight as these have fought! 'These to the charge with Thespian arms advanced, 'And when they should have fought, the soldiers danced; 'They had no drums, they felt no martial flame, 'But, cold as Christmas, to the conflict came!' My dreams present you thrumming on your string Playing at proper stands, God save the king! I see you march, a pedlar with his pack, And that poor fiddle swung athwart your back, (Like Reynard from some hen-roost hurrying home With plunder'd poultry for the feast to come) Trudging the wilds, on bold adventures bent, The woods at once your coverlet and tent, To fierce rebellions our back-woods to call— The attempt how mighty! and the means how small. Amphion once, the classic stories say, When on his organ he began to play, So soft, so sweet, so melting were his tunes That even the savage rocks danced rigadoons, The trees, themselves, with frantic passions fired Leap'd from their roots and every note admired: Quitting the spot, where many a year they grew Quick to the music sprung the enchanted crew, Form'd o'er his head a sun-repelling power And bow'd their shadowy heads to music's power. If what, this moment, some relate be true Still greater wonders are reserved for you. Your music, far, all Amphion's art exceeds, Not trees and rocks, but provinces it leads. All Alleghany capers to the sound, And southward moves to meet the iberian bound; Kentucky hears the soul-enlivening notes And on the artist and his music doats; Remote Sanduskie spreads her eager wings, And wild Miami with the concert rings; Tiptoe, for flight, stands every hill and tree From Huron's shores to savage Tennessee; Arthur St. Clair might soon its influence feel; But Arthur knows no music—but of steel: Arthur St. Clair attends, with listening ears, And when the purpose of your march appears, Such music only will excite his rage, He'll come, and drive you from your dancing stage; Cut every string, the bridge, and sound-board seize, By your own cat-gut hang you to the trees, And bid you know, too late, It is no jest To play rebellion's music to the west.

Fellow Citizens: The glass has run—see ninety-seven has fled, And ninety-eight comes on with equal speed; While safe from harm, beneath their spreading vine, Columbia's sons in virtuous actions shine: Their generous contributions feed the poor, And sends them smiling from their patron's door; Sweet Peace and Plenty crowns the festive board, Where man reveres no domineering lord; But free from scenes of desolating war, Where kingdoms clash and mighty empires jar, He lives secure from all the dread alarms Of fell invaders and the din of arms:— Such scenes now past have once defil'd our shore And drench'd Columbia in her children's gore, Let man exult, the raging storm is o'er. To you, my customers, I bring the news Of feuds domestic and of foreign woes; Of Liberty extending her domain, And Truth triumphant in her glorious reign. Consider, patrons through the storm and snow With constant care I am oblig'd to go; Shivering and cold, I want the lively cup To cheer my heart and keep my spirits up: To stern winter's gloom can joy inspire; Now social circles grace the Hickory fire; And on your board, for friends and neighbors spread, The turkey smokes the industrious peasant fed: But not to me these blessings are dispos'd, Fortune's capricious hand to me is clos'd; I am condemn'd to labour long and hard, Unknown my troubles, scanty my reward. Such is the humble German's life of toil, Who now solicits your approving smile; My grateful heart still let your bounty share, And Peace and Freedom reign from year to year. New-York, January 1, 1798.