Volume 3 / Part 4 — POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU

These Hills, the pride of all the coast, To mighty distance seen, With aspect bold and rugged brow, That shade the neighbouring main: These heights, for solitude design'd, This rude, resounding shore— These vales impervious to the wind, Tall oaks, that to the tempest bend, Half Druid, I adore. From distant lands, a thousand sails Your hazy summits greet— You saw the angry Briton come, You saw him, last, retreat! With towering crest, you first appear The news of land to tell; To him that comes, fresh joys impart, To him that goes, a heavy heart, The lover's long farewell. 'Tis your's to see the sailor bold,[2] Of persevering mind, To see him rove in search of care, And leave true bliss behind; To see him spread his flowing sails To trace a tiresome road, By wintry seas and tempests chac'd To see him o'er the ocean haste, A comfortless abode! Your thousand springs of waters blue What luxury to sip, As from the mountain's breast they flow To moisten Flora's lip! In vast retirements herd the deer, Where forests round them rise, Dark groves, their tops in æther lost, That, haunted still by Huddy's[3] ghost, The trembling rustic flies. Proud heights! with pain so often seen, (With joy beheld once more) On your firm base I take my stand, Tenacious of the shore:— Let those who pant for wealth or fame Pursue the watery road;— Soft sleep and ease, blest days and nights, And health, attend these favourite heights, Retirement's blest abode!

America, to every climate known, Spreads her broad bosom to the burning zone, To either pole extends her vast domain Where varying suns o'er different summers reign. Wide wandering streams, vast plains, and pathless woods, Bold shores, confined by circumscribing floods, Denote this land, whose fertile, flowery breast Teems with all life—and man, its nobler guest. In days of old, from ocean's deepest bed, Gulphs unexplored, and countries of the dead, Rous'd by some voice, that shook all nature's frame, From the vast depths this new creation came: Perpetual change its varying nature feels, The wave once flow'd that now with frost congeals, Suns on its breast have shed a feebler fire, Oceans have roll'd where mountains now aspire. The soil's proud lord a changeful temper knows, From differing earths his various nature grows: Long, long before the time that sophists plan Existed in these woods the race of man, Warm'd into life by some creating flame, All worlds pervading, and through all, the same! Not from the west their swarthy tribes they brought, As Europe's pride and Asia's folly taught;— With the same ease the great disposing power Produced a man, a reptile, or a flower:— See the swift deer, in lonely wilds that strays, See the tall elk, that in the valley plays, See the fierce tiger's raging, ravenous band, And wolves (their race as ancient as the land) Did these of old from bleak Kamschatka come, And traverse seas, to find a happier home?— No?—from the dust, this common dust, they drew Their different forms, proud man, that moulded you. At first, half beasts, untaught to till the land, Careless, you fed from Nature's fostering hand; In depths of deserts dream'd your lives away, Sought no new worlds, nor look'd beyond to-day: The Almighty power, that lives and breathes through all, Bade some faint rays on these dark nations fall; Early, to them did reasoning souls impart, Inventive genius, and some dawn of art; Then left them here, with sense enough to win, Or cheat the bear, or panther of his skin; Mean huts to build, regardless of their form, Completely blest, if shelter'd from the storm; To see the seasons change, day turn to night: Bow to the lamps of heaven that gave them light, Beam'd on the spring, or bade the summer glow, Their harvests ripen, and their gardens grow—

Wash'd by surrounding seas, and bold her coasts, A grateful soil the fair Rhode Island boasts. The admiring eye no happier fields can trace, Here seas are crowned with the scaly race, Nature has strove to make her native blest And owns no fairer Eden in the west: Here lovliest dames in frequent circles seen, Catch the fine tint of health from beauty's queen, No aid they want to seize the enraptur'd view Nor art's false colours to improve the true; Here, love the traveller holds—loth to depart Some charming creature slays his wandering heart, Bids him forget from clime to clime to rove, And even dull prudence—here—submits to love. On grassy farms, their souls enslav'd to gain, Reside the masters of the rural reign; Vast herds they feed, that glut the abundant pail, Break the stiff sod, or freight the adventurous sail; The nervous steed, the stanchest of the kind Here walks his rounds in pastures unconfin'd:— Half that the lands produce or seas contain To other shores transported o'er the main Returns in coin, to cheer the miser's eye, In foreign sweets, that fancied wants supply, Or tawdry stuffs, to deck the limbs of pride, That thus expends what avarice strove to hide. But, hostile to themselves, this jarring race In desperate interests, different plans embrace— One, bold in wrong, his paper fabric rears And steels his bosom to the orphan's tears To those he ruin'd grants no late relief! But leaves the wretched to subsist on grief! In lost advice his days the gownsman spends, He gives his prayers and teachings to the winds,— In vain he tells of virtue's sure reward; No words but this attract a swain's regard— Talk not of Laws!—where innocence must fall, One spark of honour more than damns them all; And vainly Science her assistance lends Where knavery shapes it to the basest ends, Fraud walks at large,—each selfish passion reigns, And cheats enforce what honesty disdains. Hurt at the view, I leave the ungrateful shore And thy rough soil, Connecticut, explore:

Here fond remembrance stampt her much loved names, Here boasts the soil its London and its Thames; Through all her shores commodious ports abound, Clear flow the waters of the unequal ground; Cold nipping winds a lengthened winter bring, Late rise the products of the unwilling spring, The impoverished fields the labourer's pains disgrace, And hawks and vultures scream through all the place; The broken soil a nervous breed requires, Where the rough glebe no generous crops admires— Dame Nature meanly did her gifts impart, But smiles to see how much is forced by art. As Boreas keen, who guides their wintry reign, All bow to lucre, all are bent on gain. In contact close their neat abodes are thrown, Its house, each acre; every mile, its town; With glittering spire the frequent church is seen,[8] Where yews and myrtles wave their gloomy green, Where fast-day sermons tell the hungry guest That a cameleon's dinner is the best: There mobs of deacons awe the ungodly wight, And hell's black master meets the unequal fight— Eternal squabblings grease the lawyer's paw, All have their suits, and all have studied Law: With tongue, that Art and Nature taught to speak, Some rave in Latin, some dispute in Greek: Proud of their parts, in ancient lore they shine, And one month's study makes a learned Divine;[9] Bards of huge fame in every hamlet rise, Each (in idea) of Virgilian size: Even beardless lads a rhyming knack display— Iliads begun, and finished in a day! Rhymes, that of old on Blackmore's wheel were spun, Come rattling down on Zion's reverend son;[10] Madly presumed time's vortex to defy! Things born to live an hour—then squeak and die. Some, to grow rich, through Indian forests roam, Some deem it best to stay and thrive at home: In spite of all the priest and squire can say, This world—this wicked world—will have its way; Honest through fear, religious by constraint, How hard to tell the sharper from the saint!— Fond of discourse, with deep designing views They pump the unwary traveller of his news; Fond of that news, but fonder to be paid, Each house a tavern, claims a tavern's trade, While he that comes as surely hears them praise The hospitality of modern days. Yet, brave in arms, of enterprizing soul, They tempt old Neptune to the farthest pole, In learning's walks explore the mazy way, (For genius there has shed his golden ray) In war's bold art through many a contest tried True to themselves, they took the nobler side, And party feuds forgot, joined to agree That power alone supreme—that left them free.

Here, in vast flocks, the fleecy nation strays, Here, endless herds the upland meadow graze, Here smiling plenty crowns the labourer's pain And blooming beauty weds the industrious swain: Were this thy all, what happier state could be!— But avarice drives the native to the sea, Fictitious wants all thoughts of ease controul, Proud Independence sways the aspiring soul, 'Midst foreign waves, a stranger to repose, Through the moist world the keen adventurer goes; Not India's seas restrain his daring sail, Far to the south he seeks the polar whale: From those vast banks where frequent tempests rave, And fogs eternal brood upon the wave, There (furled his sail) his daring hold he keeps, Drags from their depths the natives of those deeps; Then to some distant clime explores his way, Bold avarice spurs him on—he must obey. Yet from such aims one great effect we trace That holds in happier bonds this restless race; Like some deep lake, by circling shores comprest, Man's nature tends to universal rest: Unfed by springs, that find some secret pass To mix their current with the mightier mass, Unmoved by moons, that some strange impulse guides To lift its waters, and propel its tides, Unvext by winds, that scowl across its waste, Tear up the wave, and discompose its breast, Soon would that lake (a putrid nuisance grown,) Lose all its virtue, praised or prized by none: Thus, avarice lends new vigour to mankind, Not vainly planted in the unsteady mind; With her, Ambition linked, they proudly drive, Rule all our race, and keep the world alive. Here, first, to quench her once loved Freedom's flame, With their proud fleets, Britannia's warriors came; Here, sure to conquer, she began her fires, Here, sent her lords, her admirals, and her squires: All, all too weak to effect the vast design[12] For which we saw half Europe's arms combine, Uncounted navies rove from main to main, Threats, bribery, treachery—tried and tried again; Mandate on mandate, edict, and decree, To rivet fetters, and enslave the free! Long, long from Boston's hills shall strangers gaze On those vast mounds that magic seemed to raise; Stupendous piles that hastened Britain's flight, Extended hills, the offspring of a night!— In that devoted town they hoped to stay And, fed by rapine, sleep soft years away: Vain hopes, vain schemes—the unconquered spirit rose That still survived through all succeeding woes; Imprisoned crowds, in cruel durance held, Disarmed, restrained from honour's earliest field; Imprisoned thousands, worn with poignant grief, Now, half adoring, met their guardian chief,[A] Whose thundering cannon bade the foe retreat, Disgrace their portion, and their rout complete.

Sons of the earth, for plodding genius fam'd, Batavia long her earth-born natives claim'd: Begot from industry, and not from love, Swarming at length, to these fair climes they move.— Still in these climes their numerous race survive,[14] And, born to labour, still are found to thrive; Thro' rain and sunshine toiling for their heirs They hold no nation on this earth like theirs. Fond of themselves, no generous motives bind, To those that speak their gibberish, only kind:— Yet still some virtues, candour must confess, And truth shall own, some virtues they possess: Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around Groves bend with fruit and plenty clothes the ground; No barren trees to shade their domes are seen, Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean, No idle fancy dares its whims apply, Or hope attention from the master's eye, All tends to something that must pelf produce, All for some end, and every thing its use:— Eternal scowerings keep their floors afloat, Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat; The hoe, the loom, the female band employ, These all their pleasure, these their darling joy;— The strong-ribb'd lass no idle passions move, No frail ideas of romantic love; He to her heart the readiest path can find Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind, She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth, Minds not the swain—but asks him what he's worth. No female fears in her firm breast prevail, The helm she handles and she trims the sail, In some small barque the way to market finds, Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds, While placed a-head, subservient to her will, Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill. Health to their toils—thus may they still go on— Curse on my pen! What pictures have I drawn! Is this the general taste? No (Truth replies)— If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise, See—(where, the social circle meant to grace) The fair Cesarean shades her lovely face,— She, earlier held to happier tasks at home, Prefers the labours that her sex become, Remote from view, directs some favourite art, And leaves to hardier man the ruder part.

Spread with stupendous hills, far from the main, Fair Pennsylvania holds her golden rein, In fertile fields her wheaten harvest grows, Charged with its freights her favorite Delaware flows; From Erie's Lake her soil with plenty teems To where the Schuylkill rolls his limpid streams— Sweet stream! what pencil can thy beauties tell— Where, wandering downward through the woody vale, Thy varying scenes to rural bliss invite, To health and pleasure add a new delight: Here Juniata, too, allures the swain, And gay Cadorus roves along the plain; Sweetara, tumbling from the distant hill, Steals through the waste, to turn the industrious mill— Where'er those floods through groves or mountains stray, That God of Nature still directs the way, With fondest care has traced each river's bed And mighty streams thro' mighty forests led, Bade agriculture thus export her freight, The strength and glory of this favoured State. She, famed for science, arts, and polished men, Admires her Franklin, but adores her Penn, Who, wandering here, made barren forests bloom, And the new soil a happier robe assume: He planned no schemes that virtue disapproves, He robbed no Indian of his native groves, But, just to all, beheld his tribes increase, Did what he could to bind the world in peace, And, far retreating from a selfish band, Bade Freedom flourish in this foreign land. Gay towns unnumbered shine through all her plains, Here every art its happiest height attains: The graceful ship, on nice proportions planned, Here finds perfection from the builder's hand, To distant worlds commercial visits pays, Or war's bold thunder o'er the deep conveys.[15]

Laved by vast depths that swell on either side Where Chesapeake intrudes his midway tide, Gay Maryland attracts the admiring eye, A fertile region with a temperate sky. In years elapsed, her heroes of renown From British Anna named one favourite town:[B] But, lost her commerce, though she guards their laws, Proud Baltimore that envied commerce draws. Few are the years since there, at random placed, Some wretched huts her quiet-port disgraced; Safe from all winds, and covered from the bay, There, at his ease, the thoughtless native lay. Now, rich and great, no more a slave to sloth, She claims importance from her towering growth— High in renown, her streets and domes arranged, A groupe of cabins to a city changed. Though rich at home, to foreign lands they stray, For foreign trappings trade the wealth away. Politest manners through their towns prevail, And pleasure revels, though their funds should fail; In each gay dome, soft music charms its lord, Where female beauty strikes the trembling chord; On the fine air with nicest touches dwells, While from the tongue the according ditty swells: Proud to be seen, 'tis their's to place delight In dances measured by the winter's night, The evening feast, that wine and mirth prolong, The lamp of splendor, and the midnight song. Religion here no gloomy garb assumes, Exchanged her tears for patches and for plumes: The blooming belle (untaught heaven's beaus to win) Talks not of seraphs, but the world she's in: Attached to earth, here born, and to decay, She leaves to better worlds all finer clay. In those, whom choice or different fortunes place On rural scenes, a different mind we trace; There solitude, that still to dullness tends, To rustic forms no sprightly action lends; Heeds not the garb, mopes o'er the evening fire; And bids the maiden from the man retire. On winding floods the lofty mansion stands, That casts a mournful view o'er neighbouring lands; There the sad master strays amidst his grounds, Directs his negroes, or reviews his hounds; Then home returning, plies his pasteboard play, Or dreams o'er wine, that hardly makes him gay: If some chance guest arrive in weary plight, He more than bids him welcome for the night; Kind to profusion, spares no pains to please, Gives him the product of his fields and trees; On his rich board shines plenty from her source, —The meanest dish of all his own discourse.

Vast in extent, Virginia meets our view, With streams immense, dark groves, and mountains blue; First in provincial rank she long was seen, Built the first town, and first subdued the plain: This was her praise—but what can years avail, When times succeeding see her efforts fail! On northern fields more vigorous arts display, Where pleasure holds no universal sway; No herds of slaves parade their sooty band From the rough plough to save the fopling's hand, Where urgent wants the daily pittance ask, Compel to labour, and complete the task.[17] A race of slaves, throughout their country spread, From different soils extort the owner's bread;[18] Averse to toil, the natives still rely On the sad negro for the year's supply;[19] He, patient, early quits his poor abode, Toils at the hoe, or totes some ponderous load,[20] Sweats at the axe, or, pensive and forlorn, Sighs for the eve, to parch his stinted corn! With watchful eye maintains his much-loved fire, Nor even in summer lets its sparks expire— At night returns, his evening toils to share, Lament his rags, or sleep away his care, Bind up the recent wound, with many a groan; Or thank his gods that Sunday is his own. To these far climes the scheming Scotchman flies, Quits his bleak hills to court Virginian skies; Removed from oat-meal, sour-crout, debts, and duns, Prudent, he hastes to bask in kinder suns; Marks well the native—views his weaker side, And heaps up wealth from luxury and pride, Exports the produce of a thousand plains, Nor fears a rival, to divide his gains. Deep in their beds, as distant to their source Here many a river winds its wandering course: Proud of her bulky freight, through plains and woods Moves the tall ship, majestic, o'er the floods, Where James's strength the ocean brine repels, Or, like a sea, the deep Potowmack swells: Yet here the sailor views with wondering eye Impoverished fields that near their margins lie, Mercantile towns, where languor holds her reign, And boors inactive, on the exhausted plain.[21]

Through sandy wastes and floods of rain To this dejected place I came, Where swarthy nymphs, in tattered gowns, From pine-knots catch their evening flame: Where barren oaks, in close array, With mournful melody condole; Where no gay fabrics meet the eye, Nor painted board, nor barber's pole. Thou town of logs! so justly called, In thee who halts at evening's close, Not dreams from Jove, but hosts of fleas Shall join to sweeten his repose. A curse on this dejected place Where cold, and hot, and wet, and dry, And stagnant ponds of ample space The putrid steams of death supply. Since here I paced on weary steed Ah, blame me not, should I repine That sprightly girl, nor social bed, Nor jovial glass this night is mine. The landlord, gouged in either eye, Here drains his bottle to the dregs, Or borrows Susan's pipe, while she Prepares the bacon and the eggs. Jamaica, that inspires the soul, In these abodes no time has seen To dart its generous influence round, To kindle wit and kill the spleen. The squire of this disheartening inn Affords to none the generous bowl, Displays no Bacchus on the sign To warm the heart and cheer the soul. To cyder, drawn from tilted cask, While each a fond attention paid All grieved to see the empty flask, Its substance gone, its strength decayed. A rambling hag, in dismal notes Screeched out a song, to cheer my grief; Two lads their dull adventures told, A shepherd each—and each a thief. Dame justice here in rigour reigns— Each has on each the griping paw: Whoe'er with them a bargain makes, Scheme as he will, it ends in law. With scraps of songs and smutty words Each lodger here adorns the walls: The wanton muse no pencil gives, A coal her mean idea scrawls. No merry thought, no flash of wit Was scrawled by this unseemly crew, With pain I read the words they writ Immodest and immoral too. The god of verse, the poet's friend, Whom Nature all indulgent finds— That god of verse will never lend His powers to such degraded minds. In murmuring streams no chrystal wave To cheer the wretched hamlet flows; But frowning to the distant bog Rosanna with the pitcher goes. At dusk of eve the tardy treat Was placed on board of knotty pine; Each gaping gazed, to see me eat While round me lay the slumbering swine. Unblessed be she, whose aukward hand Before me laid the mouldy pone;[A] May she still miss the joyous kiss, Condemned to fret and sleep alone.

The horse that bore me on my way Around me cast a wishful eye, He looked, and saw no manger near, And hung his head, and seemed to sigh. At stump of pine, for want of stall, All night, beneath a dripping tree, Not fed with oats, but filled with wind, And buckwheat straw, alone stood he. Discouraged at so vile a treat, Yet pleased to see the approaching dawn, In haste, we left this dreary place, Nor staid to drink their dear Yoppon.[B]

May travellers dread to wander here, Unless on penance they be bound— O may they never venture near, Such fleas and filthiness abound. But should ye come—be short your stay, For Lent is here forever kept— Depart, ye wretches, haste away, Nor stop to sleep—where I have slept.

As Southward bound to Indian isles O'er lonely seas he held his way, A songster of the feather'd kind Approach'd, with golden plumage gay: By sympathetic feelings led And grieving for her sad mischance, Thus Thyrsis to the wanderer said, As circling in her airy dance. "Sad pilgrim on a watery waste, What cruel tempest has compell'd To leave so far your native grove, To perish on this liquid field! Not such a dismal swelling scene (Dread Neptune's wild unsocial sea) But crystal brooks and groves of green, Dear rambling bird, were made for thee. Ah, why amid some flowery mead Did you not stay, where late you play'd: Not thus forsake the cypress grove That lent its kind protecting shade. In vain you spread your weary wings To shun the hideous gulph below; Our barque can be your only hope— But man you justly deem your foe. Now hovering near, you stoop to lodge Where yonder lofty canvas swells— Again take wing—refuse our aid, And rather trust the ruffian gales. But Nature tires! your toils are vain— Could you on stronger pinions rise Than eagles have—for days to come All you could see are seas and skies. Again she comes, again she lights, And casts a pensive look below— Weak wanderer, trust the traitor, Man, And take the help that we bestow." Down to his side, with circling flight, She flew, and perch'd, and linger'd there; But, worn with wandering, droop'd her wing, And life resign'd in empty air.

As giants once, in hopes to rise, Heaped up their mountains to the skies; With Pelion piled on Ossa, strove To reach the eternal throne of Jove; So here the hands of ancient days Their fortress from the earth did raise, On whose proud heights, proud men to please, They mounted guns and planted trees. Those trees to lofty stature grown— All is not right!—they must come down, Nor longer waste their wonted shade Where Colden slept, or Tryon strayed. Let him be sad that placed them there,— We shall a youthful race prepare; Another grove shall bloom, we trust, When this lies prostrate in the dust. Where Dutchmen once, in ages past, Huge walls and ramparts round them cast, New fabrics raised, on new design, Gay streets and palaces shall shine. To foreign kings no more a slave (Disgrace to Freedom's passing wave) No flags we rear, we feign no mirth, Nor prize the day that gave them birth. While time degrades Palmyra low, Augusta lifts her lofty brow— While Europe falls to wars a prey, Her monarchs here, should have no sway. Another George shall here reside, While Hudson's bold, unfettered tide Well pleased to see this chief so nigh, With livelier aspect passes by. Along his margin, fresh and clean, Ere long shall belles and beaux be seen, Through moon-light shades, delighted, stray, To view the islands and the bay. Of evening dews no more afraid, Reclining in some favourite shade, Each nymph, in rapture with her trees, Shall sigh to quit the western breeze. To barren hills far southward shoved, These noisy guns shall be removed, No longer here a vain expense, Where time has proved them no defence.— Advance, bright days! make haste to crown With such fair scenes this honoured town.— Freedom shall find her charter clear, And plant her seat of commerce here.

With eager step and wrinkled brow, The busy sons of care (Disgusted with less splendid scenes) To Congress Hall repair. In order placed, they patient wait To seize each word that flies, From what they hear, they sigh or smile, Look cheerful, grave, or wise. Within these walls the doctrines taught Are of such vast concern, That all the world, with one consent, Here strives to live—and learn. The timorous heart, that cautious shuns All churches, but its own, No more observes its wonted rules; But ventures here, alone. Four hours a day each rank alike, (They that can walk or crawl) Leave children, business, shop, and wife, And steer for Congress Hall. From morning tasks of mending soals The cobler hastes away; At three returns, and tells to Kate The business of the day. The debtor, vext with early duns, Avoids his hated home; And here and there dejected roves 'Till hours of Congress come. The barber, at the well-known time, Forsakes his bearded man, And leaves him with his lathered jaws, To trim them as he can. The tailor, plagued with suits on suits, Neglects Sir Fopling's call, Throws by his goose—slips from his board, And trots to Congress Hall.

Peter, methinks you are the happiest wight That ever dealt in ink, or sharpen'd quill. 'Tis yours on every rank of fools to write— Some prompt with pity, some with laughter kill; On scullions or on dukes you run your rigs, And value George no more than Whitbread's pigs. From morn to night, thro' London's busy streets, New subjects for your pen in crowds are seen, At church, in taverns, balls, or birth-day treats, Sir Joseph Banks, or England's breeding queen; How happy you, whom fortune has decreed Each character to hit—where all will read. We, too, have had your monarch by the nose, And pull'd the richest jewel from his crown— Half Europe's kings are fools, the story goes, Mere simpletons, and ideots of renown, Proud, in their frantic fits, man's blood to spill— 'Tis time they all were travelling down the hill. But, Peter, quit your dukes and little lords, Young princes full of blood and scant of brains— Our rebel coast some similes affords, And many a subject for your pen contains Preserv'd as fuel for your comic rhymes, (Like Egypt's gods) to give to future times.

On a fine Sunday morning I mounted my steed And southward from Hartford had meant to proceed; My baggage was stow'd in a cart very snug, Which Ranger, the gelding, was destined to lug; With his harness and buckles, he loom'd very grand, And was drove by young Darby, a lad of the land— On land, or on water, most handy was he, A jockey on shore, and a sailor at sea, He knew all the roads, he was so very keen And the Bible by heart, at the age of fifteen. As thus I jogg'd on, to my saddle confined, With Ranger and Darby a distance behind; At last in full view of a steeple we came With a cock on the spire (I suppose he was game; A dove in the pulpit may suit your grave people, But always remember—a cock on the steeple) Cries Darby—"Dear master, I beg you to stay; Believe me, there's danger in driving this way; Our deacons on Sundays have power to arrest And lead us to church—if your honour thinks best— Though still I must do them the justice to tell, They would choose you should pay them the fine—full as well." The fine (said I) Darby, how much may it be— A shilling or sixpence?—why, now let me see, Three shillings are all the small pence that remain, And to change a half joe would be rather profane. Is it more than three shillings, the fine that you speak on; What say you good Darby—will that serve the deacon. "Three shillings (cried Darby) why, master, you're jesting!— Let us luff while we can and make sure of our westing— Forty shillings, excuse me, is too much to pay It would take my month's wages—that's all I've to say. By taking this road that inclines to the right The squire and the sexton may bid us good night, If once to old Ranger I give up the rein The parson himself may pursue us in vain." "Not I, my good Darby (I answer'd the lad) Leave the church on the left! they would think we were mad; I would sooner rely on the heels of my steed, And pass by them all like a Jehu indeed:— As long as I'm able to lead in the race Old Ranger, the gelding, will go a good pace, As the deacon pursues, he will fly like a swallow, And you in the cart must, undoubtedly, follow." Then approaching the church, as we pass'd by the door The sexton peep'd out, with a saint or two more, A deacon came forward and waved us his hat, A signal to drop him some money—mind that!— "Now, Darby (I halloo'd) be ready to skip, Ease off the curb bridle—give Ranger the whip: While you have the rear, and myself lead the way, No doctor or deacon shall catch us this day." By this time the deacon had mounted his poney And chaced for the sake of our souls and—our money: The saint, as he followed, cried—"Stop them, halloo!" As swift as he followed, as swiftly we flew— "Ah master! (said Darby) I very much fear We must drop him some money to check his career, He is gaining upon us and waves with his hat There's nothing, dear master, will stop him but that. Remember the Beaver (you well know the fable) Who flying the hunters as long as he's able, When he finds that his efforts can nothing avail But death and the puppies are close at his tail, Instead of desponding at such a dead lift He bites off their object, and makes a free gift— Since fortune all hope of escaping denies Better give them a little, than lose the whole prize." But scarce had he spoke, when we came to a place Whose muddy condition concluded the chace, Down settled the cart—and old Ranger stuck fast Aha! (said the Saint) have I catch'd ye at last? * * * * Cætera desunt.

When suns are set, and stars in view, Not only man to slumber yields; But Nature grants this blessing too, To yonder plants, in yonder fields. The Summer heats and lengthening days (To them the same as toil and care) Thrice welcome make the evening breeze, That kindly does their strength repair. At early dawn each plant survey, And see, revived by Nature's hand, With youthful vigour, fresh and gay, Their blossoms blow, their leaves expand. Yon' garden plant, with weeds o'er-run, Not void of thought, perceives its hour, And, watchful of the parting sun, Throughout the night conceals her flower. Like us, the slave of cold and heat, She too enjoys her little span— With Reason, only less complete Than that which makes the boast of man. Thus, moulded from one common clay, A varied life adorns the plain; By Nature subject to decay, By Nature meant to bloom again!

On New-Year's eve, the year was eighty-nine, All clad in black, a back-woods' college crew With crow-bar, sledge, and broad axe did combine To level with the dust their antique hall, In hopes the President would build a new: Yes, yes, (said they), this ancient pile shall fall, And laugh no longer at yon' cobbler's stall. The clock struck seven—in social compact joined, They pledged their sacred honors to proceed: The number seventy-five this feat designed: And first some oaths they swore by candle light On Euclid' Elements—no bible did they need: One must be true, they said, the other might— Besides, no bible could be found that night. Now darkness o'er the plain her pinions spread, Then rung the bell an unaccustomed peal: Out rushed the brave, the cowards went to bed, And left the attempt to those who felt full bold To pull down halls, where years had seen them kneel: Where Wheelock oft at rakes was wont to scold, Or sung them many a psalm, in days of old. Advancing then towards the tottering hall, (That now at least one hundred years had stood) They gave due notice that it soon should fall— Lest there some godly wight might gaping stand; (For well they knew the world wants all its good To fright the sturdy sinners of the land, And shame old Satan, with his sooty band.) The reverend man that college gentry awes, Hearing the bell at this unusual hour, Vext at the infringement of the college laws, With Indian stride out-sallied from his den, And made a speech (as being a man in power)— Alas! it was not heard by one in ten— No time to heed his speeches, or his pen. "Ah, rogues, said he, ah, whither do ye run, "Bent on the ruin of this antique pile— "That, all the war, has braved both sword and gun? "Reflect, dear boys, some reverend rats are there, "That now will have to scamper many a mile, "For whom past time old Latin books did spare, "And Attic Greek, and manuscripts most rare. "Relent, relent! to accomplish such designs "Folks bred on college fare are much too weak; "For such attempts men drink your high-proof wines, "Not spiritless switchel[A] and vile hogo drams, "Scarcely sufficient to digest your Greek— "Come, let the college stand, my dear black lambs— "Besides—I see you have no battering rams."

Thus he—but sighs, and tears, and prayers were lost— So, to it they went with broad-axe, spade, and hammer— One smote a wall, and one dislodged a post, Tugged at a beam, or pulled down pigeon-holes Where Indian lads were wont to study grammar— Indeed, they took vast pains and dug like moles, And worked as if they worked to save their souls. Now to its deep foundation shook the dome: Farewell to all its learning, fame and honor! So fell the capitol of heathen Rome, By Goths and Vandals levelled with the dust— And so shall die the works of Neal O'Connor, (Which he himself will even outlive, we trust:) But now our story's coming to the worst— Down fell the Pile!—aghast these rebels stood, And wondered at the mischiefs they had done To such a pile, composed of white-oak wood; To such a pile, so antique and renowned, Which many a prayer had heard and many a pun— So, three huzzas they gave, and fired a round, Then homeward trudged—half drunk—but safe and sound.

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood The glory of its native wood, By storms destroyed, or length of years, Demands the tribute of our tears. The pile, that took long time to raise, To dust returns by slow decays: But, when its destined years are o'er, We must regret the loss the more. So long accustomed to your aid, The world laments your exit made; So long befriended by your art, Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!— When monarchs tumble to the ground, Successors easily are found: But, matchless Franklin! what a few Can hope to rival such as you, Who seized from kings their sceptred pride, And turned the lightning's darts aside![A]

"Good Poets, why so full of pain, Are you sincere—or do you feign? Love for your tribe I never had, Nor penned three stanzas, good or bad. At funerals, sometimes, grief appears, Where legacies have purchased tears: 'Tis folly to be sad for nought, From me you never gained a groat. To better trades I turned my views, And never meddled with the muse; Great things I did for rising States, And kept the lightning from some pates. This grand discovery, you adore it, But ne'er will be the better for it: You still are subject to those fires, For poets' houses have no spires. Philosophers are famed for pride; But, pray, be modest—when I died, No "sighs disturbed old ocean's bed," No "Nature wept" for Franklin dead! That day, on which I left the coast, A beggar-man was also lost: If "Nature wept," you must agree She wept for him—as well as me. There's reason even in telling lies— In such profusion of her "sighs," She was too sparing of a tear— In Carolina, all was clear: And, if there fell some snow and sleet, Why must it be my winding sheet? Snows oft have cloathed the April plain, Have melted, and will melt again. Poets, I pray you, say no more, Or say what Nature said before; That reason should your pens direct, Or else you pay me no respect. Let reason be your constant rule, And Nature, trust me, is no fool— When to the dust great men she brings, Make her do—some uncommon things."

Sick of the world, in prime of days Constantia took a serious fit— Resolved to shun all balls and plays And only read what saints had writ— To Convent Hall she would repair And be a pensive sister there. "What are they all—this glare of things, These insects that around me shine; These beaux and belles on silken wings— Indeed their pleasures make not mine— My happiness is all delayed— I'll go, and find it in the shade." A sailor, loitering from his crew, As chance would have it, passed along— She told him what she had in view, And he replied—"Fair maid you're wrong, "Let faded nymphs to cloisters go, "Where kisses freeze and love is snow. "The druids' oak and hermits' pine "Afford a gloomy, sad delight; "But why that blush of health resign, "The mingled tint of red and white? "In moistening cells the flowers expire "That, on the plain, all eyes admire. "With such a pensive, pious train "Who, but a hermit, could agree— "Ah, rather stay to grace the plain, "Or wander on the wave with me: "For you the painted barque shall wait "And I would die for such a freight." "No wandering stranger (she replied) "Can tempt me to forego my plan; "No barque that wafts him o'er the tide, "Nor many a better looking man: "Go, wanderer, plough your gloomy sea, "Constantia must a sister be. "To gain so fair a flower as you, "(The Tar returned) who would not plead? "Nor shall you, nymph, to convents go "While love can write what you must read: "Come, to yon' meadow let us stray, "I have some handsome things to say." "Love has its wish when reason fails— "In vain he sighed, in vain he strove: "Forsake (said she) those swelling sails "If you would have me—think of love: "Great merit has your sailing art, "But absence would distract my heart." What else was said, we secret keep;— The Tar, grown fonder of the shore, Neglects his prospects on the deep, And she of convents talks no more:— He slyly quits the coasting trade She pities her—who seeks the shade.

To sleep in peace when life is fled, Where shall our mouldering bones be laid— What care can shun—(I ask with tears) The shovels of succeeding years! Some have maintained, when life is gone, This frame no longer is our own: Hence doctors to our tombs repair, And seize death's slumbering victims there. Alas! what griefs must Man endure! Not even in forts he rests secure:— Time dims the splendours of a crown, And brings the loftiest rampart down. The breath, once gone, no art recalls! Away we haste to vaulted walls: Some future whim inverts the plain, And stars behold our bones again. Those teeth, dear girls—so much your care— (With which no ivory can compare) Like these (that once were lady Hay's) May serve the belles of future days. Then take advice from yonder scull; And, when the flames of life grow dull, Leave not a tooth in either jaw, Since dentists steal—and fear no law. He, that would court a sound repose, To barren hills and deserts goes: Where busy hands admit no sun, Where he may doze, 'till all is done. Yet there, even there tho' slyly laid, 'Tis folly to defy the spade: Posterity invades the hill, And plants our relics where she will. But O! forbear the rising sigh! All care is past with them that die: Jove gave, when they to fate resigned, An opiate of the strongest kind: Death is a sleep, that has no dreams: In which all time a moment seems— And skeletons perceive no pain Till Nature bids them wake again.

Each traveller asks, with fond surprize, Why Thyrsis wastes the fleeting year Where gloomy forests round him rise, And only rustics come to hear— His taste is odd (they seem to say) Such talents in so poor a way! To those that courts and titles please How dismal is his lot; Beyond the hills, beneath some trees, To live—and be forgot— In dull retreats, where Nature binds Her mass of clay to vulgar minds. While you lament his barren trade, Tell me—in yonder vale Why grows that flower beneath the shade, So feeble and so pale!— Why was she not in sun-shine placed To blush and please your men of taste? In lonely wilds, those flowers so fair No curious step allure; And chance, not choice, has placed them there, (Still charming, tho' obscure) Where, heedless of such sweets so nigh, The lazy hind goes loitering by.

Six weeks my dear mistress has been in a fret And nothing but Congress will do for her yet: She says they must come, or her senses she'll lose, From morning till night she is reading the news, And loves the dear fellows that vote for our town (Since no one can relish New-York but a clown, Where your beef is as lean, as if fattened on chaff, And folks are too haughty to worship—a calf) She tells us as how she has read in her books That God gives them meat, but the devil sends cooks; And Grumbleton told us (who often shoots flying) That fish you have plenty—but spoil them in frying; That your streets are as crooked, as crooked can be, Right forward three perches he never could see But his view was cut short with a house or a shop, That stood in his way—and obliged him to stop. Those speakers that wish for New-York to decide,— 'Tis a pity that talents are so misapplied! My mistress declares she is vext to the heart That genius should take such a pitiful part; For the question, indeed, she is daily distrest, And Gerry, I think, she will ever detest, Who did all he could, with his tongue and his pen To keep the dear Congress shut up in your Den. She insists, the expense of removing is small, And that two or three thousands will answer it all, If that is too much, and we're so very poor— The passage by water is cheaper, be sure; If people object the expence of a team, Here's Fitch with his wherry, will bring them by steam; And, Nabby!—if once he should take them on board, The Honour will be a sufficient reward. But, as to myself, I vow and declare I wish it would suit them to stay where they are; I plainly foresee, that if once they remove Throughout the long day, we shall drive, and be drove, My madam's red rag will ring like a bell, And the hall and the parlour will never look well; Such scouring will be as has never been seen, We shall always be cleaning, and never be clean, And threats in abundance will work on my fears, Of blows on the back, and of cuffs on the ears— Two trifles, at present, discourage her paw, The fear of the Lord, and the fear of the law— But if Congress arrive, she will have such a sway, That gospel and law will be both done away;— For the sake of a place I must bear all her din, And if ever so angry, do nothing but grin; So Congress, I hope in your town will remain, And Nanny will thank them again and again.

Well, Nanny, I am sorry to find, since you writ us, The Congress at last has determined to quit us; You now may begin with your dish-clouts and brooms, To be scouring your knockers and scrubbing your rooms; As for us, my dear Nanny, we're much in a pet, And hundreds of houses will be to be let; Our streets, that were just in a way to look clever, Will now be neglected and nasty as ever; Again we must fret at the Dutchified gutters And pebble-stone pavements, that wear out our trotters.— My master looks dull, and his spirits are sinking, From morning till night he is smoking and thinking, Laments the expence of destroying the fort, And says, your great people are all of a sort— He hopes and he prays they may die in a stall, If they leave us in debt—for Federal Hall— And Strap has declared, he has such regards, He will go, if they go, for the sake of their beards. Miss Letty, poor lady, is so in the pouts, She values no longer our dances and routs, And sits in a corner, dejected and pale, As dull as a cat, and as lean as a rail!— Poor thing, I'm certain she's in a decay, And all—because Congress Resolve—not to stay!— This Congress unsettled is, sure, a sad thing, Seven years, my dear Nanny, they've been on the wing; My master would rather saw timber, or dig, Than see them removing to Conegocheague, Where the houses and kitchens are yet to be framed, The trees to be felled, and the streets to be named; Of the two, we had rather your town should receive 'em— So here, my dear Nanny, in haste I must leave 'em, I'm a dunce at inditing—and as I'm a sinner, The beef is half raw—and the bell rings for dinner!

Attach'd to lands that ne'er deceiv'd his hopes, This rustic sees the seasons come and go, His autumn's toils return'd in summer's crops, While limpid streams, to cool his herbage, flow; And, if some cares intrude upon his mind, They are such cares as heaven for man design'd. He to no pompous dome comes, cap in hand, Where new-made 'squires affect the courtly smile: Nor where Pomposo, 'midst his foreign band Extols the sway of kings, in swelling style, With tongue that babbled when it should have hush'd, A head that never thought—a face that never blush'd. He on no party hangs his hopes or fears, Nor seeks the vote that baseness must procure; No stall-fed Mammon, for his gold, reveres, No splendid offers from his chests allure. While showers descend, and suns their beams display, The same, to him, if Congress go or stay. He at no levees watches for a glance, (Slave to disgusting, distant forms and modes) Heeds not the herd at Bufo's midnight dance, Dullman's mean rhymes, or Shylock's birth-day odes: Follies, like these, he deems beneath his care, And Titles leaves for simpletons to wear. Where wandering brooks from mountain sources roll, He seeks at noon the waters of the shade, Drinks deep, and fears no poison in the bowl That Nature for her happiest children made: And from whose clear and gently-passing wave All drink alike—the master and the slave. The scheming statesman shuns his homely door, Who, on the miseries of his country fed, Ne'er glanc'd his eye from that base pilfer'd store To view the sword, suspended by a thread— Nor that "hand-writing," grav'd upon the wall, That tells him—but in vain—"the sword must fall." He ne'er was made a holiday machine, Wheel'd here and there by 'squires in livery clad, Nor dreads the sons of legislation keen, Hard-hearted laws, and penalties most sad— In humble hope his little fields were sown, A trifle, in your eye—but all his own.

This Indian weed, that once did grow On fair Virginia's fertile plain, From whence it came—again may go, To please some happier swain: Of all the plants that Nature yields This, least beloved, shall shun my fields. In evil hour I first essayed To chew this vile forbidden leaf, When, half ashamed, and half afraid, I touched, and tasted—to my grief: Ah me! the more I was forbid, The more I wished to take a quid. But when I smoaked, in thought profound, And raised the spiral circle high, My heart grew sick, my head turned round— And what can all this mean, (said I)— Tobacco surely was designed To poison, and destroy mankind. Unhappy they, whom choice, or fate Inclines to prize this bitter weed; Perpetual source of female hate; On which no beast—but man will feed; That sinks my heart, and turns my head, And sends me, reeling, home to bed!

Since man may every region claim, And Nature is, in most, the same, And we a part of her wide plan, Tell me, what makes The Banish'd Man. The favourite spot, that gave us birth, We fondly call our mother earth; And hence our vain distinctions grow, And man to man becomes a foe. That friendship to all nations due, And taught by reason to pursue, That love, which should the world combine, To country, why do we confine? The Grecian sage[A] (old stories say) When question'd where his country lay, Inspired by heaven, made no reply, But rais'd his finger to the sky.

No region has, on earth, been known But some, of choice, have made their own:— Your tears are not from Reason's source If choice assumes the path of force. "Alas! (you cry) that is not all: "My former friendships I recall, "My house, my farm, my days, my nights, "Scenes vanish'd now, and past delights."— Distance for absence you mistake— Here, days and nights their circuits make: Here, Nature walks her beauteous round, And friendship may—perhaps—be found. If times grow dark, or wealth retires, Let Reason check your proud desires: Virtue the humblest garb can wear, And loss of wealth is loss of care. Thus half unwilling, half resign'd, Desponding, why, the generous mind?— Think right,—nor be the hour delayed That flies the sun, to seek the shade. Though injured, exiled, or alone, Nobly presume the world your own, Convinced that, since the world began, Time, only, makes The Banish'd Man.

From Hudson's banks, in proud array, (Too mean to claim a longer stay) Their new ideas to improve, Behold the generous Congress move! Such thankless conduct much we feared, When Timon's coach stood ready geered, And He—the foremost on the floor, Stood pointing to the Delaware shore. So long confined to little things, They sigh to be where Bavius sings, Where Sporus builds his splendid pile, And Bufo's tawdry Seasons smile. New chaplains, now, shall ope their jaws, New salaries grease unworthy paws: Some reverend man, that turtle carves, Will fatten, while the solder starves. The Yorker asks—but asks in vain— "What demon bids them 'move again? "Whoever 'moves must suffer loss, "And rolling stones collect no moss. "Have we not paid for chaplains' prayers, "That heaven might smile on state affairs?— "Put some things up, pulled others down, "And raised our streets through half the town? "Have we not, to our utmost, strove "That Congress might not hence remove— "At dull debates no silence broke, "And walked on tip-toe while they spoke? "Have we not toiled through cold and heat, "To make the Federal Pile complete— "Thrown down our Fort, to give them air, "And sent our guns, the devil knows where? "Times change! but Memory still recalls "The Day, when ruffians scaled their walls— "Sovereigns besieged by angry men, "Mere prisoners in the town of Penn? "Can they forget when, half afraid, "The timorous Council[A] lent no aid; "But left them to the rogues that rob, "The tender mercies of the mob?

"Oh! if they can, their lot is cast; "One hundred miles will soon be passed— "This Day the Federal Dome is cleared, "To Paulus'-Hook the barge is steered, "Where Timon's coach stands ready geered!" [1790.]

"To serve with love, And shed your blood, Approved may be above, And here below (Examples shew) 'Tis dangerous to be good." —Lord Oxford.

Deep in a vale, a stranger now to arms, Too poor to shine in courts, too proud to beg, He, who once warred on Saratoga's plains, Sits musing o'er his scars, and wooden leg. Remembering still the toil of former days, To other hands he sees his earnings paid;— They share the due reward—he feeds on praise, Lost in the abyss of want, misfortune's shade. Far, far from domes where splendid tapers glare, 'Tis his from dear bought peace no wealth to win, Removed alike from courtly cringing 'squires, The great-man's Levee, and the proud man's grin. Sold are those arms which once on Britons blazed, When, flushed with conquest, to the charge they came; That power repelled, and Freedom's fabrick raised, She leaves her soldier—famine and a name! [1790]

"'Tis time to tax the News, (Sangrado cries) "Subjects were never good that were too wise: "In every hamlet, every trifling town, "Some sly, designing fellow sits him down, "On spacious folio prints his weekly mess, "And spreads around the poison of his Press. "Hence, to the World the streams of scandal flow, "Disclosing secrets, that it should not know, "Hence courtiers strut with libels on their backs;— "And shall not news be humbled by a tax! "Once ('tis most true) such papers did some good, "When British chiefs arrived in angry mood: "By them enkindled, every heart grew warm, "By them excited, all were taught to arm, "When some, retiring to Britannia's clime, "Sat brooding o'er the vast events of time; "Doubtful which side to take, or what to say, "Or who would win, or who would lose the day. "Those times are past; (and past experience shews) "The well-born sort alone, should read the news, "No common herds should get behind the scene "To view the movements of the state machine: "One paper only, filled with courtly stuff, "One paper, for one country is enough, "Where incense offered at Pomposo's shrine "Shall prove his house-dog and himself divine."

A man that owned some trees in town, (And much averse to cut them down) Finding the Law was full and plain, No trees should in the streets remain, One evening seated at his door, Thus gravely talked the matter o'er: "The fatal Day, dear trees, draws nigh, When you must, like your betters, die, Must die!—and every leaf will fade That many a season lent its shade, To drive from hence the summer's heat, And make my porch a favourite seat. "Thrice happy age, when all was new, And trees untouched, unenvied grew, When yet regardless of the axe, They feared no law, and paid no tax! The shepherd then at ease was laid, Or walked beneath their cooling shade; From slender twigs a garland wove, Or traced his god within the grove; Alas! those times are now forgot, An iron age is all our lot: Men are not now what once they were, To hoard up gold is all their care: The busy tribe old Plutus calls To pebbled streets and painted walls; Trees now to grow, is held a crime, And These must perish in their prime! "The trees that once our fathers reared, And even the plundering Briton spared, When shivering here full oft he stood, Or kept his bed for want of wood— These trees, whose gently bending boughs Have witnessed many a lover's vows, When half afraid, and half in jest, With Nature busy in his breast, With many a sigh, he did not feign, Beneath these boughs he told his pain, Or coaxing here his nymph by night, Forsook the parlour and the light, In talking love, his greatest bliss To squeeze her hand or steal a kiss— These trees that thus have lent their shade, And many a happy couple made, These old companions, thus endeared, Who never tattled what they heard, Must these, indeed, be killed so soon— Be murdered by the tenth of June! "But if my harmless trees must fall, A fortune that awaits us all, (All, all must yield to Nature's stroke, And now a man, and now an oak) Are those that round the churches grow In this decree included too? Must these, like common trees, be bled? Is it a crime to shade the dead? Review the law, I pray, at least, And have some mercy on the priest Who every Sunday sweats in black To make us steer the skyward track: The church has lost enough, God knows, Plundered alike by friends and foes— I hate such mean attempts as these— Come—let the parson keep his trees! "Yet things, perhaps, are not so bad— Perhaps, a respite may be had: The vilest rogues that cut our throats, Or knaves that counterfeit our notes, When, by the judge their sentence passed, The gallows proves their doom at last, Swindlers and pests of every kind, For weeks and months a respite find; And shall such nuisances as they, Who make all honest men their prey— Shall they for months avoid their doom, And you, my trees, in all your bloom, Who never injured small or great, Be murdered at so short a date! "Ye men of law, the occasion seize, And name a counsel for the trees— Arrest of judgment, sirs, I pray; Excuse them till some future day: These trees that such a nuisance are, Next New-Year we can better spare, To warm our shins, or boil the pot— The Law, by then, will be forgot."

This age is so fertile of mighty events, That people complain, with some reason, no doubt, Besides the time lost, and besides the expence, With reading the papers they're fairly worn out; The past is no longer an object of care, The present consumes all the time they can spare. Thus grumbles the reader, but still he reads on With his pence and his paper unwilling to part: He sees the world passing, men going and gone, Some riding in coaches, and some in a cart: For a peep at the farce a subscription he'll give,— Revolutions must happen, and printers must live: For a share of your favour we aim with the rest: To enliven the scene we'll exert all our skill, What we have to impart shall be some of the best, And Multum in Parvo our text, if you will; Since we never admitted a clause in our creed, That the greatest employment of life is—to read. The king of the French and the queen of the North At the head of the play, for the season, we find: From the spark that we kindled, a flame has gone forth To astonish the world and enlighten mankind: With a code of new doctrines the universe rings, And Paine is addressing strange sermons to kings. Thus launch'd, as we are, on the ocean of news, In hopes that your pleasure our pains will repay, All honest endeavours the author will use To furnish a feast for the grave and the gay: At least he'll essay such a track to pursue That the world shall approve—and his news shall be true.

Your men of the land, from the king to Jack Ketch, All join in supposing the sailor a wretch, That his life is a round of vexation and woe, With always too much or too little to do: In the dead of the night, when other men sleep, He, starboard and larboard, his watches must keep; Imprisoned by Neptune, he lives like a dog, And to know where he is, must depend on a Log, Must fret in a calm, and be sad in a storm; In winter much trouble to keep himself warm: Through the heat of the summer pursuing his trade, No trees, but his topmasts, to yield him a shade: Then, add to the list of the mariner's evils, The water corrupted, the bread full of weevils, Salt junk to be eat, be it better or worse, And, often bull beef of an Irishman's horse: Whosoever is free, he must still be a slave, (Despotic is always the rule on the wave;) Not relished on water, your lords of the main Abhor the republican doctrines of Paine, And each, like the despot of Prussia, may say That his crew has no right, but the right to obey. Such things say the lubbers, and sigh when they've said 'em, But things are not so bad as their fancies persuade 'em: There ne'er was a task but afforded some ease, Nor a calling in life, but had something to please. If the sea has its storms, it has also its calms, A time to sing songs and a time to sing psalms.— Yes—give me a vessel well timbered and sound, Her bottom good plank, and in rigging well found, If her spars are but staunch, and her oakham swelled tight, From tempests and storms I'll extract some delight— At sea I would rather have Neptune my jailor, Than a lubber on shore, that despises a sailor. Do they ask me what pleasure I find on the sea?— Why, absence from land is a pleasure to me: A hamper of porter, and plenty of grog, A friend, when too sleepy, to give me a jog, A coop that will always some poultry afford, Some bottles of gin, and no parson on board, A crew that is brisk when it happens to blow, One compass on deck and another below, A girl, with more sense than the girl at the head, To read me a novel, or make up my bed— The man that has these, has a treasure in store That millions possess not, who live upon shore: But if it should happen that commerce grew dull, Or Neptune, ill-humoured, should batter our hull, Should damage my cargo, or heave me aground, Or pay me with farthings instead of a pound: Should I always be left in the rear of the race, And this be forever—forever the case; Why then, if the honest plain truth I may tell, I would clew up my topsails, and bid him farewell.

To church I went, with good intent, To hear Sangrado preach and pray; But objects there, black, brown and fair, Turned eyes and heart a different way. Miss Patty's fan, Miss Molly's man, With powdered hair and dimple cheek; Miss Bridget's eyes, that once made prize Of Fopling with his hair so sleek: Embroidered gowns, and play-house tunes Estranged all hearts from heaven too wide: I felt most odd, this house of God Should all be flutter, pomp, and pride. Now, pray be wise, no prayers will rise To heaven—where hearts are not sincere. No church was made for Cupid's trade; Then why these arts of ogling here? Since time draws nigh, when you and I, At church, must claim the sexton's care!— Leave pride at home, when'er you come To pay to heaven your offerings, there!

Beside a stream, that never yet ran dry, There stands a Town, not high advanced in fame; Tho' few its buildings raised to please the eye, Still this proud title it may fairly claim; A Tavern (its first requisite) is there, A mill, a black-smith's shop, a place of prayer. Nay, more—a little market-house is seen And iron hooks, where beef was never hung, Nor pork, nor bacon, poultry fat or lean, Pig's head, or sausage link, or bullock's tongue: Look when you will, you see the vacant bench No butcher seated there, no country wench. Great aims were his, who first contriv'd this town; A market he would have—but, humbled now, Sighing, we see its fabric mouldering down, That only serves, at night, to pen the cow: And hence, by way of jest, it may be said That beef is there, tho' never beef that's dead. Abreast the inn—a tree before the door, A Printing-Office lifts its humble head Where busy Type old journals doth explore For news that is thro' all the village read; Who, year from year, (so cruel is his lot) Is author, pressman, devil—and what not? Fame says he is an odd and curious wight, Fond to distraction of this native place; In sense, not very dull nor very bright, Yet shews some marks of humour in his face, One who can pen an anecdote, complete, Or plague the parson with the mackled sheet. Three times a week, by nimble geldings drawn A stage arrives; but scarcely deigns to stop, Unless the driver, far in liquor gone, Has made some business for the black-smith-shop; Then comes this printer's harvest-time of news, Welcome alike from Christians, Turks, or Jews. Each passenger he eyes with curious glance, And, if his phiz be mark'd of courteous kind, To conversation, straight, he makes advance, Hoping, from thence, some paragraph to find, Some odd adventure, something new and rare, To set the town a-gape, and make it stare.

All is not Truth ('tis said) that travellers tell— So much the better for this man of news; For hence the country round, that know him well, Will, if he prints some lies, his lies excuse. Earthquakes, and battles, shipwrecks, myriads slain— If false or true—alike to him are gain. But if this motley tribe say nothing new, Then many a lazy, longing look is cast To watch the weary post-boy travelling through, On horse's rump his budget buckled fast; With letters, safe in leathern prison pent, And, wet from press, full many a packet sent. Not Argus with his fifty pair of eyes Look'd sharper for his prey than honest Type Explores each package, of alluring size, Prepar'd to seize them with a nimble gripe, Did not the post-boy watch his goods, and swear That village Type shall only have his share. Ask you what matter fills his various page? A mere farrago 'tis, of mingled things; Whate'er is done on Madam Terra's stage He to the knowledge of his townsmen brings: One while, he tells of monarchs run away; And now, of witches drown'd in Buzzard's bay. Some miracles he makes, and some he steals; Half Nature's works are giants in his eyes: Much, very much, in wonderment he deals,— New-Hampshire apples grown to pumpkin size, Pumpkins almost as large as country inns, And ladies bearing, each,—three lovely twins. He, births and deaths with cold indifference views; A paragraph from him is all they claim: And here the rural squire, amongst the news Sees the fair record of some lordling's fame; All that was good, minutely brought to light, All that was ill,—conceal'd from vulgar sight!

Source of the wisdom of the country round! Again I turn to that poor lonely shed Where many an author all his fame has found, And wretched proofs by candle-light are read, Inverted letters, left the page to grace, Colons derang'd, and commas out of place. Beneath this roof the Muses chose their home;— Sad was their choice, less bookish ladies say. Since from the blessed hour they deign'd to come One single cob-web was not brush'd away:— Fate early had pronounc'd this building's doom, Ne'er to be vex'd with boonder, brush, or broom. Here, full in view, the ink-bespangled press Gives to the world its children, with a groan, Some born to live a month—a day—some less; Some, why they live at all, not clearly known, All that are born must die—Type well knows that— The Almanack's his longest-living brat. Here lie the types, in curious order rang'd Ready alike to imprint your prose or verse; Ready to speak (their order only chang'd) Creek-Indian lingo, Dutch, or Highland Erse; These types have printed Erskine's Gospel Treat, Tom Durfey's songs, and Bunyan's works, complete. But faded are their charms—their beauty fled! No more their work your nicer eyes admire; Hence, from this press no courtly stuff is read; But almanacks, and ballads for the Squire, Dull paragraphs, in homely language dress'd, The pedlar's bill, and sermons by request. Here, doom'd the fortune of the press to try, From year to year poor Type his trade pursues— With anxious care and circumspective eye He dresses out his little sheet of news; Now laughing at the world, now looking grave, At once the Muse's midwife—and her slave. In by-past years, perplext with vast designs, In cities fair he strove to gain a seat; But, wandering to a wood of many pines, In solitude he found his best retreat, When sick of towns, and sorrowful at heart, He to those deserts brought his favorite art.

Thou, who art plac'd in some more favour'd spot, Where spires ascend, and ships from every clime Discharge their freights—despise not thou the lot Of humble Type, who here has pass'd his prime; At case and press has labour'd many a day, But now, in years, is verging to decay. He, in his time, the patriot of his town, With press and pen attack'd the royal side, Did what he could to pull their Lion down, Clipp'd at his beard, and twitch'd his sacred hide, Mimick'd his roarings, trod upon his toes, Pelted young whelps, and tweak'd the old one's nose. Rous'd by his page, at church or court-house read, From depths of woods the willing rustics ran, Now by a priest, and now some deacon led With clubs and spits to guard the rights of man; Lads from the spade, the pick-ax, or the plough, Marching afar, to fight Burgoyne or Howe. Where are they now?—the Village asks with grief, What were their toils, their conquests, or their gains?— Perhaps, they near some State-House beg relief, Perhaps, they sleep on Saratoga's plains; Doom'd not to live, their country to reproach For seven-years' pay transferr'd to Mammon's coach. Ye Guardians of your country and her laws! Since to the pen and press so much we owe Still bid them favour freedom's sacred cause, From this pure source, let streams unsullied flow; Hence, a new order grows on reason's plan, And turns the fierce barbarian into—man. Child of the earth, of rude materials fram'd, Man, always found a tyrant or a slave, Fond to be honour'd, valued, rich, or fam'd Roves o'er the earth, and subjugates the wave: Despots and kings this restless race may share,— But knowledge only makes them worth your care!

Great things have pass'd the last revolving year; France on a curious jaunt has seen her king go,— Hush'd are the growlings of the Russian bear, Rebellion has broke loose in St. Domingo— Sorry we are that Pompeys, Cæsars, Catos Are mostly found with Negroes and Mulattoes. Discord, we think, must always be the lot Of this poor world—nor is that discord vain, Since, if these feuds and fisty-cuffs were not, Full many an honest Type would starve—that's plain; Wars are their gain, whatever cause is found— Empires—or Cats-skins brought from Nootka-sound. The Turks, poor fellows! have been sadly baisted— And many a Christian despot stands, contriving Who next shall bleed—what country next be wasted— This is the trade by which they get their living: From Prussian Frederick, this the general plan To Empress Kate—that burns the Rights of Man, The Pope (at Rome) is in a sweat, they tell us; Of freedom's pipe he cannot bear the music, And worst of all when Frenchmen blow the bellows, Enough almost (he thinks) to make a Jew sick: His Priesthood too, black, yellow, white, and grey, All think it best to keep—the good old way. Britain, (fame whispers) has unrigg'd her fleet— Now tell us what the world will do for thunder?— Battles, fire, murder, maiming, and defeat Are at an end when Englishmen knock under: Sulphur will now in harmless squibs be spent, Lightning will fall—full twenty five per cent.

Within these wooden walls, confined, The ruin lurks of human kind; More mischiefs here, united, dwell, And more diseases haunt this cell Than ever plagued the Egyptian flocks, Or ever cursed Pandora's box. Within these prison-walls repose The seeds of many a bloody nose; The chattering tongue, the horrid oath; The fist for fighting, nothing loth; The passion quick, no words can tame, That bursts like sulphur into flame; The nose with diamonds glowing red, The bloated eye, the broken head! Forever fastened be this door— Confined within, a thousand more Destructive fiends of hateful shape, Even now are plotting an escape, Here, only by a cork restrained, In slender walls of wood contained, In all their dirt of death reside Revenge, that ne'er was satisfied; The tree that bears the deadly fruit Of murder, maiming, and dispute; Assault, that innocence assails, The Images of gloomy jails The Giddy Thought, on mischief bent, The midnight hour, in folly spent, All These within this cask appear, And Jack, the hangman, in the rear! Thrice happy he, who early taught By Nature, ne'er this poison sought; Who, friendly to his own repose, Treads under foot this worst of foes,— He, with the purling stream content, The beverage quaffs that Nature meant; In Reason's scale his actions weighed, His spirits want no foreign aid— Not swell'd too high, or sunk too low, Placid, his easy minutes flow; Long life is his, in vigour pass'd, Existence, welcome to the last, A spring, that never yet grew stale— Such virtue lies in—Adam's Ale!

The man that joins in life's career And hopes to find some comfort here; To rise above this earthly mass, The only way's to drink his Glass. But, still, on this uncertain stage, Where hopes and fears the soul engage; And while, amid the joyous band, Unheeded flows the measured sand, Forget not as the moments pass, That Time shall bring the parting glass! In spite of all the mirth I've heard, This is the glass I always feared; The glass that would the rest destroy, The farewell cup, the close of joy! With You, whom Reason taught to think, I could, for ages, sit and drink: But with the fool, the sot, the ass, I haste to take the parting glass. The luckless wight, that still delays His draught of joys to future days, Delays too long—for then, alas! Old age steps up, and—breaks the glass! The nymph, who boasts no borrowed charms, Whose sprightly wit my fancy warms; What tho' she tends this country inn, And mixes wine, and deals out gin? With such a kind, obliging lass I sigh, to take the parting glass. With him, who always talks of gain, (Dull Momus, of the plodding train)— The wretch, who thrives by others' woes, And carries grief where'er he goes:— With people of this knavish class The first is still my parting glass. With those that drink before they dine— With him that apes the grunting swine, Who fills his page with low abuse, And strives to act the gabbling goose Turned out by fate to feed on grass— Boy, give me quick, the parting glass. The man, whose friendship is sincere, Who knows no guilt, and feels no fear:— It would require a heart of brass With him to take the parting glass! With him, who quaffs his pot of ale; Who holds to all an even scale; Who hates a knave, in each disguise, And fears him not—whate'er his size— With him, well pleased my days to pass, May heaven forbid the Parting Glass!

Removed from Europe's feuds, a hateful scene (Thank heaven, such wastes of ocean roll between) Where tyrant kings in bloody schemes combine, And each forbodes in tears, Man is no longer mine! Glad we recall the Day that bade us first Spurn at their power, and shun their wars accurst; Pitted and gaffed no more for England's glory Nor made the tag-rag-bobtail of their story. Something still wrong in every system lurks, Something imperfect haunts all human works— Wars must be hatched, unthinking men to fleece, Or we, this day, had been in perfect peace, With double bolts our Janus' temple shut, Nor terror reigned through each back-woods-man's hut, No rattling drums assailed the peasant's ear Nor Indian yells disturbed our sad frontier, Nor gallant chiefs, 'gainst Indian hosts combined Scaped from the trap—to leave their tails behind. Peace to all feuds!—and come the happier day When Reason's sun shall light us on our way; When erring man shall all his Rights retrieve, No despots rule him, and no priests deceive, Till then, Columbia!—watch each stretch of power, Nor sleep too soundly at the midnight hour, By flattery won, and lulled by soothing strains, Silenus took his nap—and waked in chains— In a soft dream of smooth delusion led Unthinking Gallia bowed her drooping head To tyrants' yokes—and met such bruises there, As now must take three ages to repair. Then keep the paths of dear bought freedom clear, Nor slavish systems grant admittance here. [1792]

Let some in beer place their delight, O'er bottled porter waste the night, Or sip the rosy wine: A dish of Tea more pleases me, Yields softer joys, provokes less noise, And breeds no base design. From China's groves, this present brought, Enlivens every power of thought, Riggs many a ship for sea: Old maids it warms, young widows charms; And ladies' men, not one in ten But courts them for their Tea. When throbbing pains assail my head, And dullness o'er my brain is spread, (The muse no longer kind) A single sip dispels the hyp: To chace the gloom, fresh spirits come, The flood-tide of the mind. When worn with toil, or vext with care, Let Susan but this draught prepare, And I forget my pain. This magic bowl revives the soul; With gentlest sway, bids care be gay; Nor mounts, to cloud the brain. If learned men the truth would speak They prize it far beyond their Greek, More fond attention pay; No Hebrew root so well can suit; More quickly taught, less dearly bought, Yet studied twice a day. This leaf, from distant regions sprung, Puts life into the female tongue, And aids the cause of love. Such power has Tea o'er bond and free; Which priests admire, delights the 'squire, And Galen's sons approve.

Bright Day,[55] that did to France restore What priests and kings had seiz'd away, That bade her generous sons disdain The fetters that their fathers wore, The titled slave, a tyrant's sway, That ne'er shall curse her soil again! Bright day! a partner in thy joy, Columbia hails the rising sun, She feels her toils, her blood repaid, When fiercely frantic to destroy, (Proud of the laurels he had won) The Briton, here, unsheath'd his blade. By traitors driven to ruin's brink Fair Freedom dreads united knaves, The world must fall if she must bleed;— And yet, by heaven! I'm proud to think The world was ne'er subdued by slaves— Nor shall the hireling herd succeed. Boy! fill the generous goblet high; Success to France, shall be the toast: The fall of kings the fates foredoom, The crown decays, its' splendours die; And they, who were a nation's boast, Sink, and expire in endless gloom. Thou, stranger, from a distant shore,[A] Where fetter'd men their rights avow, Why on this joyous day so sad? Louis insults with chains no more,— Then why thus wear a clouded brow, When every manly heart is glad?

Some passing days and rolling years May see the wrath of kings display'd, Their wars to prop the tarnish'd crown; But orphans' groans, and widows' tears, And justice lifts her shining blade To bring the tottering bauble down. [1792]

Wise was your plan when twenty years ago From Patrick's isle you first resolved to stray, Where lords and knights, as thick as rushes grow, And vulgar folks are in each other's way; Where mother-country acts the step-dame's part, Cuts off, by aid of hemp, each petty sinner, And twice or thrice in every score of years Hatches sad wars to make her brood the thinner. How few aspire to quit the ungrateful soil That starves the plant it had the strength to bear: How many stay, to grieve, and fret, and toil, And view the plenty that they must not share. This you beheld, and westward set your nose, Like some bold prow, that ploughs the Atlantic foam, And left less venturous weights, like famished crows,— To feed on hog-peas, hips, and haws, at home. Safe landed here, not long the coast detained Your wary steps:—but wandering on, you found Far in the west, a paltry spot of land, That no man envied, and that no man owned. A woody hill, beside a dismal bog— This was your choice; nor were you much to blame: And here, responsive to the croaking frog, You grubbed, and stubbed, and feared no landlord's claim. An axe, an adze, a hammer, and a saw; These were the tools, that built your humble shed: A cock, a hen, a mastiff, and a cow: These were your subjects, to this desert led. Now times are changed—and labour's nervous hand Bids harvests rise where briars and bushes grew; The dismal bog, by lengthy sluices drained, Supports no more hoarse captain Bull Frog's crew.— Prosper your toil!—but, friend, had you remained In lands, where starred and gartered nobles shine, When you had, thus, to sixty years attained, What different fate, 'Squire Crispin, had been thine! Nine pence a day, coarse fare, a bed of boards, The midnight loom, high rents, and excised beer; Slave to dull squires, kings' brats, and huffish lords, (Thanks be to Heaven) not yet in fashion here!

Much pleased am I, that you approve Freedom's blest cause that brought me here: Ireland I loved—but there they strove To make me bend to King and Peer. I could not bow to noble knaves, Who Equal Rights to men deny: Scornful, I left a land of slaves, And hither came, my axe to ply: The axe has well repaid my toil— No king, no priest, I yet espy To tythe my hogs, to tax my soil, And suck my whiskey bottle dry. In foreign lands what snares are laid! There royal rights all right defeat; They taxed my sun, they taxed my shade, They taxed the offal that I eat. They taxed my hat, they taxed my shoes, Fresh taxes still on taxes grew; They would have taxed my very nose, Had I not fled, dear friends, to you.

Since the day I attempted to print a gazette, This Shylock Ap-Shenkin does nothing but fret: Now preaching and screeching, then nibbling and scribbling, Remarking and barking, and whining and pining, and still in a pet, From morning 'till night, with my humble gazette. Instead of whole columns our page to abuse, Your readers would rather be treated with News: While wars are a-brewing, and kingdoms undoing, While monarchs are falling, and princesses squalling, While France is reforming, and Irishmen storming— In a glare of such splendour, what folly to fret At so humble a thing as a poet's Gazette! No favours I ask'd from your friends in the East: On your wretched soup-meagre I left them to feast; So many base lies you have sent them in print, That scarcely a man at our paper will squint:— And now you begin (with a grunt and a grin, With the bray of an ass, and a visage of brass, With a quill in your hand and a Lie in your mouth) To play the same trick on the men of the South! One Printer for Congress (some think) is enough, To flatter, and lie, to palaver, and puff, To preach up in favour of monarchs and titles, And garters, and ribbands, to prey on our vitals: Who knows but Pomposo will give it in fee, Or make mister Shenkin the Grand Patentee!!! Then take to your scrapers, ye Republican Papers, No rogue shall go snacks—and the News-Paper Tax Shall be puff'd to the skies, as a measure most wise— So, a spaniel, when master is angry, and kicks it, Sneaks up to his shoe, and submissively licks it.

Seven years are now elaps'd, dear rambling volume, Since, to all knavish wights a foe, I sent you forth to vex and gall 'em, Or drive them to the shades below: With spirit, still, of Democratic proof, And still despising Shylock's canker'd hoof: What doom the fates intend, is hard to say, Whether to live to some far-distant day, Or sickening in your prime, In this bard-baiting clime, Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away. "Virtue, order, and religion, "Haste, and seek some other region; "Your plan is laid, to hunt them down, "Destroy the mitre, rend the gown, "And that vile hag, Philosophy, restore"— Did ever volume plan so much before? For seven years past, a host of busy foes Have buzz'd about your nose, White, black, and grey, by night and day; Garbling, lying, singing, sighing: These eastern gales a cloud of insects bring That fluttering, snivelling, whimpering—on the wing— And, wafted still as discord's demon guides, Flock round the flame, that yet shall singe their hides. Well!—let the fates decree whate'er they please: Whether you're doom'd to drink oblivion's cup, Or Praise-God Barebones eats you up, This I can say, you've spread your wings afar, Hostile to garter, ribbon, crown, and star; Still on the people's, still on Freedom's side, With full determin'd aim, to baffle every claim Of well-born wights, that aim to mount and ride.

In the same hour two lovely youths were born, Nature, with care, had moulded either clay: In the same hour, from this world's limits torn, The murderous Indian seiz'd their lives away. Distress to aid, impell'd each generous breast; With nervous arm they brav'd the adverse tide, In friendship's cause encounter'd death's embrace, Blameless they liv'd, in honour's path they died. But ah! what art shall dry a father's tears! Who shall relieve, or what beguile his pain! Clouds shade his sun, and griefs advance with years— Nature gave joys, to take those joys again. Thou, that shall come to these sequester'd streams, When times to come their story shall relate; Let the fond heart, that native worth esteems, Revere their virtues, and bemoan their fate.

As Aristippus once, with weary feet, Pursued his way through polish'd Athens' street, Minding no business but his own; Out rush'd a set of whelps With sun-burnt scalps, (Black, red, and brown,) That nipt his heels, and nibbled at his gown. While, with his staff, he kept them all at bay Some yelp'd aloud, some howl'd in dismal strain, Some wish'd the sage to bark again:— Even little Shylock seem'd to say, "Answer us, sir, in your best way:— "We are, 'tis true, a snarling crew, "But with our jaws have gain'd applause, "And—sir—can worry such as you." The sage beheld their spite with steady eye, And only stopp'd to make this short reply: "Hark ye, my dogs, I have not learn'd to yelp, "Nor waste my breath on every lousy whelp; "Much less, to write, or stain my wholesome page "In answering puppies—bursting with their rage: "Hence to your straw!—such contest I disdain: "Learn this, ('tis not amiss) "For Men I keep a pen, "For dogs, a cane!"

If of Religion I have made a sport, Then why not cite me to the Bishop's Court? Fair to the world let every page be set, And prove your charge from all I've said and writ:— What if this heart no narrow notions bind, Its pure good-will extends to all mankind: Suppose I ask no portion from your feast, Nor heaven-ward ride behind your parish priest, Because I wear not Shylock's Sunday face Must I, for that, be loaded with disgrace? The time has been,—the time, I fear, is now, When holy phrenzy would erect her brow, Round some poor wight with painted devils meet, And worse than Smithfield blaze through every street; But wholesome laws prevent such horrid scenes, No more afraid of deacons and of deans, In this new world our joyful Psalm we sing That Even a Bishop is a Harmless Thing!

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Barbara Pyramidum sileat miracula Memphis;^* Heu, male servili marmora structa manu! Libera jam, ruptis, Atlantias ora, catenis, Jactat opus Phario marmore nobilius: Namque Columbiadæ, facti monumenta parantes, Vulgarem spernunt sumere materiam; Magnanimi cœlum scandunt, perituraque saxa Quod vincat, celsa de Jovis arce petunt Audax inde cohors stellis E Pluribus Unum Ardua Pyramidos tollit ad astra caput. Ergo, Tempus edax, quamvis durissima sævo Saxa domas morsu, nil ibi juris habes: Dumque polo solitis cognata nitoribus ardent Sidera fulgebit Pyramis illa suis!

No more let barbarous Memphis boast Huge structures reared by servile hands— A nation on the Atlantic coast Fettered no more in foreign bands, A nobler Pyramid displays Than Egypt's tyranny could raise. Columbia's sons, to extend the fame Of their exploits to future years, No marble from the quarry claim, But, soaring to the starry spheres, Materials seek in Jove's blue sky To endure when brass and marble die! Arrived among the shining host, Fearless, the proud invaders spoil From countless gems, in æther lost, These Stars, to crown their mighty toil: To heaven a Pyramid they rear And point the summit with a star. Old wasteful Time! though still you gain Dominion o'er the brazen tower, On This your teeth will gnaw in vain, Finding its strength beyond their power: While kindred stars in æther glow, This Pyramid will shine below! [1792]

From Bourbon's brow the crown remov'd, Low in the dust is laid; And, parted now from all she lov'd, Maria's[A] beauties fade:

What shall relieve her sad distress, What power recall that former state When drinking deep her seas of bliss, She smil'd and look'd so sweet!— With aching heart and haggard eye She views the palace,[B] towering high, Where, once, were pass'd her brightest days, And nations stood, in wild amaze, Louis! to see you eat.

This gaudy vision to restore Shall fate its laws repeal, And cruel despots rise once more To plan a new Bastille! Shall, from their sheathes, ten thousand blades[C] In glittering vengeance start To mow down slaves, and slice off heads, Taking a monarch's part?— Ah no!—the heavens this hope refuse; Despots! they send you no such news— Nor Conde, fierce, nor Frederick, stout, Nor Catharine brings this work about, Nor Brunswick's warlike art: