POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU

Volume III

THE

POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU

POET OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION

EDITED FOR
The Princeton Historical Association

BY
FRED LEWIS PATTEE
OF THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE COLLEGE, AUTHOR OF "A HISTORY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE,"
"THE FOUNDATIONS OF AMERICAN LITERATURE," ETC.

Volume III

Princeton, N. J.
The University Library
1907

Copyright, 1907, by
The Princeton University Library

Press of
The New Era Printing Company
Lancaster, Pa.

CONTENTS

PART IV

THE PERIOD OF EDITORSHIP

1790—1797

THE

POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU

In February, 1790, Freneau left the sea and settled down in the employ of the New York Daily Advertiser. During the next seven years he was successively editor of the National Gazette, The Jersey Chronicle, and The Time Piece and Literary Companion. The period ends late in 1797 when he left New York and went for a time to Charleston, South Carolina.

NEVERSINK[1]

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!

[1] The first trace I can find of this poem is in the Freeman's Journal, February 2, 1791, where it is entitled "Stanzas written on the Hills of Neversink near Sandy Hook, 1790." In the republication of the poem in the National Gazette, November 28, 1791, the month "July" was added to the title. It was the poet's valedictory to the ocean after his wanderings. He was married in May, 1790, and he now evidently looked forward to a settled career. The poem has been placed slightly out of order as will be seen. It was republished only in the 1795 edition which the text follows. The first five lines of the original version were as follows:

"In early days and vanished years
To rougher toils resigned,
You saw me rove in search of care
And leave true bliss behind;
You saw me rig the barque so trim," etc.

[2] "I quit your view no more."—Freeman's Journal, 1791.

[3] See Volume II, page 193.

THE RISING EMPIRE[4]

On American Antiquity.[5]

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—

A View of Rhode Island[6]

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:

Terra Vulpina, or, the Land of Foxes[7]

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.

Massachusetts[11]

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.

[A] Washington.—Freneau's note.

A Batavian Picture[13]

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.

Pennsylvania

[A Fragment]

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]

Maryland

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.

[B] Annapolis.—Freneau's note.

Old Virginia[16]

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]

[4] In the Charleston City Gazette or Daily Advertiser of February 2, 1790, appeared "A Characteristic Sketch of the Long Island Dutch. From The Rising Empire: a Poem." Two days later the New York Daily Advertiser published "A View of Rhode Island. [Extracted from a new Poem, entitled The Rising Empire, not yet published.]" That Freneau for a time was actively engaged upon this projected volume is evident from the poems on the states which appeared in the Daily Advertiser, chiefly during the month of March, 1790. The last of these poems, "A Descriptive Sketch of Virginia," appeared June 11, 1790. On June 25 Freneau issued proposals for a new volume of poems, presumably to bear the title "The Rising Empire," but the volume was never published. Many of the pieces that undoubtedly would have gone to make up the book appeared in the Daily Advertiser. Of those that came directly under the title (and they are doubtless but a fragment of what the poet intended to write) all but "A View of Rhode Island" appeared in a greatly changed form in the poet's later volumes. I have followed in each case the edition of 1809.

[5] In the Daily Advertiser of March 13, 1790, this poem bore the title "Philosophical Sketch of America."

[6] Text from the New York Daily Advertiser of February 4, 1790.

[7] In the original version published in the Daily Advertiser, May 10, 1790, this bore the title "Description of Connecticut."

[8] Followed in the original version by the line:

"Sacred to him, that taught them to be keen;"

[9] The fourteen lines following this are not in the original version.

[10] In the edition of 1795 this reads "Greenfield's reverend son," alluding to Dr. Dwight.

[11] In the index to the 1809 edition the title was "Lines on the old patriotic state, Massachusetts."

[12]

"All, all too weak to effect the vast design
That swell'd, poor Gage, that puny heart of thine,
That urg'd Burgoyne to slight his Celia's charms,
The brother Howes to furbish up their arms
And modern Percies lose their wonted sleep
To conquer countries, that they could—not keep."

—Original version in the Daily Advertiser, March 29, 1790.

[13] The original title of this poem was "A Characteristic Sketch of the Long Island Dutch."

[14] The original version in the Daily Advertiser began at this point.

[15] The earliest version, as it appeared in the Daily Advertiser, March 17, 1790, had the following in place of the last six lines:

"Thy followers, Fox, pacific in each aim,
In this far climate still revere your name;
To them long practice prudent foresight gave,
Proof to the projects of the keenest knave.
On things to come they fix an anxious eye
Fond to be thought the favourites of the sky,
Paths of their own they clear to future bliss,
Praise other worlds but keep their hold on this.
Nor mean I, hence, to censure or condemn,
Perhaps 'twere best the world should think like them;—
What tho' on visions they may place their trust,
I hold their general principles are just,
Good will to all, themselves their first great care,
Precise in dealing, foes to blood and war;
Let kings invade, or potentates assault,
No aid they lend, for passive to a fault,
They still are found, all complaisant to power
To bow to ruffians in the trying hour."

[16] In the edition of 1795 this bore the title "Virginia. [A Fragment]"

[17] The original version in the Daily Advertiser, June 11, 1790, added here these lines:

"Yet shall not malice rob them of their due,
Not all their worth is center'd in a few:
On Fame's bright lists their sages they enroll,
Theirs is the brave, and high aspiring soul,
Heroes and chiefs, the firm unconquer'd mind
That rul'd in councils, or in battles shin'd,
Sent traitorous bands new regions to explore
And drove their titled miscreant^[a] from the shore."

[a] Lord Dunmore.—Freneau's note.

[18] The original version added here the following:

"Rais'd by their care, tobacco spreads its leaf,
The master's pleasure, and the labourer's grief;
Hence comes the lofty port, the haughty air,
The proud demeanour, and the brow severe."

[19] The original version added here the couplet:

"While the keen lash some little tyrant wields,
Foe to the free-born genius of the fields."

[20] The original version added here:

"Silent beholds (proud object of reproach)
His whole year's labour lost on Mammon's coach!"

[21] As originally printed in the Daily Advertiser the poem ended as follows:

"Mercantile towns where dullness holds her reign
And boors, too lazy to manure the plain:—
There, where two creeks divide the sickly lands,
Mis-shapen pile, the gloomy college stands,
With mingled chess the sophs their vigils keep
And William nods to Mary—half asleep;
The mopish muse no lively theme essays
But toils in law, that best her toil repays,
With modern Latin, ancient trash explains,
Or deals in Logic—for the want of brains.
"Attach'd to other times, I cast my view
To former days, when all was fresh & new,
When Pocahunta, in her bearskin clad,
Sigh'd to be happy with her English lad:
Queen of those woods, embarking on the main,
(With Tomocomo following in her train)
First of her race, she reach'd the British shore
But doom'd to perish, saw her own no more!
Chang'd is the scene—where once her gardens smil'd
A negro race now wander through the wild
And with base gabbling, vex that injur'd shade
Where Freedom flourish'd and Powhatan stray'd."

LOG-TOWN TAVERN[22]

[By Hezekiah Salem][23]

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.

[A] A composition of Indian meal and water, baked hastily before the fire on a board or hoe.—Freneau's note.

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]

[B] A shrub leaf very commonly used in the Carolinas, as a substitute for tea.—Freneau's note.

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.

[22] Daily Advertiser, February 19, 1790, entitled "Lines Descriptive of a Tavern at Log-Town, a small Place in the Pine Barrens of North-Carolina." The poem appeared originally in the North Carolina Gazette.

[23] The signature "By Hezekiah Salem" or "By H. Salem" is peculiar to the 1809 edition. Freneau added it to many poems which in previous editions had been unsigned.

THE WANDERER[24]

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.

[24] Printed in the Daily Advertiser, February 22, 1790, under the title "The Bird at Sea," and republished only in the edition of 1795, from which the text is taken.

ON THE
DEMOLITION OF FORT-GEORGE

In New-York—1790[25]

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.

[25] In the Daily Advertiser of June 12, 1790, there appeared from the pen of Freneau a long article entitled "Description of New-York one Hundred years hence, By a Citizen of those Times:" The following is an extract:

"At the South western part of this city formerly stood a strong fort, with stone walls, near thirty feet in height, upon which were mounted a considerable number of large pieces of cannon. This fortress was originally constructed by the Dutch possessors of the place to defend the town, then in its infancy, from the insults of pirates on the one side, and the aborigines of the country on the other. After this territory fell into the hands of the English nation, the fort was at different times enlarged, strengthened and repaired, and was the usual place of residence for the British Governors, who, in the true spirit of European royalty and despotism chose to live separate from their fellow-citizens, and in several instances treated them with a degree of contempt and disrespect proportionate to the confidence they had in the number of their cannon, and in the strength of the walls and ramparts that surrounded them.

"History mentions that in the year 1790, fourteen years after this republic had shaken off its yoke of foreign bondage, this fort was totally demolished by an edict of the Senate, and the space it occupied employed to better purpose in making room for those elegant streets and buildings which now adorn this quarter of the city."

The poem appeared in the issue of March 9, 1790, and was entitled "On the proposed demolition of Fort George, in this City." The text of the 1809 edition has been followed.

CONGRESS HALL, N. Y.[26]

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.

[26] Daily Advertiser, March 12, 1790. The title of the poem as given in the index of the 1809 edition, the text of which I have followed, is "On the Immense Concourse at Federal Hall, in 1790, while the Funding System was in agitation." The title in the 1795 edition was "Federal Hall." The seat of the national government was at this time in New York City.

EPISTLE TO PETER PINDAR, ESQ.[27]

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.

[27] Text from the Daily Advertiser, March 15, 1790. "Peter Pindar" was the pen name of the voluminous and well-known English satirist and humorist, Dr. John Walcott. The first collection of his poems was published in 1789. From this point his influence upon the poetry of Freneau was considerable. An American edition of Peter Pindar was published in Philadelphia in 1792.

THE NEW ENGLAND SABBATH-DAY CHACE[28]

[Written Under the Character of Hezekiah Salem]

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.

[28] First published, as far as I can find, in the Daily Advertiser, March 16, 1790. It was there introduced as follows (italics): "In several parts of New England it is customary not to suffer travellers to proceed on a journey on the Sabbath day. If a person is obstinate on these occasions, he is either forcibly (and commonly to the ridicule of the whole Congregation) conducted to the Church door, led through the principal ile (sic), and placed in a conspicuous seat by the wardens, or must be detained till next day under guard, and submit to pay a fine, or be committed. The following lines commemorate an event of this sort, which some years ago really befel Mr. P. the noted performer in feats of horsemanship. The author, however, seems to have left his poem incomplete." Text from the 1809 edition.

ON THE SLEEP OF PLANTS[29]

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!

[29] Published in the Daily Advertiser, March 20, 1790. Text from the edition of 1809.

ON THE DEMOLITION OF AN OLD
COLLEGE[30]

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."

[A] A mixture of molasses and water.—Freneau's note.

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.

[30] Published in the Daily Advertiser, March 22, 1790, under the title "On the Demolition of Dartmouth College." This earliest version was introduced thus (italics): "On December the 31st last, the old College at Dartmouth in New-Hampshire, was entirely demolished by the Students, notwithstanding every endeavour of the Rev. President to persuade them to desist from their unwarrantable undertaking. It stood the shock of their united efforts about 20 minutes, and then fell to the ground." The facts as given by Freneau are in the main true. During the absence of the second Wheelock in Europe to secure funds for the college "Professor Woodward," according to Chase's History of Dartmouth College, "acted as chief executive and Professor Ripley resided with the family in the presidential mansion. The students, it seems, took advantage of the opportunity to rid themselves and the faculty of the little log hut, 'the first sprout of the college,' that stood near the mansion house. Being remitted to the occupancy of servants, it was by this time in a deplorable state of neglect and decay, and obnoxious to everybody. On a December evening in 1782 or 1783 Professor Ripley in the President's house happened to be entertaining a friend from Connecticut, and dilating with much satisfaction upon the orderly behaviour of the students and the freedom from noise and disturbance. In the midst of it they became aware of an unusual commotion without, and on going to see about it, discovered a body of students assailing the log house in such a manner that in a very short time little was left of it. The professor made an effort to stay the work but the noise overpowered his voice." In the edition of 1795 the title was "On the Demolition of a Log-College," and in the index of the edition of 1809, the text of which I have used, the title was given "On the Demolition of an ancient New-England College."

ON THE DEATH OF DR. BENJAMIN
FRANKLIN[31]

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]

[A] Eripuit cœlo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis!—Freneau's note.

[31] First published in the Daily Advertiser, April 28, 1790. Text from the 1809 edition. Franklin died April 17.

EPISTLE[32]

From Dr. Franklin [deceased] to his Poetical Panegyrists, on some of their Absurd Compliments

"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."

[32] Published in the Daily Advertiser, May 24, 1790, with the title "Verses from the Other World, by Dr. Fr—k—n." Text from the 1809 edition.

CONSTANTIA[33]

[On a Project of Retiring to Bethlehem]

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.

[33] Printed in the Daily Advertiser, May 1, 1790. It was republished both in the Freeman's Journal and in the National Gazette. Text from the 1809 edition.

STANZAS

Occasioned by Lord Bellamont's, Lady Hay's, and Other Skeletons,
being dug up in Fort George (N. Y.), 1790.[34]

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.

[34] Published in the Daily Advertiser, June 17, 1790. The bodies were removed at the time the demolition of Fort George was in progress. Text from the 1809 edition.

THE ORATOR OF THE WOODS[35]

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.

[35] Published in the Daily Advertiser, June 29, 1790, with the explanation: "Occasioned by hearing a very elegant Discourse preached in a mean Building, by the Parson of an obscure Parrish." Text from the 1809 edition.

NANNY[A]

The Philadelphia Housekeeper, to Nabby, her Friend in New-York[36]

[A] Occasioned by the intended removal of the Supreme Legislature of the United States from New-York to Philadelphia—a measure much agitated at the time the above was written—1790.—Freneau's note.

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.

[36] Published in the Daily Advertiser, July 1, 1790. Text from the 1809 edition.

NABBY

The New-York Housekeeper, to Nanny, her Friend in Philadelphia[37]

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!

[37] Published in the Daily Advertiser, July 15, 1790. Text from the edition of 1809.

THE BERGEN PLANTER[38]

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.

[38] Published in the Daily Advertiser, July 12, 1790. Reprinted in the National Gazette under the title "The Pennsylvania Planter." Text from the 1795 edition.

TOBACCO

[Supposed to be written by a Young Beginner[39]]

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!

[39] Published in the Daily Advertiser, July 31, 1790. Text from the edition of 1809.

THE BANISHED MAN[40]

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.

[A] Anaxagoras.—Freneau's note.

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.