THE FINAL PERIOD OF WANDERING
ON ARRIVING IN SOUTH CAROLINA, 1798[154] A happy gale presents, once more,
The gay and ever verdant shore,
Which every pleasure will restore
To those who come again:
You, Carolina, from the seas
Emerging, claim all power to please,
Emerge with elegance and ease
From Neptune's briny main.
To find in you a happier home,
Retirement for the days to come,
From northern coasts you saw me roam,
By flattering fancy moved:
I came, and in your fragrant woods,
Your magic isles and gay abodes,
In rural haunts and passing floods
Review'd the scenes I loved,
When sailing oft, from year to year
And leaving all I counted dear,
I found the happy country here
Where manly hearts abound;
Where friendship's kind extended hand,
All social, leads a generous band;
Where heroes, who redeem'd the land
Still live to be renown'd:
Who live to fill the trump of fame,
Or, dying, left the honor'd name
Which Athens had been proud to claim
From her historian's page—
These with invading thousands strove,
These bade the foe their prowess prove,
And from their old dominions drove
The tyrants of the age.
Long, long may every good be thine,
Sweet country, named from Caroline,
Once seen in Britain's court to shine
The fairest of the fair:
Still may the wanderer find a home
Where'er thy varied forests bloom,
And peace and pleasure with him come
To take their station here.
Here Ashley, with his brother stream,
By Charleston gliding, all, may claim,
That ever graced a poet's dream
Or sooth'd a statesman's cares;
She, seated near her forests blue,
Which winter's rigor never knew,
With half an ocean in her view
Her shining turrets rears.
Here stately oaks of living green
Along the extended coast are seen,
That rise beneath a heaven serene,
Unfading through the year—
In groves the tall Palmetto grows,
In shades inviting to repose,
The fairest, loveliest, scenes disclose—
All nature charms us here.
Dark wilds are thine, the yellow field,
And rivers by no frost congeal'd,
And, Ceres, all that you can yield
To deck the festive board;
The snow white fleece, from pods that grows,
And every seed that Flora sows—
The orange and the fig-tree shows
A paradise restored.
There rural love to bless the swains
In the bright eye of beauty reigns,
And brings a heaven upon the plains
From some dear Emma's charms;
Some Laura fair who haunts the mead,
Some Helen, whom the graces lead,
Whose charms the charms of her exceed
That set the world in arms.
And distant from the sullen roar
Of ocean, bursting on the shore,
A region rises, valued more
Than all the shores possess:
There lofty hills their range display,
Placed in a climate ever gay,
From wars and commerce far away,
Sweet nature's wilderness.
There all that art has taught to bloom,
The streams that from the mountain foam,
And thine, Eutaw, that distant roam,
Impart supreme delight:
The prospect to the western glade,
The ancient forest, undecay'd—
All these the wildest scenes have made
That ever awed the sight.
There Congaree his torrent pours,
Saluda, through the forest roars,
And black Catawba laves his shores
With waters from afar,
Till mingled with the proud Santee,
Their strength, united, finds the sea,
Through many a plain, by many a tree,
Then rush across the bar.
But, where all nature's fancies join,
Were but a single acre mine,
Blest with the cypress and the pine,
I would request no more;
And leaving all that once could please,
The northern groves and stormy seas—
I would not change such scenes as these
For all that men adore.
ODE TO THE AMERICANS[155] That the progress of liberty and reason in the world is slow and gradual;
but, considering the present state of things, and the light
of science universally spreading, that it cannot be
long impeded, or its complete establishment
prevented.—1798 They who survey the human stage,
In reason's view; through time's past age,
Will find, whatever nature plann'd
Came, first, imperfect from her hand,
Or what ourselves imperfect call;
In nature's eye, though perfect all—
To man she gave to improve, adorn;
But let him halt—and all things turn
To assume their wild primeval cast,
The growth of a neglected waste.
Yond' stately trees, so fresh and fair,
That now such golden burthens bear,
Were once mean shrubs that, far from view,
In desert woods, unthrifty grew.
Man saw the seeds of something good
In these rude children of the wood;
Apply'd the knife, and pruned with care,
Till art has made them what they are.
With curious eye, search history's page,
And Man observe, through every age;
At first a mere barbarian, he
Bore nothing good, (like that wild tree).
At length by thought and reason's aid,
Reflection piercing night's dark shade,
Improvements gain'd, by slow advance
Direction, not the work of chance.
Forsaking, first, the savage den
And fellow-beasts less fierce than men,
New plans they form'd for war or power,
And sunk the ditch and raised the tower.
In course of years the human mind,
Advancing slow proved more refined,
Less brutal in external show,
But native mischief lurk'd below.
Despots and kings begun their part,
And millions fell by rules of art;
Or malice, rankling all the while,
Lay hid beneath the treacherous smile.
Religion brought her potent aid
To kings, their subjects to degrade—
Religion!—to profane your name
The hag of superstition came,
And seized your place, the world to ensnare,
A bitter harvest doom'd to bear!
And priests, or history much deceives,
Turn'd aide-de-camps to sceptred thieves.
At last that Cherub from the skies,
(Our nature meant to humanize)
And sway, without a king or crown,
Philosophy, from heaven came down.
Adorn'd with all her native charms
She clasp'd her offspring in her arms,
In hope the mists of night to chase
And hold them in her fond embrace.
She, only she, for virtue warm
Dissolved the spell and broke the charm,
That bade mankind their hands imbue
In blood, to please the scheming few.
Arm'd with a dart of fire and love
She left the seats and courts above,
And her celestial power display'd
Not to compel, but to persuade.
The moment she had whirl'd her sling
Each trembling war-hawk droop'd his wing:
They saw that reason's game was won,
They saw the trade of tyrants done:
And all was calm—she saw, well pleased,
The havoc done, the tumult ceased,
She saw her throne was now adored,
She saw the reign of peace restored,
And said, 'I leave you—pray, be wise!
'I'm on a visit to the skies,
'Let incense on my altars burn
'And you'll be blest till I return.'
But sad reverse!—when out of sight
The fiends of darkness watch'd her flight—
What she had built, they soon displaced,
Her temples burn'd, her tracks effaced.
Their force they join'd, to quench her flame,
A thousand ghastly legions came
To blast the blossom in the bud
And retrograde to chains and blood.
The people—to be bought and sold,
Were still the prize they wish'd to hold;—
All peasants, soldiers, sailors, slaves,
The common sink of rogues and knaves.
Yet, nature must her circle run—
Can they arrest the rising sun?
Prevent his warm reviving ray,
Or shade the influence of the day?
If Europe to the yoke returns,
Columbia at the idea spurns—
Let Britain wield barbarian rage
We meet her here, through every stage.
In vain her navy spreads its sails,
The strength of mind at last prevails;
And reason! thy prodigious power
Has brought it to its closing hour.
Appeal to arms henceforth should cease,
And man might learn to live in peace;
No kings with iron hearts should reign,
To seize old ocean's free domain.
Americans! would you conspire
To extinguish this increasing fire?
Would you, so late from fetters freed,
Join party in so base a deed?
Would you dear freedom sacrifice,
Bid navies on the ocean rise,
Be bound by military laws,
And all, to aid a tyrant's cause?
Oh, no! but should all shame forsake,
And gratitude her exit make,
Could you, as thousands say you can,
Desert the common cause of man?
A curse would on your efforts wait
Old british sway to reinstate;
No hireling hosts could force a crown
Nor keep the bold republic down:
The rising race, combined once more,
Would honor to our cause restore,
And in your doom and downfall seal
Such woes as wicked kings shall feel.
O liberty! seraphic name,
With whom from heaven fair virtue came,
For whom, through years of misery toss'd,
One hundred thousand lives were lost;
Still shall all grateful hearts to thee
Incline the head and bend the knee;
For thee this dream of life forego
And quit the world when thou dost go.
[155] From the 1815 edition.
ON THE WAR PATRONS, 1798[156] Weary of peace, and warm for war,
Who first will mount the iron car?
Who first appear, to shield the Stars,
Who foremost, take the field of Mars?
For death and blood, with bold design,
Who bids a hundred legions join?
To see invasions in the air
From France, the moon, or heaven knows where;
In freedom's mouth to fix the gag,
And aid afford t' a wither'd hag;
This is the purpose of a few;
But this we see will scarcely do.
Who bears the brunt, or pays the bill?
The friends of war alone can tell:
Observe, six thousand heroes stand
With not three privates to command;
No matter for the nation's debt
If some can wear the epaulette.
If reason no attention finds,
What magic shall unite all minds?
If war a patronage ensures
That fifty thousand men procures,
Is such a force to humble France?
Will these against her arms advance?
To fight her legions, near the Rhine,
Or England's force in Holland join?
In dreams, that on the brain intrude,
When nature takes her sleepy mood,
And when she frolics through the mind,
By sovereign reason unconfined,
When her main spring is all uncoil'd
And fancy acts in whimsy wild—
I saw a chieftain, cap-a-pee,
Arm'd for the battle,—who but he?—
I saw him draw his rusty sword,
A present from a London lord:
The point was blunt, the edge too dull
I deem'd to cleave a dutchman's scull;
And with this sword he made advance,
And with this sword he struck at France—
This sword return'd without its sheath,
Too weak to cause a single death;
And there he found his work complete,
And then he made a safe retreat,
Where folly finds the camp of rest
And patience learns to do her best.
What next, will policy contrive
To bid the days of war arrive:
Is there no way to pick a quarrel,
And deck the martial brow with laurel?
Is there no way to coax a fight
And gratify some men of might?
To some, who sit at helm of state,
State-business is no killing weight,
They sign their names, inquire the news,
Look wise,—take care to get their dues;
At levees, note down who attends—
And there the mighty business ends:
To some that deal in state affairs
The world comes easy, with its cares;
To some who wish for crown and king,
A quarrel is a charming thing:
They, seated at the fountain head
Quaff bowls of nectar, and are fed
With all the danties of the land
That cash, or market may command:
But others doom'd to station low,
Their choicest draughts are but—so, so.
Hard knocks are theirs, and blood, and wounds,
Ten thousand thumps for twenty pounds:
Their youth they sell for paltry pay
For sixpence, and six kicks a day,
A pound of pork and rotten bread,
A coat lapell'd, with badge of red;
A life of din from year to year,
And thus concludes the mad career.
Ye rising race, consider well
What has been read, or what we tell.
From wars all regal mischiefs flow,
And kings make wars a raree-show,
A business to their post assign'd
To torture, damn, enslave mankind.
For this, of old, did priests anoint 'em,
Be ours the task to disappoint 'em.
But when a foe your soil invades,
A soldier is the first of trades;
Then, every step a soldier takes,
Reflection in his breast awakes,
That duty calls him to the field
Till all invaders are expell'd;
That honor sends him to the fight,
That he is acting what is right,
To guard the soil, and all that's dear;
From such as would be tyrants here.
TO THE DEMOCRATIC COUNTRY EDITORS[157] On a Charge of Bribery You, Journalists, are bribed—that's clear,
And paid French millions by the year;
We see it in the coats you wear;
Such damning, such convincing proof
Of such a charge, is strong enough—
Your suits are made of costly stuff.
Dear boys! you lodge in mansions grand—
In time you'll own six feet of land,
Where now the sexton has command.
Your lodging is in garret high;
But where your best possessions lie,
Yourselves know best—and Him on high.
And have you had a foreign bribe?—
Then, why so lean?—shall we describe
The leanness of your honest tribe?
Why did you not with Tories join
To hold the British king divine—
And all his mandates very fine?
Then had your faces shined with fat—
Then had you worn the gold-laced hat—
And—said your lessons—very pat.—
Your lives are, now, continual trial,
Existence, constant self-denial,
To keep down some, who would be royal.
For public good you wear out types,
For public good you get dry wipes—
For public good you may get—stripes.
One half your time in Federal court,
On libel charge—you're made a sport—
You pay your fees—nor dare retort.—
All pleasure you are sworn to shun;
Are always cloistered, like a nun,
And glad to hide from Ragman's dun.—
All night you sit by glare of lamp,
Like Will o' Wisp in vapoury swamp,
To write of armies and the camp.—
You write—compile—compile and write,
'Till you have nearly lost your sight—
Then off to jail; and so, good night.
Turned out as poor as Christ-church rat,
Once more the trade you would be at
Which never yet made lean man fat.
You send your journals far and wide,
And though undone, and though belied;
You choose to take the patriot side.
Your works are in Kentucky found;
And there your politics go round—
And there you trust them many a pound.—
At home, to folks residing near,
You grant a credit, half a year;
And pine, mean while, on cakes and beer.
The time elapsed when friends should pay,
You urge your dun from day to day;
And so you must—and so you may.
One customer begins to fret,
And tells the dunner in a pet,
"Plague take the Printer and his debt:
"Ungrateful man—go hang—go burn—
"I read his paper night and morn,
"And now experience this return!
"Sir! was I not among the first
"Who did my name on paper trust,
"To help this Journalist accursed?
"Thus am I used for having signed:
"But I have spirit, he shall find—
"Ah me! the baseness of mankind!"
Thus, on you strive with constant pain,
The kindest tell you, call again!—
And you their humble dupe remain.
Who aims to prosper—should be sold—
If bribes are offered, take the gold,
Nor live to be forever fooled.
Salem.
THE SERIOUS MENACE[158] Or Botany Bay and Nootka Sound: In answer to the Communications
of a Persecuting Royalist Last week we heard a king's man say,
Do tell me where is Botany Bay?
There are, quoth he, a meddling few,
That shall go there—and we know who.
This Botany Bay is in an isle
Removed from us twelve thousand mile,
There rogues are banish'd, to atone
For roguish things in England done.
Ye vultures, here on sufferance fed,
Who curse the hand that gives you bread,
Recall your threats, or, by the way,
You'll find us act a serious play.
The haughty prince that England owns,
To make more room for royal sons,
Has given the hint, I would suspect—
And are you one of his Elect?
Ye busy tribe, of harpy face,
In search of power, in search of place,
Ye rancorous hearts, who build your all
On royal wrongs and freedom's fall,
This have we seen, and well we know,
Each son of freedom is your foe,
And these you would, unheard, convey
To places worse than Botany Bay.
Be cautious how you talk so loud—
Above your heads there hangs a cloud,
That, bursting with explosion vast,
May scatter vengeance in its blast;
And send you all, on th' devil's dray,
A longer road than—Botany Bay.
Another threat alarm'd us much—
(Indeed, we hourly meet with such)—
A cockney said, but spoke it low,
For fear the street his mind should know:
"And is there no sedition act?
("'Tis almost time to doubt the fact,)
"By which this gabbling crew are bound
"The nearest way to Nootka Sound?"
Can you but smile!—who would have thought
That they who writ, who march'd, who fought
For many a year, and little got
But liberty, and dearly bought
Must now away
With half their pay,
And seek on ocean's utmost bound
Their chance to starve at Nootka Sound!
This Nootka Sound, so far remote,
Would make us sing a serious note,
If it be true what travellers tell
That there a race of natives dwell
Who, when they would their brethren treat
And give them a regale of meat
Unchain their prisoners from the den,
And scrape the bones of bearded men.
God save us from so hard a fate!
As to be spitted, soon or late;
It is a lot that few admire—
So let us for a while retire;
And live to see some traitors drown'd
I' the deepest swash of Nootka Sound.
REFLECTIONS[159] On the Mutability of Things—1798 The time is approaching, deny it who may,
The days are not very remote,
When the pageant that glitter'd for many a day,
On the stream of oblivion will float.
The times are advancing when matters will turn,
And some, who are now in the shade,
And pelted by malice, or treated with scorn,
Will pay, in the coin that was paid:
The time it will be, when the people aroused,
For better arrangements prepare,
And firm to the cause, that of old they espoused,
Their steady attachment declare:
When tyrants will shrink from the face of the day,
Or, if they presume to remain,
To the tune of peccavi, a solo will play,
And lower the royalty strain:
When government favors to flattery's press
Will halt on their way from afar,
And people will laugh at the comical dress
Of the knights of the garter and star:
When a monarch, new fangled, with lawyer and scribe,
In junto will cease to convene,
Or take from old England a pitiful bribe,
To pamper his "highness serene;"
When virtue and merit will have a fair chance
The loaves and the fishes to share,
And Jefferson, you to your station advance,
The man for the president's chair:
When honesty, honor, experience, approved,
No more in disgrace will retire;
When fops from the places of trust are removed
And the leaders of faction retire.
THE POLITICAL WEATHER-COCK[160] 'Tis strange that things upon the ground
Are commonly most steady found
While those in station proud
Are turned and twirled, or twist about,
Now here and there, now in or out,
Mere play things to a cloud.
See yonder influential man,
So late the stern Republican
While interest bore him up;
See him recant, abjure the cause,
See him support tyrannic laws,
The dregs of slavery's cup!
Thus, on yon' steeple towering high,
Where clouds and storms distracted fly,
The weather-cock is placed;
Which only while the storm does blow
Is to one point of compass true,
Then veers with every blast.
But things are so appointed here
That weather-cocks on high appear,
On pinnacle displayed,
While Sense, and Worth, and reasoning wights,
And they who plead for Human Rights,
Sit humble in the shade.
REFLECTIONS[161] On the Gradual Progress of Nations from Democratical States to
Despotic Empires Mantua vae miserae nimium vicina Cremonae!—Virgil. Oh fatal day! when to the Atlantic shore,
European despots sent the doctrine o'er,
That man's vast race was born to lick the dust;
Feed on the winds, or toil through life accurst;
Poor and despised, that rulers might be great
And swell to monarchs, to devour the state.
Whence came these ills, or from what causes grew
This vortex vast, that only spares the few,
Despotic sway, where every plague combined,
Distracts, degrades, and swallows up mankind;
Takes from the intellectual sun its light,
And shrouds the world in universal night?
Accuse not nature for the dreary scene,
That glooms her stage or hides her heaven serene,
She, equal still in all her varied ways,
An equal blessing to the world displays.
The suns that now on northern climates glow,
Will soon retire to melt Antarctic snow,
The seas she robb'd to form her clouds and rain,
Return in rivers to that source again;
But man, wrong'd man, borne down, deceived and vex'd,
Groans on through life, bewilder'd and perplex'd;
No suns on him but suns of misery shine,
Now march'd to war, now grovelling in the mine.
Chain'd, fetter'd, prostrate, sent from earth a slave,
To seek rewards in worlds beyond the grave.
If in her general system, just to all,
We nature an impartial parent call,
Why did she not on man's whole race bestow,
Those fine sensations angels only know;
Who, sway'd by reason, with superior mind
In nature's state all nature's blessings find,
Which shed through all, does all their race pervade,
In streams not niggard by a despot made?
Leave this a secret in great nature's breast,
Confess that all her works tend to the best,
Or own that man's neglected culture here
Breeds all the mischiefs that we feel or fear.
In all, except the skill to rule her race,
Man, wise and skilful, gives each part its place:
Each nice machine he plans, to reason true,
Adapting all things to the end in view,
But taught in this, the art himself to rule
His sense is folly, and himself a fool.
Where social strength resides, there rests, 'tis plain,
The power, mankind to govern and restrain:
This strength is not but in the social plan
Controling all, the common good of man,
That power concentred by the general voice,
In honest men, an honest people's choice,
With frequent change, to keep the patriot pure,
And from vain views of power the heart secure:
Here lies the secret, hid from Rome or Greece,
That holds a state in awe, yet holds in peace.
See through the world, in ages now retired,
Man foe to man, as policy required:
At some proud tyrant's nod what millions rose,
To extend their sway, and make a world their foes.
View Asia ravaged, Europe drench'd with blood,
In feuds whose cause no nation understood.
The cause we fear, of so much misery sown,
Known at the helm of state, and there alone.
Left to himself, wherever man is found,
In peace he aims to walk life's little round;
In peace to sail, in peace to till the soil,
Nor force false grandeur from a brother's toil.
All but the base, designing, scheming, few,
Who seize on nations with a robber's view,
With crowns and sceptres awe his dazzled eye,
And priests that hold the artillery of the sky;
These, these, with armies, navies, potent grown,
Impoverish man and bid the nations groan.
These with pretended balances of states
Keep worlds at variance, breed eternal hates,
Make man the poor base slave of low design,
Degrade his nature to its last decline,
Shed hell's worse blots on his exalted race,
And make them poor and mean, to make them base.
Shall views like these assail our happy land,
Where embryo monarchs thirst for wide command,
Shall a whole nation's strength and fair renown
Be sacrificed, to prop a tottering throne,
That, ages past, the world's great curse has stood,
Has throve on plunder, and been fed on blood.—
Americans! will you control such views?
Speak—for you must—you have no hour to lose.
That internal commerce only, promotes the morals of a country situated
like America, and prevents its growth of luxury,
and its consequent vices To every clime, through every sea
The bold adventurer steers;
In bounding barque, through each degree
His country's produce bears.—
How far more blest to stay at home
Than thus on Neptune's wastes to roam,
Where fervors melt, or frosts congeal—
Ah ye! with toils and hardships worn,
Condemn'd to face the briny foam;
Ah! from such fatal projects turn
The wave-dividing keel.
The product of the furrow'd plain—
Transferr'd to foreign shores,
To pamper pride and please the vain
The reign of kings restores:
Hence, every vice the sail imports,
The glare of crowns, the pomp of courts,
And War, with all his crimson train!
Thus man design'd to till the ground,
A stranger to himself is found—
Is sent to toil on yonder wave,
Is made the dreary ocean's sport,
Since commerce first to avarice gave
To sail the ocean round.
How far more wise the grave Chinese,
Who ne'er remotely stray,
But bid the world surmount the seas
And hard-earn'd tribute pay.
Hence, treasure to their country flows
Freed from the danger, and the woes
Of distant seas and dreary shores.
There commerce breeds no foreign war;
At home they find their wants supplied,
And ask, why nations come so far
To seek superfluous stores?
Americans! why half neglect
The culture of your soil?
From distant traffic why expect
The harvest of your toil?
At home a surer harvest springs
From mutual interchange of things,
Domestic duties to fulfil.—
Vast lakes within your realm abound
Where commerce now expands her sail,
Where hostile navies are not found
To bend you to their will.
ON FALSE SYSTEMS[163] Of Government, and the Generally Debased Condition of Mankind Does there exist, or will there come
An age with wisdom to assume,
The Rights by heaven designed;
The Rights which man was born to claim,
From Nature's God which freely came,
To aid and bless mankind.—
No monarch lives, nor do I deem
There will exist one crown supreme
The world in peace to sway;
Whose first great view will be to place
On their true scale the human race,
And discord's rage allay.
Republics! must the task be your's
To frame the code which life secures,
And Right from man to man—
Are you, in Time's declining age,
Found only fit to tread the stage
Where tyranny began?
How can we call those systems just
Which bid the few, the proud, the first
Possess all earthly good;
While millions robbed of all that's dear
In silence shed the ceaseless tear,
And leeches suck their blood.
Great orb, that on our planet shines,
Whose power both light and heat combines,
You should the model be;
To man, the pattern how to reign
With equal sway, and how maintain
True human dignity.
Impartially to all below
The solar beams unstinted flow,
On all is poured the Ray,
Which cheers, which warms, which clothes the ground
In robes of green, or breathes around
Life;—to enjoy the day.
But crowns not so;—with selfish views
They partially their bliss diffuse
Their minions feel them kind;—
And, still opposed to human right,
Their plans, their views in this unite,
To embroil and curse mankind.
Ye tyrants, false to Him, who gave
Life, and the virtues of the brave,
All worth we own, or know:—
Who made you great, the lords of man,
To waste with wars, with blood to stain
The Maker's works below?
You have no iron race to sway—
Illume them well with Reason's ray;
Inform our active race;
True honour, to the mind impart,
With virtue's precepts tame the heart,
Not urge it to be base;
Let laws revive, by heaven designed,
To tame the tiger in the mind
And drive from human hearts
That love of wealth, that love of sway
Which leads the world too much astray,
Which points envenomed darts:
And men will rise from what they are;
Sublimer, and superior, far,
Than Solon guessed, or Plato saw;
All will be just, all will be good—
That harmony, "not understood,"
Will reign the general law.
For, in our race, deranged, bereft,
The parting god some vestige left
Of worth before possessed;
Which full, which fair, which perfect shone
When love and peace, in concord sown,
Ruled, and inspired each breast.
Hence, the small Good which yet we find,
Is shades of that prevailing mind
Which sways the worlds around:—
Let these depart, once disappear,
And earth would all the horrors wear
In hell's dominions found.
Just, as yon' tree, which, bending, grows
To chance, not fate, its fortune owes;
So man from some rude shock,
Some slighted power, some hostile hand,
Has missed the state by Nature planned,
Has split on passion's rock.
Yet shall that tree, when hewed away
(As human woes have had their day)
A new creation find:
The infant shoot in time will swell,
(Sublime and great from that which fell,)
To all that heaven designed.
What is this earth, that sun, these skies;
If all we see, on man must rise,
Forsaken and oppressed—
Why blazes round the eternal beam,
Why, Reason, art thou called supreme,
Where nations find no rest.—
What are the splendours of this ball—
When life is closed, what are they all?
When dust to dust returns
Does power, or wealth, attend the dead;
Are captives from the contest led—
Is homage paid to urns?
What are the ends of Nature's laws;
What folly prompts, what madness draws
Mankind in chains, too strong:—
Nature, to us, confused appears,
On little things she wastes her cares,
The great seem sometimes wrong.
ON THE PROPOSED SYSTEM[164] Of State Consolidation, &c., about 1799 In thoughtless hour some much misguided men,
And more, who held a prostituted pen,
From monstrous creeds a monstrous system drew,
That every State into one kettle threw,
And boil'd them up until the goodly mass
Might for a kingdom, or a something, pass.
In the gay circle of saint James's placed,
From thence, no doubt, this modest plan they traced,
Suit with the splendor that surrounds a king,
Too many sigh'd, and wish'd to be that thing.
Thence came a book (where came it but from thence?)
Made up of all things but a grain of sense.
Lawyers and counsellors echo'd back the note
And lying journals praised the trash they wrote.
Though British armies could not long prevail,
Yet British politics may turn the scale:
In ten short years, of freedom weary grown,
The state, republic, sickens for a throne;
Senates and sycophants a pattern bring
A mere disguise for parliament and king.
A pensioned army! Whence a plan so base?—
A despot's safety, liberty's disgrace.
What saved these states from Britain's wasting hand,
Who but the generous rustics of the land,
A free-born race, inured to every toil,
Who clear the forest and subdue the soil?
They tyrants banish'd from this injured shore,
And home-bred traitors may expel once more.
Ye, who have propp'd the venerated cause,
Who freedom honor'd, and sustain'd her laws!
When thirteen states are moulded into one,
Your rights are vanish'd and your glory gone;
The form of freedom will alone remain—
Rome had her senate when she hugg'd her chain.
Sent to revise our system,—not to change,
What madness that whole system to derange,
Amendments, only, was the plan in view,
You scorn amendments, and destroy it too.
How much deceived! would heroes of renown
Scheme for themselves, and pull the fabric down,
Bid in its place Columbia's column rise
Inscribed with these sad words,—Here freedom lies!
ON A PROPOSED NEGOTIATION[165] With the French Republic, and Political Reformation—1799 Thus to the verge of battle brought
Reflection leads a happy thought,
Agrees, half way, the Gaul to meet,
Prepared to fight him or to treat.
Fatigued with long oppression's reign,
Tis time to break oppression's chain;
One gem we ravish'd from one crest
And time, perhaps, will take the rest.
The revolutions of this age
(To swell the late historian's page)
Are but old prospects drawing near,
The outset of a new career.
What Plato saw, in ages fled,
What Solon to the Athenians said,
What fired the British Sydney's page,
The Solon of a modern age,
Is now unfolding to our view;
A system liberal, great, and new,
Which from a long experience springs
And bodes a better course of things.
And will these States, whose beam ascends,
On whose resolve so much depends;
Will these, whose Washington, or Greene,
Gave motion to the vast machine;
Will these be torpid, careless found
To help the mighty wheel go round;
These, who began the immortal strife,
And liberty preferr'd to life.
If not the cause of France we aid
Yet never should the word be said
That we, to royal patrons prone,
Made not the cause of man our own.
Could Britain here renew her sway,
And we a servile homage pay,
The coming age, too proud to yield,
Would drive her myriads from the field.
Time will mature the mighty scheme,
We build on no platonic dream;
The light of truth shall shine again,
And save the democratic reign.
[165] From the 1815 edition. An embassy, headed by Chief Justice Ellsworth, had been appointed by Adams early in 1799 for the purpose of negotiating a treaty with France, but owing to diplomatic tangles it did not depart until late in the year.
STANZAS TO AN ALIEN[166] Who after a Series of Persecutions emigrated to the Southwestern Country.—1799 Remote, beneath a sultry star,
Where Mississippi flows afar,
I see you rambling, God knows where.
Sometimes, beneath a cypress bough,
When met in dreams, with spirits low,
I long to tell you what I know.
How matters go, in this our day,
When monarchy renews her sway,
And royalty begins her play.
I thought you wrong to come so far
Till you had seen our western star
Above the mists ascended clear.
I thought you right, to speed your sails
If you were fond of loathsome jails,
And justice with uneven scales.
And so you came and spoke too free
And soon they made you bend the knee,
And lodged you under lock and key.
Discharged at last, you made your peace
With all you had, and left the place
With empty purse and meagre face.—
You sped your way to other climes
And left me here to teaze with rhymes
The worst of men in worst of times.
Where you are gone the soil is free
And freedom sings from every tree,
"Come quit the crowd and live with me!"
Where I must stay, no joys are found;
Excisemen haunt the hateful ground,
And chains are forged for all around.
The scheming men, with brazen throat,
Would set a murdering tribe afloat
To hang you for the lines you wrote.
If you are safe beyond their rage
Thank heaven, and not our ruling sage,
Who shops us up in jail and cage.
Perdition seize that odious race
Who, aiming at distinguish'd place,
Would life and liberty efface;
With iron rod would rule the ball
And, at their shrine, debase us all,
Bid devils rise and angels fall.
Oh wish them ill, and wish them long
To be as usual in the wrong
In scheming for a chain too strong.
So will the happy time arrive
When coming home, if then alive,
You'll see them to the devil drive.
Written in Blackbeard's, the Pirate's, Castle, near the Town of St. Thomas, in the West Indies.—1799 The ancient knave, who raised these walls,
Now to oblivion half resign'd—
His fortress to the mind recalls
The nerve that stimulates mankind;
When savage force exerts its part
And ruffian blood commands the heart.
This pirate, known to former days,
The scourge of these unhappy climes,
In this strong fabric thought to raise
A monument to future times:
To guard himself and guard his gold,
Or shelter robbers, uncontrol'd.
A standard on these walls he rear'd,
And here he swore the oath profane,
That by his god, and by his beard,
Sole, independent, he would reign;
And do his best to crush the sway
Of legal right and honesty.
Within these walls, and in these vaults,
Of princely power and wealth possess'd,
Dominion hung on all his thoughts,
And here he hoped an age of rest;
The wealth of princes flowing in
That from the Spaniards he did win.
He many a chief and captain awed,
Or chain'd with fetters, foot and hand;
Uncheck'd, his fleets he sent abroad,
Commission gave, conferr'd command;
And if his sailors skulk'd or fled,
He made them shorter—by a head.
Half Europe's flags he bade retire
From ponderous guns he hurl'd the ball—
He fill'd his glass with liquid fire
And drank damnation to them all:
For many a year he held the sway
And thousands at his mercy lay.
Confiding in his castle's strength
Mann'd by a fierce, heroic crew,
He blunder'd on till they at length,
The model of a city drew,
Where he might reign and be obey'd,
And be the tyrant of all trade.
Vain hope! his fort neglected stands
And, crumbling, hastens to decay;—
Where, once, he train'd his daring bands
The stranger scarcely finds his way:
The bushes in the castle grow
Where once he menaced friend and foe.
In this mysterious scene of things
There must be laws or who could live?
There must be laws to aid the wings
Of those who on the ocean strive
To earn by commerce, bold and free,
The honest gains of industry.
LINES WRITTEN AT SEA[168] No pleasure on earth can afford such delights,
As the heavenly view of these tropical nights:
The glow of the stars, and the breeze of the sea,
Are heaven—if heaven on ocean can be.—
The star of old Cancer is right overhead,
And the sun in the water has travelled to bed;
He is gone, as some say, to recline at his ease,
And not, like ourselves, to be pestered with fleas.
What pity that here is no insular spot,
Where quarrels, and murder, and malice are not:
Where a stranger might land, to recruit his worn crew,
Replenish the casks, and the water renew.
On this Empire of waves, this expanse of the main,
In the track we are sailing, no island is seen:
The glow of the stars, and the breath of the wind
Are lost!—for they bring not the scent of the land!
Huge porpoises swim, where there should be an isle,
Where an Eden might bloom, or a Cyprus might smile—
From Palma,[A] thus far, with a tedious delay,
Salt water and Æther is all we survey!
Like an artist that's busy in melting his lead,
At random it falls, and is carelessly spread,
So Nature, though wisely the globe she has planned,
Left the surface to chance—to be sea, or be land.
To the memory of General Washington, who died December 14, 1799 Terra tegit, populus mÆret, cÆlum habet! Departing with the closing age
To virtue, worth, and freedom true,
The chief, the patriot, and the sage
To Vernon bids his last adieu:
To reap in some exalted sphere
The just rewards of virtue here.
Thou, Washington, by heaven design'd
To act a part in human things
That few have known among mankind,
And far beyond the task of kings;
We hail you now to heaven received,
Your mighty task on earth achieved.
While sculpture and her sister arts,
For thee their choicest wreaths prepare,
Fond gratitude her share imparts
And begs thy bones for burial there;
Where, near Virginia's northern bound
Swells the vast pile on federal ground.
To call from their obscure abodes
The Grecian chief, the Roman sage,
The kings, the heroes, and the gods
Who flourish'd in time's earlier age,
Would be to class them not with you,—
Superior far, in every view.
Those ancients of ferocious mould,
Blood their delight, and war their trade,
Their oaths profaned, their countries sold,
And fetter'd nations prostrate laid;
Could these, like you, assert their claim
To honor and immortal fame?
Those monarchs, proud of pillaged spoils,
With nations shackled in their train,
Returning from their desperate toils
With trophies,—and their thousands slain;
In all they did no traits are known
Like those that honor'd Washington.
Who now will save our shores from harms,
The task to him so long assign'd?
Who now will rouse our youth to arms
Should war approach to curse mankind?
Alas! no more the word you give,
But in your precepts you survive.
Ah, gone! and none your place supply,
Nor will your equal soon appear;
But that great name can only die
When memory dwells no longer here,
When man and all his systems must
Dissolve, like you, and turn to dust.
Upon the Same Subject with the Preceding The chief who freed these suffering lands
From Britain's bold besieging bands,
The hero, through all countries known,—
The guardian genius of his own,
Is gone to that celestial bourne
From whence no traveller can return,
Where Scipio and where Trajan went;
And heaven reclaims the soul it lent.
Each heart with secret wo congeals;
Down the pale cheek moist sorrow steals,
And all the nobler passions join
To mourn, remember, and resign.
O ye, who carve the marble bust
To celebrate poor human dust,
And from the silent shades of death
Retrieve the form but not the breath,
Vain is the attempt by force of art
To impress his image on the heart:
It lives, it glows, in every breast,
And tears of millions paint it best.
Indebted to his guardian care,
And great alike in peace and war,
The loss they feel these States deplore,—
Their friend—their father—is no more.
What will they do to avow their grief?
No sighs, no tears, afford relief:
Dark mourning weeds but ill express
The poignant wo that all confess;
Nor will the monumental stone
Assuage one tear—relieve one groan.
O Washington! thy honor'd dust
To parent nature we entrust;
Convinced that your exalted mind
Still lives, but soars beyond mankind,
Still acts in virtue's sacred cause,
Nor asks from man his vain applause.
In raptures with a theme so great,
While thy famed actions they relate,
Each future age from thee shall know
All that is good and great below;
Shall glow with pride to hand thee down
To latest time, to long renown,
The brightest name on freedom's page,
And the first honor of our age.
Occasioned by certain absurd, extravagant, and even blasphemous
panegyrics and encomiums on the character of the late Gen.
Washington, that appeared in several pamphlets, journals,
and other periodical publications, in January, 1800 No tongue can tell, no pen describe
The phrenzy of a numerous tribe,
Who, by distemper'd fancy led,
Insult the memory of the dead.
Of old, there were in every age
Who stuff'd with gods the historian's page,
And raised beyond the human sphere
Some who, we know, were mortal here.
Such was the case, we know full well,
When darkness spread her pagan spell;
Mere insects, born for tombs and graves,
They changed into celestial knaves;
Made some, condemn'd to tombs and shrouds,
Lieutenant generals in the clouds.
In journals, meant to spread the news,
From state to state—and we know whose—
We read a thousand idle things
That madness pens, or folly sings.
Was, Washington, your conquering sword
Condemn'd to such a base reward?
Was trash, like that we now review,
The tribute to your valor due?
One holds you more than mortal kind,
One holds you all ethereal mind,
This puts you in your saviour's seat,
That makes you dreadful in retreat.
One says you are become a star,
One makes you more resplendent, far;
One sings, that, when to death you bow'd,
Old mother nature shriek'd aloud.
We grieve to see such pens profane
The first of chiefs, the first of men.—
To Washington—a man—who died,
As abba father well applied?
Absurdly, in a frantic strain,
Why ask him not for sun and rain?—
We sicken at the vile applause
That bids him give the ocean laws.
Ye patrons of the ranting strain,
What temples have been rent in twain?
What fiery chariots have been sent
To dignify the sad event?—
O, ye profane, irreverent few,
Who reason's medium never knew:
On you she never glanced her beams;
You carry all things to extremes.
Shall they, who spring from parent earth,
Pretend to more than mortal birth?
Or, to the omnipotent allied,
Control his heaven, or join his side?
O, is there not some chosen curse,
Some vengeance due, with lightning's force
That far and wide destruction spreads,
To burst on such irreverent heads!
Had they, in life, be-praised him so,
What would have been the event, I know
He would have spurn'd them, with disdain,
Or rush'd upon them, with his cane.
He was no god, ye flattering knaves,
He own'd no world, he ruled no waves;
But—and exalt it, if you can,
He was the upright, Honest Man.
This was his glory, this outshone
Those attributes you doat upon:
On this strong ground he took his stand,
Such virtue saved a sinking land.
TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD RUTLEDGE, ESQ.[172] Late Governor of South Carolina Removed from life's uncertain stage,
In virtue firm, in honor clear,—
One of the worthies of our age,
Rutledge! resigns his station here.
Alike in arts of war and peace,
And form'd by nature to excel,
From early Rome and ancient Greece,
He modell'd all his actions well.
When Britons came with chains to bind,
Or ravage these devoted lands,
He our firm league of freedom sign'd
And counsell'd how to break their bands.
To the great cause of honor true,
He took his part with manly pride,
His spirit o'er these regions flew,
The patriots' and the soldiers' guide.
In arts of peace, in war's bold schemes
Amongst our brightest stars he moved,
The Lees, the Moultries, Sumpters, Greenes—
By all admired, by all beloved.
A patriot of superior mould,
He dared all foreign foes oppose,
Till, from a tyrant's ashes cold,
The mighty pile of freedom rose.
In process of succeeding days
When peace resumed her joyous reign,
With laurel wreaths and twining bays
He sought less active life again.
There, warm to plead the orphan's cause
From misery's eye to dry the tear,
He stood where justice guards the laws
At once humane, at once severe.
'Twas not his firm enlighten'd mind,
So ardent in affairs of state;
'Twas not that he in armies shined
That made him so completely great:
Persuasion dwelt upon his tongue,
He spoke—all hush'd, and all were awed;—
From all he said conviction sprung,
And crowds were eager to applaud.
Thus long esteem'd, thus early loved,
The tender husband, friend sincere;
The parent, patriot, sage, approved,
Had now survived his fiftieth year—
Had now the highest honors met
That Carolina could bestow;
Presiding o'er that potent state
Where streams of wealth and plenty flow.
Where labor spreads her rural reign
To western regions bold and free;
And commerce on the Atlantic main
Wafts her rich stores of industry:
Then left this stage of human things
To shine in a sublimer sphere
Where time to one assemblage brings
All virtuous minds, all hearts sincere.
ON THE DEPARTURE OF PETER PORCUPINE[173] For England A bird of night attends the sail
That now towards us turns her tail
With Porcupine, escaped from jail.
O may the sharks enjoy their bait:
He came such mischief to create
We wish him not a better fate.
This hero of the pension'd pen
Has left our shores, and left his den
To write at home for English men.
Five thousand dollars,[174] we may guess,
Have made his pension something less—
So, Peter left us,—in distress.
He writ, and writ, and writ so long[A]
That sheriff came, with writ more strong,
And he went off, and all went wrong.
May southern gales that vex the main,
Or Boreas, with his whistling train
Make Peter howl and howl again.
I hear him screech, I hear him shout!—
The storm has put his Rush light[B] out—
I see him famish'd with sour crout.
May on the groaning vessel's side
All Neptune's ruffian strength be try'd
Till every seam is gaping wide.
And while the waves about him swell
May not one triton blow the shell
(A sign at sea of doing well):
But should he reach the british shore,
(The land that englishmen adore)
One trouble will he find and more:
His pen will run at such a rate,
His malice so provoke the great,
They soon will drive him out of date.
With broken heart and blunted pen
He'll sink among the little men
Or scribble in some Newgate den.
Alack, alack! he might have stay'd
And followed here the scribbling trade,
And lived without the royal aid.
But democratic laws he hated,
Our government he so be-rated
That his own projects he defeated.
He took his leave from Sandy-Hook,
And parted with a surly look,
That all observed and few mistook.
THE NAUTICAL RENDEZVOUS[175] Written at a house in Guadaloupe, in 1800, where they were collecting Recruits for a Privateer The ship preparing for the main
Enlists a wild, but gallant train,
Who in a moving jail would roam
Disgusted with the world at home.
They quit the fields and quit the trees
To seek their bread on stormy seas;
Perhaps to see the land no more,
Or see, but not enjoy the shore.
There must be some as this world goes
Who every joy and pleasure lose,
And round the world at random stray
To gain their bread the shortest way.
They hate the ax, they hate the hoe
And execrate the rural plough,
The mossy bank, the sylvan shade
Where once they wrought, where once they play'd:
Prefer a boisterous, mad career,
A broken leg, and wounds severe,
To all the joys that can be found
On mountain top or furrow'd ground.
A hammock holds them when they sleep;
A tomb, when dying, in the deep,
A crowded deck, a cann of beer
These sons of Amphitrite prefer
To all the verdure of the fields
Or all a quiet pillow yields.
There must be such a nervous race,
Who venture all, and no disgrace;
Who will support through every blast,
The shatter'd ship, the falling mast—
Who will support through every sea
The sacred cause of liberty,
And every foe to ruin drag
Who aims to strike the gallic flag.
TO THE MEMORY[176] Of the Late Ædanus Burke, Esq., of South-Carolina Quiesco—ubi saeva indignatio,
Ulterius cor lacerare nequit!
A land enslaved, his generous heart disdain'd
Which tyrants fetter'd, and where tyrants reign'd:
Disgusted there, he left the hibernian shore
The laws that bound him, and the isle that bore.
Bold, open, free, he call'd the world his own,
Preferr'd our new republics to a throne;
And lent his aid their insults to repay,
Repel the britons and to win the day.
In every art of subtlety untaught,
He spoke no more, than "just the thing he ought;"
For justice warm, he spurn'd, with just disdain,
The mean evasion, and the law's chicane.
Burke! to thy shade we pay this last address,
And only say what all, who knew, confess:
Your virtues were not of the milder kind,
But rugged independence ruled your mind,
And, stern, in all that binds to honor's cause,
No interest sway'd you to desert her laws.
Then rest in peace, the portion of the just,
Where Carolina guards your honor'd dust:
Beneath a tree, remote, obscure, you sleep,
But all the sister virtues, round you, weep;
Your native worth, no tongue, no time arraigns,
That last memorial, and the best remains!
TO THE
REV. SAMUEL STANHOPE SMITH, D.D.[177] And president of Nassau-hall, at Princeton, New-Jersey, on the rebuilding
of that noble edifice, which had been destroyed by fire This honor'd pile, so late in ashes laid,
Once more emerges, by your generous aid;
Your aid, and their's, who through our vast domain,
Befriend the muses, and their cause sustain.
In flames involved, that stately fabric fell,
Where, long presiding, you deserved so well;
But to the dust when you beheld it fall,
The honor'd, famed, majestic, Nassau-Hall,
Not then repining in that darkened hour
Your native genius show'd its native power,
And plann'd the means to bid a structure rise
Pride of the arts, and favorite of the wise.
For this we saw you trace the unwearied mile
And saw the friends of Nassau on you smile;
They to your efforts lent their generous aid,
And every honor to your genius paid,
To the firm patron of the arts they gave
What Alfred lavish'd, and what arts should have.
For this we saw you rove the southern waste
In our Columbia's milder climates placed,
Those happier shores, where Carolina proves
The friend of Princeton's academic groves,
Where Georgia owns the wreath to science due
And honor'd science, genius, art, and you:
And Charleston every generous wish return'd,
Sigh'd for the loss, and for her favorite mourn'd,
Proud of her sons, who by your cares are seen
Lights of the world, and pride of social man.
There Ramsay met you, esculapian sage,
The famed historian of a warring age,
His word gave vigor to your vast design,
And his strong efforts equall'd all but thine.
Nassau revived, from thence in time proceed
Chiefs, who shall empire sway, or legions lead,
Who, warm'd with all that philosophic glow
Which Greece, or Rome, or reasoning powers bestow,
Shall to mankind the friends and guardians be
Shall make them virtuous, and preserve them free.
From that lost pile, which, now to ashes turn'd;
The sage regretted and the muses mourn'd,
Sprung, once, a race who firm to freedom's cause,
Repell'd oppression and despotic laws,
Unsceptered kings, or one at least dismiss'd,
With half the lords and prefects on his list:
Such, early, here imbibed the sacred flame
That glanced from heaven, or from true science came;
With these enroll'd, be every honor done
To our firm statesman, patriot, Madison,
Form'd to the purpose of a reasoning age,
To raise its genius, and direct its rage.
This tribute from a friendly heart receive,
O Smith! which must your kind indulgence crave,
If half a stranger to the poet's lay,
It fails your just, your due reward to pay.
STANZAS Published at the Procession to the Tomb of the Patriots In the Vicinity of the Former Stations of the Prison Ships, at New-York.[178] [178] From the edition of 1809.
THE TOMB OF THE PATRIOTS[179][A] Quae Tiberine, videbis
Funera, cum, tumulum praeter labore recentum! Virg.
When Philip's son possess'd his native lands
And train'd on grecian fields his grecian bands,
In Thebes subdued, or Athens near her fall,
He saw no honor, or despised it all.
To be reduced to universal sway
The world's vast prospect in perspective lay;—
While yet restricted to Larissa's plain
He cursed his fortune for a lot so mean,
On all his steps the gloom of sadness hung,
And fierce resentment all his bosom stung
That fortune's whim restrain'd to such a floor,
Had done so little, and might do no more.
Mercantile Tyre his laboring mind oppress'd,
The persian throne deprived his soul of rest—
The world his stage, he meant to play his part,
And unsubjected India gall'd his heart!
Look to the east where Tamerlane display'd
His crescent[B] moons and nations prostrate laid,
March where he would, the world before him bow'd
In conquest mighty, as of conquest proud—
What was the event? let tragic story tell
While sad sensations in the bosom swell—
What were the effects? in every step we trace
The wasteful havoc of a royal race,
Once fertile fields a howling desert made
The town in ashes, or the town decay'd,
Degraded man to native wildness turn'd,
His prospects clouded and his commerce spurn'd—
If such the outset of this mad career
What will the last disgusting scene appear,
Of all he conquer'd, when no more remains
Than vagrant subjects, or unpeopled plains!
Thus, when ambition prompts the ardent mind,
The soul, eccentric, frantic, unconfined,
To peace a stranger, soars to heights unknown,
And, slighting reason, yields the will to none;
Mere passion rules, degrading powers prevail,
And cool reflection quits the unbalanced scale.
It leaves the haunts of happiness and rest
To float on winds, disorder'd and unblest,
Quits all the calm that nature meant for man
To find some prize, or form the aspiring plan;
That plan ungain'd, the object cheats the view,
Or, if attain'd, they other marks pursue;
Till all is closed in disappointment's shade
And folly wonders at the flight she made:
Ambition's self finds every prospect vain,
The visions vanish, and the glooms remain.
And such the vice, with nations as with man,
Such the great failing since the world began:
To power exalted, as to power they rose
By honest toils, and humbling all their foes;
That zenith gain'd, they covet vast domains
And all, that pride from vast possession gains,
Till glittering visions bring the uneasy sigh
And uncontrol'd dominion blasts the eye.
Britain! we cite you to our bar, once more;
What but ambition urged you to our shore?—
To abridge our native rights, seven years you strove;
Seven years were ours your arm of death to prove,
To find, that conquest was your sovereign view;
Your aims, to fetter, humble, and subdue,
To seize a soil which not your labor till'd
When the rude native scarcely we repell'd,
When, with unbounded rage, their nations swore
To hurl the out-law'd stranger from their shore,
Or swell the torrent with their thousands slain
No more to approach them, or molest their reign.—
What did we ask?—what right but reason owns?
Yet even the mild petition met your frowns.
Submission, only, to a monarch's will
Could calm your rage, or bid your storm be still,
Before our eyes the angry shades appear
Of those, whose relics we this day inter:
They live, they speak, reproach you, and complain
Their lives were shorten'd by your galling chain:
They aim their shafts, directed to your breast,—
Let rage, and fierce resentment tell the rest.
These coffins, tokens of our last regard,
These mouldering bones your vengeance might have spared.—
If once, in life, they met you on the main,
If to your arms they yielded on the plain,—
Man, once a captive, all respect should claim
That Britain gave, before her days of shame.
How changed their lot! in floating dungeons thrown,
They sigh'd unpitied, and relieved by none:
In want of all that nature's wants demand,
They met destruction from some traitor's hand,
Who treated all with death or poison here,
Or the last groan, with ridicule severe.
A sickening languor to the soul returns
And kindling passion at the motive spurns:
The murders here, did we at length display
Would more than paint an indian tyrant's sway:
Then hush the theme, and to the dust restore
These, once so wretched near Manhattan's shore,
When tyrants ruled, whose hearts no mercy felt:
In blood they wallow'd as in death they dealt.
Thou who shalt come, by sad reflection taught,
To seek on Nassau's isle this lonely vault;
Think, when surveying this too gloomy scene,
Think what, had heaven decreed, you might have been.
When, with the rest, you pass'd the weary hour
Chain'd or subjected to some ruffian's power,
Think, as you see the sad procession pass'd,
Think what these are, and you must be at last.—
Learn, as you hope to find your heart's applause,
To love your country and respect her laws;
Revere the sages, who your rights explain'd,
Revere the patriots, who your cause sustain'd.
Your country's Hero, rising to your view,
Attend his precepts, and with care pursue,
He first to shield you, rais'd his powerful arm,
To honor steady as for freedom warm;
When she relumed her half-extinguish'd fire,
Then, not till then, did Washington retire,
And left a light, a radiance to display,
And mark his efforts, when he led the way.
When war's long waste your independence crown'd
And Hudson heard th' invigorating sound!
His was the task; to him the part assign'd
To paralize the vultures of mankind.
Admit no tyrants, to debase your minds;
Some selfish motive to all tyrants binds;
If robed in ermine or in scarlet clad,
The worst of idiots is a king run mad:
And Rome's worst prince accomplish'd by a word
No more, than by his councils, George the third!
How oft has rugged nature charged my pen
With gall, to shed it on that worst of men,
Who, dumb to all that reason might decide,
Mankind, their reason, and their prayers defy'd:
Who, firm to all that phrenzy could pursue,
Explored the ancient world, to chain the new;
And tired the despot, search'd each dark recess,
And ransack'd hell, to find the hireling hesse:—
Could he be here, a witness to this day,
With calm delight he would this scene survey,
Would see unmoved, with apathy of mind,
The gaping vault, this havoc of mankind!
Without a tear, these mouldering bones review,
That fell by ruffian hands—employ'd by you.
His phrenzy, rampant with the right divine,
Inspired a nation with a black design,
To blast with poison, like a wizard's spell,
And plant on man the characters of hell!—
Thou, who shalt come, of feeling mind possest,
And, heaven's first gift, the patriotic breast,
On this bleak coast, to tread the island plain,
Think, what revenge disgraced a monarch's reign!
Who, not content with wealth and power we gave,
Forgot the subject, to enthral the slave:
Such was his hope;—that hope to realize
He sent his myriads to demand the prize;
What were the splendid trophies he acquired?
Were these bleach'd bones the trophies he admired?
While passion fires, or kindred sorrows fall,
Ask not, if this sequester'd cell is all,
Is all that honors these collected bones?—
Enough is done to stigmatize all thrones:
Ask not, while passion with resentment fires,
Why to the skies no monument aspires?—
Enough is done to rouse the patriot glow
And bid the rising race your feelings know.
ON THE PEAK OF PICO ONE OF THE AZORES, OR WESTWARD ISLANDS[180] Attracted to this airy steep
Above the subject hills,
Ocean, from his surrounding deep
The urn of Pico fills.
Thence gushing streams, unstinted, stray
To glad the mountain's side;
Or, winding through the vallies, gay,
Through fields, and groves, and vineyards glide.
To him the plains their verdure owe
Confessing what your smiles bestow,
Thou Peak of the Azores.
From day to day the unwearied sail
Surveys your towering cone,
And when th' adjacent prospects fail,
And neighboring isles no more they hail,
You meet the eye alone.
Twice forty miles the exploring eye
Discerns you o'er the waste,
Now, a blue turret in the sky
When not by mists embraced.
Long may you stand, the friendly mark,
To those who sail afar,
A spot that guides the wandering barque,
A second polar star.
A BACCHANALIAN DIALOGUE Written 1803[181] Arrived at Madeira, the island of vines,
Where mountains and vallies abound,
Where the sun the wild juice of the cluster refines,
To gladden the magical ground:
As pensive I stray'd in her elegant shade,
Now halting and now on the move,
Old Bacchus I met, with a crown on his head,
In the darkest recess of a grove.
I met him with awe, but no symptom of fear
As I roved by his mountains and springs,
When he said with a sneer, "how dare you come here,
You hater of despots and kings?—
Do you know that a prince, and a regent renown'd
Presides in this island of wine?
Whose fame on the earth has encircled it round
And spreads from the pole to the line?
Haste away with your barque: on the foam of the main
To Charleston I bid you repair:
There drink your Jamaica, that maddens the brain;
You shall have no Madeira—I swear."
"Dear Bacchus," (I answered) for Bacchus it was
That spoke in this menacing tone:
I knew by the smirk and the flush on his face
It was Bacchus, and Bacchus alone—
"Dear Bacchus, (I answered) ah, why so severe?—
Since your nectar abundantly flows,
Allow me one cargo—without it I fear
Some people will soon come to blows:
I left them in wrangles, disorder, and strife,
Political feuds were so high,
I was sick of their quarrels, and sick of my life,
And almost requested to die."
The deity smiling, replied, "I relent:—
For the sake of your coming so far,
Here, taste of my choicest—go, tell them repent,
And cease their political war.
With the cargo I send, you may say, I intend
To hush them to peace and repose;
With this present of mine, on the wings of the wind
You shall travel, and tell them, here goes
A health to old Bacchus! who sends them the best
Of the nectar his island affords,
The soul of the feast and the joy of the guest,
Too good for your monarchs and lords.
No rivals have I in this insular waste,
Alone will I govern the isle
With a king at my feet, and a court to my taste,
And all in the popular style.
But a spirit there is in the order of things,
To me it is perfectly plain,
That will strike at the scepters of despots and kings,
And only king Bacchus remain."
STANZAS WRITTEN AT THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA[182] On the fatal and unprecedented torrents of water which collected from the mountains on the
ninth of October, 1803, and destroyed a considerable part of the city of Funchal,
drowned a vast number of people, and damaged, to a great amount,
several plantations and villages in that neighborhood. The rude attack, if none will tell,
On Bacchus, in his favorite isle;
If none in verse describe it well,
If none assume a poet's style
These devastations to display;—
Attend me, and perhaps I may.
To those who own the feeling heart
This tragic scene I would present,
No fiction, or the work of art,
Nor merely for the fancy meant:
Twas all a shade, a darken'd scene,
Old Noah's deluge come again!
From hills beyond the clouds that soar,
The vaults of heaven, the torrents run,
And rushing with resistless power,
Assail'd the island of the sun:
Fond nature saw the blasted vine,
And seem'd to sicken and repine.
As skyward stream'd the electric fire
The heavens emblazed, or wrapt in gloom;
The clouds appear, the clouds retire
And terror said, "the time is come
When all the groves, and hill, and plain
Will sink to ocean's bed again."
The cheery god, who loves to smile
And gladness to the heart bestows,
Almost resolved to quit his isle,
And in unwonted passion rose;
He sought his caves in wild dismay
And left the heavens to have their way.
The whistling winds had ceased to blow;
Not one, of all the aerial train—
No gale to aid that night of wo
Disturb'd the slumbers of the main;
In distant woods they silent slept;
Or, in the clouds, the tempest kept.
The bursting rains in seas descend,
Machico[A] heard the distant roar,
And lightnings, while the heavens they rend,
Show'd ruin marching to the shore:
Egyptian darkness brought her gloom
And fear foreboded nature's doom.
The heavens on fire, an ocean's force
Seized forests, vineyards, herds, and men,
And swelling streams from every source
Bade ancient chaos come again:
Through Fonchal's[B] road their courses held
And ocean saw his waves repell'd.
Ill fated town!—what works of pride
In one short hour were swept away!
Huge piles that time had long defy'd,
In ruthless ruin scatter'd lay:
Some buried in the opening deep—
With crowds dismiss'd to endless sleep,
From her fond arms the daughter torn,
The mother saw destruction near;
Both on the whirling surge were borne,
Forgetful of the farewell tear:
At distance torn, with feeble cries,
Far from her arms the infant dies.
Her dear delight, her darling boy
In morn of days and dawning bloom,
This opening bud of promised joy
Too early found a watery tomb,
Or floated on the briny waste;
No more beloved, no more embraced.
From heights immense, with force unknown,
Enormous rocks and mangled trees
Were headlong hurl'd and hurrying down,
Fix'd their foundation in the seas!
Or, rushing with a mountain's weight,
Hurl'd to the deeps their domes of state.
On heaven intent the affrighted priest
Where church was left, to churches ran,
With suppliant voice the skies addrest,
And wail'd the wickedness of man:
For which he thought, this scourge was meant,
And, weeping, said, repent, repent!
But Santa Clara's lofty walls,
Where pines through life the pious nun,
Whose prison to the mind recalls
What superstition's power has done:
No conquest there the floods essay'd,
Religion guarded man and maid.
What seem'd beyond the cannon's power,
The walls of rock, were torn away;
To ruin sunk the church and tower,
And no respect the flood would pay
To silver saints, or saints of wood,
The bishop's cap, the friar's hood.
Hard was their fate! more happy thou
The lady of the mountain tall;[C]
When desolation raged below
She stood secure, and scorn'd it all,
Where Gordon,[D] for retirement, chose
His groves, his gardens, and the muse.
Who on this valley's drowning bed
Would plan a street, or build again,
Unthinking as the Brazen head[E]
For wretches builds a source of pain,
A church, a street, that soon or late
May share the same, or a worse fate.
Let some vast bridge assume their place
Like those the romans raised of old,
With arches, firm as nature's base,
Of architecture grand and bold;
So will the existing race engage
The thanks of a succeeding age.
Pontinia[F] long must wear the marks
Of this wide-wasting scene of wo,
Where near the Loo, the tar embarks
When prosperous winds, to waft him, blow:
These ravages may time repair,
But he and I will not be there.
General Note. From the best accounts that could be procured at Madeira, there perished in and near the city of Funchal, five hundred and fifty persons. The ravages were chiefly confined to the eastern parts of the town where the loss was immense in bridges, houses, streets and other property, public as well as private—there was one magnificent church totally destroyed, standing near the sea, and called in the portuguese tongue, Nossa Senyora da Caillou (lady of the beach) besides this, there were five handsome chapels carried away. Five very considerable streets with their immense stone buildings have entirely disappeared, or but some insignificant parts remaining. The water rose in a short space of time from 14 to 16 feet in the adjacent parts of the city, and bursting into the buildings, where it did not much injure the latter, it greatly damaged the merchantile property lodged therein. There were about two hundred persons supposed to be lost in other parts of the island, particularly in the villages, and small towns. The following circumstance it was asserted, added not a little to the devastations occasioned by the accumulation of water in the vallies. The governor, with several other considerable landholders in the mountains, had, for several years back, been in the practice of erecting stone dams across the vast and spacious valley above the city, at different intervals of distance for the purpose of watering the adjacent grounds, or leading off streams in a variety of directions—when the immense body of rain fell in October last, all this gave way, and carried death and destruction therewith.—Freneau's note.
ON THE PEAK OF TENERIFFE No mean, no human artist laid
The base of this prodigious pile,
The towering peak—but nature said
Let this adorn Tenaria's isle;
And be my work for ages found
The polar star to islands round.
The conic-point that meets the skies
Indebted to volcanic fire,
First from the ocean bid to rise,
To heaven was suffer'd to aspire;
But man, ambitious, did not dare
To plant one habitation there:
For torrents from the mountain came;
What molten floods were seen to glow!
Expanded sheets of vivid flame,
To inundate the world below!
These, older than the historian's page
Once bellow'd forth vext nature's rage.
In ages past, as may again,
Such lavas from those ridges run.
And hastening to the astonish'd main
Exposed earth's entrails to the sun;
These, barren, once, neglected, dead,
Are now with groves and pastures spread.
Upon the verdant, scented lawn
The flowers a thousand sweets disperse,
And pictures, there, by nature drawn,
Inspire some island poet's verse,
While streams through every valley rove
To bless the garden, grace the grove.
To blast a scene above all praise
Should fate, at last, be so severe,
May this not hap' in Julia's[A] days,—
While Barrey[A] dwells all honor'd, here:
While Little[A] lives, of generous mind,
Or Armstrong,[A] social as refined.—
ANSWER TO A CARD OF INVITATION To visit a nunnery at Garrichica, on the north side of Teneriffe[184] It came to hand, your friendly card,
No doubt, a token of regard;
But time is short, and I must leave
Your pensive town of Oratave,
And, soon departing, well you know,
Have many a weary mile to go.
Then stay and sip Canary wines,
While I return to oaks and pines,
To rail at kings, or court the muse,
To smoke a pipe, or turn recluse,
To think upon adventures past—
To think of what must come at last—
To drive the quill—and—to be brief,
To think no more of Teneriffe.—
How happy you who once a week,
Can storm a fort at Garrichique,
Or talk, familiar with the nuns
Secluded there with Levi's sons;
To see them smile, or hear them prate,
Or chant, and chat behind the grate!
All this is heaven, I half suspect,
And who would such a heaven neglect?
All I can say is what I mean,
May you embrace each Iphigene,
And hug and kiss them all the while,
These fair Calypsoes of the isle:
Then if what Sappho said, be true,
Blest as the immortal gods are you.
For me, not favor'd so by fate,
I venture not behind the grate:
There dragons guard the golden fleece,
And nymphs immured find no release:
Forbidden fruit you weekly see,
Forbidden fruit on every tree,
When he who tastes, may look for strife,
Where he who touches ventures life.
The jealous priests, with threatening eye
Look hard at all approaching nigh:
The monks have charge of brittle ware,
The friar bids you have a care;
That they alone the fruit may eat
That fills religion's last retreat:
The mother abbess looks as sour'd
As if you had the fruit devour'd,
And bids the stranger haste away,—
Not rich enough for fruit to pay.
How much unlike, our western fair,
Who breathe the sweets of freedom's air;
Go where they please, do what they will,
Themselves are their own guardians still:—
Then come, and on our distant shore
Some blooming rural nymph adore;
And do not make the day remote,
For time advances, quick as thought,
When thus some grave rebuke will say
When you approach the maiden gay:
'You should have courted in your prime,
'Our Anastasia's, at that time
'When blood ran quick, and Hymen said,
'Colin! my laws must be obey'd.'
Your card to slight, I'm much distrest,
Your card has robb'd me of my rest:
Should I attempt the nuns to accost
The priests might growl, and all be lost:
My cash might fail me when to pay;
No chance, perhaps, to run away;—
So, I decline the needless task
Return to Charleston, with the cask
Of wine, you send from Teneriffe,
To glad some hearts, and dry up grief:
I add, some dangerous neighbors here
May disappoint my hopes I fear;
The breakers near the vessel roll;
The lee-ward shore, the rocky shoal!
The whitening seas that constant lave
The craggy strand of Oratave;
The expected gale, the adjacent rock
Each moment threatens all our stock,
And Neptune, in his giant cup
Stands lurking near, to gulp it up.
But here's a health to Neptune's sons
Who man the yard—nor dream of nuns.
[184] From the edition of 1815.
ON SENIORA JULIA Leaving a Dance, under Pretence of Drowsiness[185] She, at the soul enlivening, ball,
And in the lamp illumined hall
But small amusement found;
She shunn'd the cards' bewitching play,
She shunn'd the noisy and the gay,
Nor cared for music's sound.
No nymph discover'd so much spleen,
Was so reserved as Julia, seen
On that enchanting night:
And yet she had her part to say
When young Almagro shared the play,
Then cards were her delight.
But he retired, amid the dance;
He heard, he said, of news from France,
And of a serious cast:
He wish'd to know beyond all doubt,
What Bonaparte was now about,
How long his sway would last.
Then, Julia made a good retreat,
But left the assembly incomplete;
She was with sleep oppress'd.—
Who shall the midnight dance prolong
Who lead the minuet, raise the song
Where Julia is no guest?
Yet, love declared her judgment right,
And whisper'd, when she bade good night
And feign'd an aching head,
"While some retreat and some advance,
Let them enjoy the festive dance,
You, Julia, go to bed."
LINES ON SENIORA JULIA of Port Oratave[186] Adorn'd with every charm that beauty gives,
That nature lends, or female kind receives,
Good sense and virtue on each feature shine;
She is—she is not—yes, she is divine.
She speaks, she moves with all attracting grace,
And smiles display the angel on the face;
Her aspect all, what female would not share?
What youth but worship, with a mind so fair?
In this famed isle, the cloud-capp'd Teneriffe,
Where health abounds and languor finds relief;
In this bright isle, where Julia treads the plain,
What rapture fires the bosom of the swain!
At her approach, the breast untaught to glow,
Like the vast peak, retains eternal snow.
Feels not the first, best ardors of the mind;
Respect and awe, to love and friendship join'd.
When to Laguna's[A] heights she deigns to stray,
To myrtle bowers, and gardens ever gay,
Where spring eternal on the fragrant grove
Breathes the bright scenes of harmony and love;
All eyes, attracted, by her graceful mein
View her, the unrivall'd favorite of the green,
And when, too soon, she would the garden leave,
See Paradise forsaken by its Eve.
Return bright nymph, attractive as admired,
And be what Plato from your sex required;
Mild as your clime, that rarely knows a storm,
The angelic nature in a female form.
Canary's[B] towns their splendid halls prepare,
But all is dark, when Julia is not there.
Not Oratava, on the sea-beat shore,
In her gay circles finds one Julia more,
Not high Lavelia[C] boasts so sweet a face;
Not Garrachica could yourself replace;
Not old Laguna can supply your loss,
Nor yet the city of the holy-cross.[D]
Where love and passion, from the world conceal'd:
Devotion's winter has to frost congeal'd;
Yet beauty, there, adorns the brilliant dome,
Invites her loves, and bids her votaries come;
Fair Santa-Cruz her beauty, too, commands,
And, was but Julia there, unrivall'd stands.
Flush'd with the blessings of the generous vine,
The island bards, to honor you, combine;
The stranger guest, all tongues, when you appear,
Confess you, lovely, charming, all things dear;
Among the rest, accept my homely lay:
The last respect I can to Julia pay:
A different subject soon my verse awaits,
Contending powers, or disunited states;
Yet shall remembrance renovate the past,
And, when you die, your name unfading last:
Though mists obscure, or oceans round me swell,
To the deep seas I go, the world to tell
That Julia, foremost, does this isle engage,
And moves the first, bright Venus of my page.
ON A RURAL NYMPH Descending from one of the Madeira mountains, with a bundle of fuel wood, on her head[187] Six miles, and more, with nimble foot
She came from some sequestered spot,
A handsome, swarthy, rustic maid
With furze and fern, upon her head:
The burthen hid a bonnet blue,
The only hat, perhaps, she knew,
No slippers on her feet were seen;
Yet every step display'd a mein
As if she might in courts appear,
Though placed by wayward fortune here.
An english man, who saw her, said,
Your burthen is too heavy laid,
Dear girl your lot is rather hard,
And, after all, a poor reward:
This is not labor suiting you,
Come with me home to England go,
And you shall have a coach and four,
A silken gown—and something more.
'Disturb me not (the girl replied)
'I choose to walk—let others ride:
'I would not leave yond' rugged hill
'To have your London at my will—
'You are too great for such as I:—'
When thus the briton made reply:
'Had I but thirty years to spare,
'And you precisely what you are,
'Had seen you thirty years ago
'In style of living, high or low,
'You should have been a lady gay,
'And dizzen'd out as fine as May:
'Why stay you here, to face the sun,
'And drudging till the day is done,
'While little to the purse it brings
'But little store of little things?'
She said, 'before the sun was up
'I finish'd with my chocolate cup:
'A hank of yarn I fairly spun,
'And, when the hank of yarn was done,
'To have a fire, and cook our mess
'I travell'd yonder wilderness;
'I climb'd a mountain very tall,
'Unwearied, and without a fall,
'And gather'd up this little pack
'Which now you see me carrying back;—
'Your northern girls at this might laugh,
'But such a jaunt would kill them half—
'Disturb me not, I must go on;
'Ten minutes, while I talk, are gone.'—
If she grew rich by hanks of yarn,
Is more than we shall ever learn;
If thrive she did by climbing hills,
No history or tradition tells;
But this we know, and this we say,
That where a despot holds the sway,
To pay the tax of king and queen
The common herd are poor and mean.
The slaves of lords the slaves of priests,
And nearly saddled, like the beasts.—
Where liberty erects her reign
Dulcina would have had her swain,
With horse and cow—which she had not,
Nor ever to possess them thought:
She would have had, to save her feet,
A pair of shoes and suit complete.
A decent dress, and not of rags,
A state above the rank of hags;
A language if not over fine,
At least above the beggar's whine.
Yet such attend on fortune's frowns,
And such support the pride of crowns.
ON GENERAL MIRANDA'S EXPEDITION Towards the Caraccas, Spanish Provinces in South America, February—1805[188] To execute a vast design,
The soul, Miranda, was not thine:
With you the fates did not combine
To make an empire free.
We saw you spread Leander's sail,
We saw the adverse winds prevail,
Sad omen that the cause would fail
That led you to the sea.
By feeble winds the sail was fill'd
By feebler hands the helm was held—
We saw you from the port repell'd[A]
You might have made your own.
We saw you leave a manly crew
To the base spaniard, to imbrue
His hands in blood—and not a few
Were on his mercy thrown:
In dungeons vile they pass'd the day,
Far from their country, far away
From pitying friends, from liberty!
That years could scarce retrieve!
Twas thus Miranda play'd his game;
But who with him should share the blame?
Perhaps if we the men did name,
Credulity would not believe!
ON THE ABUSE OF HUMAN POWER As exercised over opinion[189] What human power shall dare to bind
The mere opinions of the mind?
Must man at that tribunal bow
Which will no range to thought allow,
But his best powers would sway or sink,
And idly tells him what to Think?
Yes! there are such, and such are taught
To fetter every power of thought;
To chain the mind, or bend it down
To some mean system of their own,
And make religion's sacred cause
Amenable to human laws.
Has human power the simplest claim
Our hearts to sway, our thoughts to tame;
Shall she the rights of heaven assert,
Can she to falsehood truth convert,
Or truth again to falsehood turn,
And at the test of reason spurn?
All human sense, all craft must fail
And all its strength will nought avail,
When it attempts with efforts blind
To sway the independent mind,
Its spring to break, its pride to awe,
Or give to private judgment, law.
Oh impotent! and vile as vain,
They, who would native thought restrain!
As soon might they arrest the storm
Or take from fire the power to warm,
As man compel, by dint of might,
Old darkness to prefer to light.
No! leave the mind unchain'd and free,
And what they ought, mankind will be,
No hypocrite, no lurking fiend,
No artist to some evil end,
But good and great, benign and just,
As God and nature made them first.
OCTOBER'S ADDRESS[190] October came the thirtieth day:
And thus I heard October say;
"The lengthening nights and shortening days
Have brought the year towards a close,
The oak a leafless bough displays
And all is hastening to repose;
To make the most of what remains
Is now to take the greater pains.
"An orange hue the grove assumes,
The indian-summer-days appear;
When that deceitful summer comes
Be sure to hail the winter near:
If autumn wears a mourning coat
Be sure, to keep the mind afloat.
"The flowers have dropt, their blooms are gone,
The herbage is no longer green;
The birds are to their haunts withdrawn,
The leaves are scatter'd through the plain;
The sun approaches Capricorn,
And man and creature looks forlorn.
"Amidst a scene of such a cast,
The driving sleet, or falling snow,
The sullen cloud, the northern blast,
What have you left for comfort now,
When all is dead, or seems to die
That cheer'd the heart or charm'd the eye?
"To meet the scene, and it arrives,
(A scene that will in time retire)
Enjoy the pine—while that remains
You need not want the winter fire.
It rose unask'd for, from the plain,
And when consumed, will rise again.
"Enjoy the glass, enjoy the board,
Nor discontent with fate betray,
Enjoy what reason will afford,
Nor disregard what females say;
Their chat will pass away the time,
When out of cash or out of rhyme.
"The cottage warm and cheerful heart
Will cheat the stormy winter night,
Will bid the glooms of care depart
And to December give delight."—
Thus spoke October—rather gay,
Then seized his staff, and walk'd away.
In a branch of willow hid
Sings the evening Caty-did:
From the lofty locust bough
Feeding on a drop of dew,
In her suit of green array'd
Hear her singing in the shade
Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did!
While upon a leaf you tread,
Or repose your little head,
On your sheet of shadows laid,
All the day you nothing said:
Half the night your cheery tongue
Revell'd out its little song,
Nothing else but Caty-did.
From your lodgings on the leaf
Did you utter joy or grief—?
Did you only mean to say,
I have had my summer's day,
And am passing, soon, away
To the grave of Caty-did:—
Poor, unhappy Caty-did!
But you would have utter'd more
Had you known of nature's power—
From the world when you retreat,
And a leaf's your winding sheet,
Long before your spirit fled,
Who can tell but nature said,
Live again, my Caty-did!
Live, and chatter Caty-did.
Tell me, what did Caty do?
Did she mean to trouble you?—
Why was Caty not forbid
To trouble little Caty-did?—
Wrong, indeed at you to fling,
Hurting no one while you sing
Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!
Why continue to complain?
Caty tells me, she again
Will not give you plague or pain:—
Caty says you may be hid
Caty will not go to bed
While you sing us Caty-did.
Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!
But, while singing, you forgot
To tell us what did Caty not:
Caty-did not think of cold,
Flocks retiring to the fold,
Winter, with his wrinkles old,
Winter, that yourself foretold
When you gave us Caty-did.
Stay securely in your nest;
Caty now, will do her best,
All she can, to make you blest;
But, you want no human aid—
Nature, when she form'd you, said,
"Independent you are made,
My dear little Caty-did:
Soon yourself must disappear
With the verdure of the year,"—
And to go, we know not where,
With your song of Caty-did.
ON PASSING BY AN OLD CHURCHYARD[192] Pensive, on this green turf I cast my eye,
And almost feel inclined to muse and sigh:
Such tokens of mortality so nigh.
But hold,—who knows if these who soundly sleep,
Would not, alive, have made some orphan weep,
Or plunged some slumbering victim in the deep.
There may be here, who once were virtue's foes,
A curse through life, the cause of many woes,
Who wrong'd the widow, and disturb'd repose.
There may be here, who with malicious aim
Did all they could to wound another's fame,
Steal character, and filch away good name.
Perhaps yond' solitary turf invests
Some who, when living, were the social pests,
Patrons of ribands, titles, crowns and crests.
Can we on such a kindred tear bestow?
They, who, in life, were every just man's foe,
A plague to all about them!—oh, no, no.
What though sepultured with the funeral whine;
Why, sorrowing on such tombs should we recline,
Where truth, perhaps, has hardly penn'd a line.
—Yet, what if here some honest man is laid
Whom nature of her best materials made,
Who all respect to sacred honor paid.
Gentle, humane, benevolent, and just,
(Though now forgot and mingled with the dust,
There may be such, and such there are we trust.)
Yes—for the sake of that one honest man
We would on knaves themselves bestow a tear,
Think nature form'd them on some crooked plan,
And say, peace rest on all that slumber here.
STANZAS OCCASIONED BY A MELANCHOLY SURVEY OF AN OLD ENGLISH TOBACCO BOX INSCRIBED 1708[193] Written in a dearth of tobacco, by Hezekiah Salem. Had I but what this box contained
Since good Queen Anne in Britain reigned,
My happiness would be increased
To more, perhaps, than she possessed.
This box, in many a pocket worn
(And to be used by some unborn)
Has been unfilled a week or more,
And curses the tobacco store,
Which now has had its turn to fail;
The door shut up, the man in jail
Who late behind the counter stood
And vended what was pretty good.
("And are you here?—the turnkey said,
"I rather would have seen you dead!"—
—Yes! I am here—the man replied—
And better so than to have died!)
This box again, in spite of that,
Shall be repackt with—I know what—
Again I'll fill its empty chest
With old Virginia's very best.
The fragrance of that mild perfume
Again shall cheer the reading room,
Again delight your men of wit
Who have the taste to relish it.
This box I deem a small estate
Where all my prospects are complete,
Whose oval round, and clasp, confines
The riches of Potosi's mines.
My best ideas here are sown,
(And best expressed when most alone)
Here, every muse can find a place
Yet take no atom of its space.
Tobacco! what to thee we owe,
Is what alone true smokers know:
To thee they owe the lively thought,
And joys without repentance bought.
To thee they owe the moral song,
The night that never seems too long,
The pleasant dream, refreshing sleep,
And sense that all should strive to keep.
It cures the pride of self-debate,
And pensive care, and deadly hate;
And love itself would nearer bring,
Did females love this coaxing thing.—
But they, the slaves of custom's rule,
Are ever to the smoker cool,
And hate the plant, whose gentle sway
Bids us their noisy tongues obey.
The happy days I would recall
When Jane to me was all in all!
The firm we to the town did show
Was, Salem, Jane, Segar, and Co.
The sanded box was near us placed
Which held the dregs we chose to waste;
Thus pleased to pass the winter's eve,
And thus the lingering hours deceive.
No wrangling was permitted there—
'Twas friendship all, and love sincere;
And they received affronts enough
Who entered with the Cloven Hoof.
The social whiff went cheerly on!—
But Jane is to that people gone
Where dear tobacco!—strong and sound—
Is not upon their invoice found!—
It sheds a magic on my pen
To deaden all despotic men,
A charm that can the soul command,
Nor kings, nor courtiers shall withstand:
Such, vested with imperial sway,
O'er bodies reign, dull, stupid, blind;
But us the nobler powers obey,
We reign, despotic, o'er the mind!
It aids us in the tuneful art
To catch the ear, or move the heart;
An hour with Nancy can beguile,
But meets not her approving smile.
Of northern pine her floors were made,
A carpet on the boards was spread;
And who shall dare this floor prophane,
Which Nancy keeps without a stain?
The watchful demon in her eye
The smallest speck can there espy;
And he shall curse his natal hour
Who spits upon this velvet floor:
I saw her anger waxing hot,
I heard her threaten, Do it not,
Or, instant, quit these doors of mine,
And be converted into swine.—
This powerful plant, if fortune frown,
Can make the bitter draught go down;
It keeps me warm in Greenland's frost,
And gives me more than all I lost.
The joys of wine, without its bane,
That kindles frenzy in the brain;
All these are here—and more than these
In this tobacco box I'll squeeze.
It holds a part of all I prize
Within this world that bounded lies;
And when the ashes only shows,
The spirit into aether goes.
Dismissed to that Serene Abode,
Where no tobacco is allowed!——
The comfort is, that free from care,
We neither wish, nor want it There.
ON THE DEATH OF A MASTER BUILDER Or Free Mason of High Rank[194] (Written by Request.) Assembled this day on occasion of grief,
We mourn the occasion, the loss of our chief;
A Mason, our master, that built up a pile
By the compass and square in the masonic style.
At the word of the Builder, who built All at first,
Turned chaos to order, and darkness dispersed,
Our architect leaves us, that mason so skilled,
The fabric of virtue and freedom to build.
As far as this nature, called human, can go,
A pattern he was of perfection below;
By the line and the plummet he built up a wall,
As firm as old time, and, we trust, not to fall.
By science enlightened, a friend to mankind,
He came, for the purpose exactly designed;
Like the Baptist of old, in the annals of fate,
Precursor of all that is noble and great.
He thought it an honour the trowel to hold,
And to be with the craft, as a brother enrolled:
To the practice of virtue he knew they were bound
Wherever a lodge or a mason is found.
Designed as he was, to excel and transcend,
Yet he courted the titles of brother and friend,
And these in the fabric of masons are more
Than monarchs can give,—and which tyrants abhor.
With a patron like this, we are proud to prepare
The stone and the mortar, our building to rear,
And copy, from Him, who can make it endure,
Who raised the first building, and keeps all secure.
In such a grand master all masons were blessed;
The world and all masons his merits confessed;
But now he is gone in new orbits to move
And join the first builder of all things above.
ON THE DEATH OF A MASONIC GRAND SACHEM[195] This day we unite
And all Brethren invite
To honour a man of our nation;
Who, honest as brave,
Is gone to his grave
And takes an unchangeable station.
In our subject we view
(To Liberty true)
The officer firm in all danger;
Who stood to his post
At the head of a host
His country to save, and avenge her.
By compass and square
This artisan rare
Defeated all foreign invasion,
Then returned to his farm
When no longer alarm
Distracted the mind of the nation.
In all that he did,
In all that he said
The bliss of mankind was intended;—
He rose for their good,
To support them he stood,
And Liberty ever defended.
The foundation he laid,
And the fabric he made
No mason but he could pretend to;
It will stand, we foresee,
'Till that era shall be
When the globe of the world there's an end to.
So, fame to the man
Who the building began,
Whose model all nations will take
When kingdoms are fled,
Standing armies are dead,
And monarchs—no longer awake.
ON A HONEY BEE Drinking from a Glass of Wine and Drowned Therein[196] (By Hezekiah Salem.) [196] From the edition of 1809.
ON THE FALL OF AN ANCIENT OAK TREE[197] While onward moves each circling year
Thy mandates, Nature, all obey,
As with this moving, changeful sphere
The seasons change and never stay;
Old Oak, I to your place return,
Where late you stood, and viewing mourn,
For the great loss my heart sustained
When you declined, long will I sigh,
That hour when you no more remained
To cheer the summer, passing by;
No longer blessed my eager view,
But like some dying friend withdrew.
Though frequent, by that nipping frost,
The blast which cold November sends,
I saw your leafy honours lost;
Hope, for such losses, made amends:
The spring again beheld them grow,
And we were pleased, and so was you.
Since I your fatal fall survive,
Remembrance long shall hold you dear,
And bid some young successor live;
By sad Amyntor planted here;
Its buds to swell, its leaves to spread,
And shade the place when he is dead.
A prince among your towering race,
What more your vanished form endears
Is that your presence in this place
Had been at least one hundred years;
And men that long in dust have laid,
When boys, beneath your shadow played.
You had your time to feel the sun,
To wanton in his cheering ray;—
That time is past, your race is run,
And we have nothing more to say,
Than, may your oaken spirit go
Among Elysian oaks below.
STANZAS ON THE DECEASE OF THOMAS PAINE Who died at New-York, on the 8th of June, 1809[198] Princes and kings decay and die
And, instant, rise again:
But this is not the case, trust me,
With men like Thomas Paine.
In vain the democratic host
His equal would attain:
For years to come they will not boast
A second Thomas Paine.
Though many may his name assume;
Assumption is in vain;
For every man has not his plume—
Whose name is Thomas Paine.
Though heaven bestow'd on all its sons
Their proper share of brain,
It gives to few, ye simple ones,
The mind of Thomas Paine.
To tyrants and the tyrant crew,
Indeed, he was the bane;
He writ, and gave them all their due,
And signed it,—Thomas Paine.
Oh! how we loved to see him write
And curb the race of Cain!
They hope and wish that Thomas P——
May never rise again.
What idle hopes!—yes—such a man
May yet appear again.—
When they are dead, they die for aye:
—Not so with Thomas Paine.
PART VI THE WAR OF 1812
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