Philip Morin Freneau

“ May the hammer of Death on my noddle descend,
And Satan torment me to time without end,
If this was a reason to fly into quarrels,
And feuds that have ruined our manners and morals;
A parson himself might have sworn round the compass,
That folks for a trifle should make such a rumpus,
Such a rout as to set half the world in a rage,
Make France, Spain, and Holland with Britain engage,
While the Emperor, the Swede, the Russ, and the Dane,
All pity John Bull—and run off with his gain. ”

“ And yet, perhaps, fate sees the golden hour
When happier hands shall crush rebellious power,
When hostile tribes their plighted faith shall own
And swear subjection to the British throne,
When George the Fourth shall their petitions spurn,
And banish'd Tories to their fields return.
From dreams of conquest, worlds and empires won
Britain awaking, mourns her setting sun,
No rays of joy her evening hour illume,
'Tis one sad chaos, one unmingled gloom!
Too soon she sinks unheeded to the grave,
No eye to pity and no hand to save:
What are her crimes that she alone must bend? ”

“ Still shall resentment in your bosoms reign,
Can you forget the greedy Briton's ire,
Your fields in ruin, and your domes on fire,
No age, no sex from lust and murder free,
And, black as night, the hell born refugee!
Must York forever your best blood entomb,
And these gorg'd monsters triumph in their doom,
Who leave no art of cruelty untry'd;
Such heavy vengeance, and such hellish pride!
Death has no charms—his realms dejected lie
In the dull climate of a clouded sky;
Death has no charms, except in British eyes,
See, arm'd for death, the infernal miscreants rise ”

“ Cry, "Where are Britain's base adherents now?"
These, hot for vengeance, by resentment led,
Blame on our hearts the failings of the head;
To us no peace, no favours they extend,
Their rage no bounds, their hatred knows no end;
In one firm league I see them all combin'd,
We, like the damn'd, can no forgiveness find—
As soon might Satan from perdition rise,
And the lost angels gain their vanish'd skies
As malice cease in their dark souls to burn,
Or we, once fled, be suffer'd to return.
Curs'd be the union that was form'd with France,
I see their lillies and the stars advance! ”

“ Imperial Britain scarce her coast defends;
Hibernia sees the threat'ning foes advance,
And feels an ague at the thoughts of France;
Jamaica mourns her half-protected state,
Barbadoes soon may share Grenada's fate,
And every isle that owns your reign to-day,
May bow to-morrow to great Louis' [25] sway.
Yes—while I speak, your empire, great before,
Contracts its limits, and is great no more.
Unhappy prince! what madness has possest,
What worse than madness seiz'd thy vengeful breast,
When white-rob'd peace before thy portal stood,
To drive her hence, and stain the world with blood? ”

“ Long may you live, secure from woes,
Late dying, meet a calm repose,
And flowers, that in profusion grow,
Bloom round your steps, where'er you go.
On you all eyes delight to gaze,
All tongues are lavish in your praise;
With you no beauty can compare,
Nor Georgia boast one flower so fair.
Could I, fair girl, transmit this page,
A present, to some future age,
You should through every poem shine,
You, be adored in every line:
From Jersey coasts too loth to sail,
Sighing, she left her native vale;
Borne on a stream that met the main,
Homeward she looked, and looked again. ”

“ O may I ne'er review these dire abodes,
These piles for slaughter, floating on the floods,—
And you, that o'er the troubled ocean go,
Strike not your standards to this miscreant foe,
Better the greedy wave should swallow all,
Better to meet the death-conducted ball,
Better to sleep on ocean's deepest bed,
At once destroy'd and number'd with the dead,
Than thus to perish in the face of day
Where twice ten thousand deaths one death delay.
When to the ocean dives the western sun,
And the scorch'd Tories fire their evening gun,
"Down, rebels, down!" ”

“ And trust her swiftness rather than her force,
Unfit to combat with a powerful foe;
Her decks too open, and her waist too low.
While o'er the wave with foaming prow she flies,
Once more emerging, distant landscapes rise; [Pg 22]
High in the air the starry streamer plays,
And every sail its various tribute pays:
To gain the land we bore the weighty blast;
And now the wish'd for cape appear'd at last;
But the vext foe, impatient of delay,
Prepar'd for ruin, press'd upon her prey;
Near, and more near, in aweful grandeur came
The frigate Iris, not unknown to fame ”

“ Who are so bold and unscrupulous grown
That oft in open day, as well as night,
They bear large cargoes of provision down
To yonder ships that still infest our river.
How I detest these underhanded scoundrels,
Who, hungry as the grave for British gold,
Feed the vile foe that lurks within our harbours.
Am. Gods! Can they be so base,—but there are they
Who sell their country for a mess of pottage,—
A servile, scheming race whose god is gain,
Who for a little gold would stab their fathers
And plunder life from her who gave them life. ”

“ Firm to a point, that never shall be pass'd;
Did I the smiles of Fortune still pursue,
And, Memmius, wish to rise in fame, like you,
Were this my scheme, I'd quit at once the sail,
And haste to court with compasses and scale,
Quit all the hopes the finer arts bestow,
The flowers of fancy, and—no fruits that grow;
Indulge that powerful something in the scull
That makes us wealthy while it keeps us dull,
To the best place ensures a certain claim,
The road to fortune, and the road to fame.
[392] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition. ”

“ But they no groves nor grassy mountains tread,
Mark'd for a longer journey to the dead.
Black as the clouds that shade St. Kilda's shore,
Wild as the winds that round her mountains roar,
At every post some surly vagrant stands,
Pick'd from the British or the Irish bands,
Some slave from Hesse, some hangman's son at least
Sold and transported, like his brother beast—
Some miscreant Tory, puff'd with upstart pride,
Led on by hell to take the royal side;
Dispensing death triumphantly they stand,
Their musquets ready to obey command;
Wounds are their sport, as ruin is their aim ”

“ The fame of these throughout the globe resounds,
To these I leave the glory and the wounds;
But since this honour for no blood atones,
I must and will be careful of my bones.
What pleasure to your monarch would it be,
If Lords and Commons could at last agree;
Could North with Fox in firm alliance stand,
And Burke with Sandwich shake the social hand,
Then should we bring the rebels to our feet,
And France and Spain ingloriously retreat,
Her ancient glories to this isle return,
And we no more for lost Columbia mourn.
Fox
Alliance!—what! ”

“ To sun-burnt isles and savage groves.
When sultry suns around us glare,
Your poet, still, with fondest care,
To cast a shade, some folds will spread
Of his coarse topsails o'er your head.
When round the barque the billowy wave
And howling winds, tempestuous, rave,
By caution ruled, the helm shall guide
Safely, that Argo o'er the tide.
Whene'er some female fears prevail,
At your request we'll reef the sail,
Disarm the gales that rudely blow,
And bring the loftiest canvas low. ”

“ In foreign climes detain'd from all she lov'd,
By friends neglected, long by fortune prov'd,
While sad and solemn pass'd the unwelcome day,
What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay!
Deceiv'd in all—for meanness could deceive—
Expecting still, and still condemn'd to grieve,
She scarcely saw, to different hearts allied,
That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride.—
Are griefs like thine to Florio's bosom known?
Must these, alas, be ceaseless in your own?—
Life is a dream—its varying shades I see,
But this base wanderer hardly dreams of thee. ”

“ The Tories must still be dependent on Britain—
The worst of dependence that ever was hit on.
Now their work is concluded—that pitiful jobb—
They send over convicts to strengthen our mob—
And so we do nothing but snivel and sob.
[Pg 292]
The worst of all countries has fallen to our share,
Where winter and famine provoke our despair,
And fogs are for ever obscuring the air.
Although there be nothing but sea dogs to feed on,
Our friend Jemmy Rivington made it an Eden—
But, alas! he had nothing but lies to proceed on. ”

“ The vengeance from our injur'd nation due
To him, and all the base, unmanly crew.
Such food they sent, to make complete our woes,
It look'd like carrion torn from hungry crows,
Such vermin vile on every joint were seen,
So black, corrupted, mortified, and lean
That once we try'd to move our flinty chief,
And thus address'd him, holding up the beef:
"See, captain, see! what rotten bones we pick,
"What kills the healthy cannot cure the sick:
"Not dogs on such by Christian men are fed,
"And see, good master, see, what lousy bread!" ”

“ THE DISTREST THEATRE [A] [391]
[A] Harmony Hall, at Charleston, now demolished.—Freneau's note.
Health to the Muse!—and fill the glass,
Heaven grant her soon some better place,
Than earthen floor and fabric mean,
Where disappointment shades the scene:
There as I came, by rumour led,
I sighed and almost wished her dead;
Her visage stained with many a tear,
No Hallam and no Henry here!
But what could all their art attain?—
When pointed laws the stage restrain
The prudent Muse obedience pays
To sleepy squires, that damn all plays. ”

“ Text from the 1795 edition.
[Pg 380]
EPISTLE TO THE PATRIOTIC FARMER [372]
Thus, while new laws the stubborn States reclaim,
And most for pensions, some for honours aim,
You, who first aimed a shaft at George's crown,
And marked the way to conquest and renown,
While from the vain, the lofty, and the proud,
Retiring to your groves, you shun the crowd,—
Can toils, like yours, in cold oblivion end,
Columbia's patriot, and her earliest friend? ”

“ The rights of men demand thy care:
For these you dare the greedy waves—
No tyrant on destruction bent
Has planned thy conquests—thou art sent
To humble tyrants and their slaves.
12
See!—dread Seraphis flames again—
And art thou, Jones, among the slain,
And sunk to Neptune's caves below—
He lives—though crowds around him fall,
Still he, unhurt, survives them all;
Almost alone he fights the foe.
13
And can thy ship these strokes sustain? ”

“ Cornwallis has managed so well in the South,
Those rebels want victuals to put in their mouth;
And Arnold has stript them, we hear, to the buff [52] —
Has burnt their tobacco, and left them—the snuff.
Dear Thomas, I wish you would move from that town
Where meet all the rebels of fame and renown;
When our armies, victorious, shall clear that vile nest
You may chance, though a Tory, to swing with the rest. ”

“ André. My dearest love, I will conceal nothing from you. I know you are the girl of a thousand for keeping a secret. It must not take air. I have corrupted General Arnold. He is to sell West Point fort to me, and this evening I am to set out and consult with him upon the fittest means to blind the eyes of the Samson and deliver up the place to Sir Henry without danger of failure.
Lucinda. But could not some person be deputized for this purpose whose life is not of such value to Britain as yours? You are a proud soul to Sir Henry Clinton. ”

“ Where wizzard Faustus chews his brimstone rolls,
Nor have I been to wrangle with the men
Of that sad country, where, for want of rum,
Dead putrid water from the stagnant fen
Is drank, unmingled, by departed souls:
Nor from that dog-house do I bring you news,
Where Macedonian Philip [A] mends old shoes,
But from that dreadful place arrived,
Where men in debt at cribbage play,
And I most cunningly contrived
To fatten on two groats a day—
Full on my back now turned the key,
The 'squire himself is not so free. ”

“ And covered with laurels, we still are the losers,
'Till each is recalled with his Tory accusers:
But the war now is altered, and on a new plan;
By negociation we'll do what we can—
And I am an honest, well-meaning old man;
Too proud to retreat, and too weak to advance,
We must stay where we are, at the mercy of chance,
'Till Fortune shall help us to lead you a dance.
Then lay down your arms, dear rebels—O hone!
Our king is the best man that ever was known,
And the greatest that ever was stuck on a throne:
His love and affection by all ranks are sought ”

“ Awhile on hope may fondly lean
'Till sad experience blots the scene.
If Nature acts on Reason's plan,
And Reason be the guide of man:
Why should he paint fine prospects there,
Then sigh, to find them disappear?
For ruin'd states or trade perplext
'Tis almost folly to be vext:
The world at last will have its way
And we its torrent must obey.
On other shores a happier guest
The mind must fix her haven of rest,
Where better men and better climes
Shall soothe the cares of future times.
[357] Published in the Freeman's Journal, July 18, 1787; dated "Philadelphia, July 16." ”