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Title: The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 2 (of 3)
Author: Philip Morin Freneau
Editor: Fred Lewis Pattee
Release date: January 8, 2012 [eBook #38529]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU, POET OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. VOLUME 2 (OF 3) ***
POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU
Volume II
THE
POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU
POET OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION
EDITED FOR
The Princeton Historical Association
BY
FRED LEWIS PATTEE
OF THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE COLLEGE, AUTHOR OF "A HISTORY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE"
"THE FOUNDATIONS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE" ETC.
Volume II
Princeton, N. J.
The University Library
1903
Copyright 1902 by
The Princeton University Library
C. S. Robinson & Co. University Press
Princeton N. J.
CONTENTS
| VOLUME II | |
| PAGE | |
| PART II Continued The First Poetic Period. 1775-1781 | |
| George the Third's Soliloquy | 3 |
| Sir Harry's Invitation | 7 |
| Dialogue between his Britannic Majesty and Mr. Fox | 9 |
| The British Prison Ship | 18 |
| The Spy | 39 |
| PART III Era of the Freeman's Journal. 1781-1790 | |
| On the Memorable Victory of Paul Jones | 75 |
| An Address | 81 |
| A New-York Tory | 84 |
| To Lord Cornwallis | 86 |
| A London Dialogue | 87 |
| Lord Cornwallis to Sir Henry Clinton | 89 |
| The Vanity of Existence | 91 |
| On the Fall of General Earl Cornwallis | 92 |
| To the Memory of the Brave Americans | 101 |
| Arnold's Departure | 103 |
| Plato to Theon | 104 |
| Prologue to a Theatrical Entertainment | 108 |
| Ruins of a Country Inn | 110 |
| The Royal Adventurer | 112 |
| Lord Dunmore's Petition | 114 |
| Epigram | 116 |
| A Speech by the King of Britain | 117 |
| Rivington's Last Will and Testament | 120 |
| Lines Occasioned by Mr. Rivington's New Titular Types | 124 |
| Lines on Mr. Rivington's New Engraved King's Arms | 125 |
| A Prophecy, Written 1782 | 126 |
| The Argonaut or Lost Adventurer | 128 |
| The Political Balance | 130 |
| Dialogue at Hyde Park Corner | 140 |
| On the Late Royal Sloop of War General Monk | 142 |
| Truth Anticipated | 143 |
| Barney's Invitation | 147 |
| Song on Captain Barney's Victory | 149 |
| On Sir Henry Clinton's Recall | 153 |
| Sir Guy Carleton's Address | 156 |
| Scandanavian War Song | 159 |
| The Projectors | 160 |
| On General Robertson's Proclamation | 162 |
| A Picture of the Times | 165 |
| Prince William Henry's Soliloquy | 167 |
| Satan's Remonstrance | 169 |
| The Refugees' Petition to Sir Guy Carleton | 172 |
| Sir Guy's Answer | 173 |
| To a Concealed Royalist | 174 |
| To the Concealed Royalist, in Answer to a Second Attack | 177 |
| To the Concealed Royalist on his Farewell | 179 |
| To the Royalist Unveiled | 181 |
| To Shylock Ap-Shenkin | 185 |
| The Prophecy of King Tammany | 187 |
| Rivington's Reflections | 190 |
| New Year's Verses, January 1, 1783 | 197 |
| New Year's Verses, January 8, 1783 | 198 |
| Hugh Gaine's Life | 201 |
| Stanzas Occasioned by the Departure of the British from Charleston, December 14, 1782 | 214 |
| On the British King's Speech | 217 |
| A New-York Tory's Epistle | 219 |
| Manhattan City | 223 |
| Verses Occasioned by General Washington's Arrival in Philadelphia | 225 |
| Rivington's Confessions | 229 |
| A News-Man's Address | 238 |
| New Year's Verses, January 7, 1784 | 240 |
| The Happy Prospect | 242 |
| The Dying Indian, Tomo-Chequi | 243 |
| Lines Intended for Mr. Peale's Exhibition | 246 |
| The Hurricane | 250 |
| To the Keeper of the King's Water Works | 252 |
| Lines Written at Port Royal | 253 |
| To Sir Toby, a Sugar Planter | 258 |
| Elegy on Mr. Robert Bell | 260 |
| On the First American Ship that Explored the Rout to India | 261 |
| The Newsmonger | 263 |
| Sketches of American History | 269 |
| The Progress of Balloons | 276 |
| On the Emigration to America | 280 |
| The Seasons Moralized | 282 |
| On the Death of Colonel Laurens | 283 |
| On the Vicissitudes of Things | 284 |
| Pewter-Platter Alley in Philadelphia | 287 |
| On the Death of General Joseph Reed | 288 |
| A Renegado Epistle | 290 |
| The American Siberia | 293 |
| Epistle to Sylvius | 295 |
| The Departure, 1785 | 298 |
| A Newsman's Address | 301 |
| Literary Importation | 303 |
| The Englishman's Complaint | 305 |
| The Wild Honey Suckle | 306 |
| On a Book Called Unitarian Theology | 307 |
| To Zoilus | 309 |
| On the Legislature of Great-Britain Prohibiting the Sale of Dr. Ramsay's History | 312 |
| The Death Song of a Cherokee Indian | 313 |
| Stanzas Written at the Foot of Monte Souffriere | 314 |
| On the Crew of a Certain Vessel | 317 |
| The Bermuda Islands | 318 |
| Florio to Amanda | 319 |
| Philander: or The Emigrant | 321 |
| The Fair Solitary | 325 |
| Amanda in a Consumption | 326 |
| Elegiac Lines | 328 |
| The Insolvent's Release | 329 |
| May to April | 331 |
| To an Author | 332 |
| To Misfortune | 335 |
| To Cracovius Putridus | 336 |
| Slender's Journey | 338 |
| The Hermit of Saba | 359 |
| The Indian Burying Ground | 369 |
| The Indian Student | 371 |
| The Man of Ninety | 374 |
| Alcina's Enchanted Island | 376 |
| Horace, Lib. I. Ode 15 | 377 |
| A Subscription Prayer | 379 |
| Epistle to the Patriotic Farmer | 380 |
| Palemon to Lavinia | 381 |
| A Newsman's Address | 383 |
| On the Prospect of a Revolution in France | 385 |
| To a Dog | 387 |
| To Lydia | 387 |
| To Cynthia | 391 |
| Amanda's Complaint | 392 |
| Hatteras | 394 |
| St. Catharine's | 397 |
| To Mr. Churchman | 398 |
| The Procession to Sylvania | 399 |
| The Pilgrim's Progress | 401 |
| Sangrado's Expedition to Sylvania | 402 |
| The Distrest Theatre | 404 |
| To Memmius | 406 |
PART II (Continued)
THE FIRST POETIC PERIOD
1775—1781
THE
POEMS OF PHILIP FRENEAU
GEORGE THE THIRD'S SOLILOQUY[1]
What mean these dreams, and hideous forms that rise
Night after night, tormenting to my eyes—
No real foes these horrid shapes can be,
But thrice as much they vex and torture me.
How cursed is he—how doubly cursed am I—5
Who lives in pain, and yet who dares not die;
To him no joy this world of Nature brings,
In vain the wild rose blooms, the daisy springs.
Is this a prelude to some new disgrace,
Some baleful omen to my name and race!—10
It may be so—ere mighty Cæsar died
Presaging Nature felt his doom, and sighed;
A bellowing voice through midnight groves was heard,
And threatening ghosts at dusk of eve appeared—
Ere Brutus fell, to adverse fates a prey,15
His evil genius met him on the way,
And so may mine!—but who would yield so soon
A prize, some luckier hour may make my own?
Shame seize my crown ere such a deed be mine—
No—to the last my squadrons shall combine,20
And slay my foes, while foes remain to slay,
Or heaven shall grant me one successful day.
Is there a robber close in Newgate hemmed,
Is there a cut-throat, fettered and condemned?
Haste, loyal slaves, to George's standard come,25
Attend his lectures when you hear the drum;
Your chains I break—for better days prepare,
Come out, my friends, from prison and from care,
Far to the west I plan your desperate sway,
There 'tis no sin to ravage, burn, and slay,30
There, without fear, your bloody aims pursue,
And shew mankind what English thieves can do.
That day, when first I mounted to the throne,
I swore to let all foreign foes alone.
Through love of peace to terms did I advance,35
And made, they say, a shameful league with France.[2]
But different scenes rise horrid to my view,
I charged my hosts to plunder and subdue—
At first, indeed, I thought short wars to wage
And sent some jail-birds to be led by Gage,[3]40
For 'twas but right, that those we marked for slaves
Should be reduced by cowards, fools, and knaves;
Awhile directed by his feeble hand,
Whose troops were kicked and pelted through the land,
Or starved in Boston, cursed the unlucky hour45
They left their dungeons for that fatal shore.
France aids them now, a desperate game I play,
And hostile Spain will do the same, they say;
My armies vanquished, and my heroes fled,
My people murmuring, and my commerce dead,50
My shattered navy pelted, bruised, and clubbed,
By Dutchmen bullied, and by Frenchmen drubbed,
My name abhorred, my nation in disgrace,
How should I act in such a mournful case!
My hopes and joys are vanished with my coin,55
My ruined army, and my lost Burgoyne!
What shall I do—confess my labours vain,
Or whet my tusks, and to the charge again!
But where's my force—my choicest troops are fled,
Some thousands crippled, and a myriad dead—60
If I were owned the boldest of mankind,
And hell with all her flames inspired my mind,
Could I at once with Spain and France contend,
And fight the rebels on the world's green end?—
The pangs of parting I can ne'er endure,65
Yet part we must, and part to meet no more!
Oh, blast this Congress, blast each upstart State,
On whose commands ten thousand captains wait;
From various climes that dire Assembly came,
True to their trust, as hostile to my fame,70
'Tis these, ah these, have ruined half my sway,
Disgraced my arms, and led my slaves astray—
Cursed be the day when first I saw the sun,
Cursed be the hour when I these wars begun:
The fiends of darkness then possessed my mind,75
And powers unfriendly to the human kind.
To wasting grief, and sullen rage a prey,
To Scotland's utmost verge I'll take my way,
There with eternal storms due concert keep
And while the billows rage, as fiercely weep—80
Ye highland lads, my rugged fate bemoan,
Assist me with one sympathizing groan,[4]
For late I find the nations are my foes,
I must submit, and that with bloody nose,
Or, like our James, fly basely from the state,85
Or share, what still is worse—old Charles's fate.
Night after night, tormenting to my eyes—
No real foes these horrid shapes can be,
But thrice as much they vex and torture me.
How cursed is he—how doubly cursed am I—5
Who lives in pain, and yet who dares not die;
To him no joy this world of Nature brings,
In vain the wild rose blooms, the daisy springs.
Is this a prelude to some new disgrace,
Some baleful omen to my name and race!—10
It may be so—ere mighty Cæsar died
Presaging Nature felt his doom, and sighed;
A bellowing voice through midnight groves was heard,
And threatening ghosts at dusk of eve appeared—
Ere Brutus fell, to adverse fates a prey,15
His evil genius met him on the way,
And so may mine!—but who would yield so soon
A prize, some luckier hour may make my own?
Shame seize my crown ere such a deed be mine—
No—to the last my squadrons shall combine,20
And slay my foes, while foes remain to slay,
Or heaven shall grant me one successful day.
Is there a robber close in Newgate hemmed,
Is there a cut-throat, fettered and condemned?
Haste, loyal slaves, to George's standard come,25
Attend his lectures when you hear the drum;
Your chains I break—for better days prepare,
Come out, my friends, from prison and from care,
Far to the west I plan your desperate sway,
There 'tis no sin to ravage, burn, and slay,30
There, without fear, your bloody aims pursue,
And shew mankind what English thieves can do.
That day, when first I mounted to the throne,
I swore to let all foreign foes alone.
Through love of peace to terms did I advance,35
And made, they say, a shameful league with France.[2]
But different scenes rise horrid to my view,
I charged my hosts to plunder and subdue—
At first, indeed, I thought short wars to wage
And sent some jail-birds to be led by Gage,[3]40
For 'twas but right, that those we marked for slaves
Should be reduced by cowards, fools, and knaves;
Awhile directed by his feeble hand,
Whose troops were kicked and pelted through the land,
Or starved in Boston, cursed the unlucky hour45
They left their dungeons for that fatal shore.
France aids them now, a desperate game I play,
And hostile Spain will do the same, they say;
My armies vanquished, and my heroes fled,
My people murmuring, and my commerce dead,50
My shattered navy pelted, bruised, and clubbed,
By Dutchmen bullied, and by Frenchmen drubbed,
My name abhorred, my nation in disgrace,
How should I act in such a mournful case!
My hopes and joys are vanished with my coin,55
My ruined army, and my lost Burgoyne!
What shall I do—confess my labours vain,
Or whet my tusks, and to the charge again!
But where's my force—my choicest troops are fled,
Some thousands crippled, and a myriad dead—60
If I were owned the boldest of mankind,
And hell with all her flames inspired my mind,
Could I at once with Spain and France contend,
And fight the rebels on the world's green end?—
The pangs of parting I can ne'er endure,65
Yet part we must, and part to meet no more!
Oh, blast this Congress, blast each upstart State,
On whose commands ten thousand captains wait;
From various climes that dire Assembly came,
True to their trust, as hostile to my fame,70
'Tis these, ah these, have ruined half my sway,
Disgraced my arms, and led my slaves astray—
Cursed be the day when first I saw the sun,
Cursed be the hour when I these wars begun:
The fiends of darkness then possessed my mind,75
And powers unfriendly to the human kind.
To wasting grief, and sullen rage a prey,
To Scotland's utmost verge I'll take my way,
There with eternal storms due concert keep
And while the billows rage, as fiercely weep—80
Ye highland lads, my rugged fate bemoan,
Assist me with one sympathizing groan,[4]
For late I find the nations are my foes,
I must submit, and that with bloody nose,
Or, like our James, fly basely from the state,85
Or share, what still is worse—old Charles's fate.
[1] From the edition of 1809. The poem was first published in the May number of the United States Magazine, 1779, and much revised and enlarged for the edition of 1786, where it bore the title, "George III. His Soliloquy for 1779." This earliest version, which began with the startling line,
"O Damn this Congress, damn each upstart state,"
was made up as follows, the numbering referring to the above version:
Lines 68-72, 47-64, followed by
"Yet rogues and savage tribes I must employ,
And what I cannot conquer will destroy."
And what I cannot conquer will destroy."
Lines 23-32, followed by
"Ye daring hosts that croud Columbia's shore,
Tremble ye traitors, and exult no more;
Flames I shall hurl with an unceasing hand,
Till fires eternal blaze throughout your land,
And every dome and every town expires,
And traitors perish in the unfeeling fires;
But hold—though this be all my soul's desire,
Will my own towns be proof to rebel fire.
If in revenge my raging foes should come,
And burn my London—it would strike me dumb,
To see my children and my queen in tears,
And these tall piles come tumbling round my ears,
Would to its inmost caverns fright my mind,
And stun ourself, the boldest of mankind."
Tremble ye traitors, and exult no more;
Flames I shall hurl with an unceasing hand,
Till fires eternal blaze throughout your land,
And every dome and every town expires,
And traitors perish in the unfeeling fires;
But hold—though this be all my soul's desire,
Will my own towns be proof to rebel fire.
If in revenge my raging foes should come,
And burn my London—it would strike me dumb,
To see my children and my queen in tears,
And these tall piles come tumbling round my ears,
Would to its inmost caverns fright my mind,
And stun ourself, the boldest of mankind."
Lines 73-76, followed by
"My future years I consecrate to woe,
For this great loss my soul in tears shall flow."
For this great loss my soul in tears shall flow."
Ending with lines 77-82.
[2] Alluding to the peace of 1761 and the forced retirement of Pitt.
[3] "And sent a scoundrel by the name of Gage."—Ed. 1786.
"O let the earth my rugged fate bemoan,
And give at least one sympathizing groan."
—United States Magazine, 1779.
And give at least one sympathizing groan."
—United States Magazine, 1779.
SIR HARRY'S INVITATION[5]
Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true,
Here are axes and shovels, and something to do!
For the sake of our king,
Come, labour and sing;
You left all you had for his honour and glory,
And he will remember the suffering Tory:
We have, it is true,
Some small work to do;
But here's for your pay
Twelve coppers a day,
And never regard what the rebels may say,
But throw off your jerkins and labour away.
Here are axes and shovels, and something to do!
For the sake of our king,
Come, labour and sing;
You left all you had for his honour and glory,
And he will remember the suffering Tory:
We have, it is true,
Some small work to do;
But here's for your pay
Twelve coppers a day,
And never regard what the rebels may say,
But throw off your jerkins and labour away.
To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall,
To pull down old houses and dig the canal,
To build and destroy—
Be this your employ,
In the day time to work at our fortifications,
And steal in the night from the rebels your rations:
The king wants your aid,
Not empty parade;
Advance to your places
Ye men of long faces,
Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces,
This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.
To pull down old houses and dig the canal,
To build and destroy—
Be this your employ,
In the day time to work at our fortifications,
And steal in the night from the rebels your rations:
The king wants your aid,
Not empty parade;
Advance to your places
Ye men of long faces,
Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces,
This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.
Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer,
The French and the Rebels are coming next summer,
And forts we must build
Though Tories are kill'd—
Then courage, my jockies, and work for your king,
For if you are taken no doubt you will swing—
If York we can hold
I'll have you enroll'd;
And after you're dead
Your names shall be read
As who for their monarch both labour'd and bled,
And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.
The French and the Rebels are coming next summer,
And forts we must build
Though Tories are kill'd—
Then courage, my jockies, and work for your king,
For if you are taken no doubt you will swing—
If York we can hold
I'll have you enroll'd;
And after you're dead
Your names shall be read
As who for their monarch both labour'd and bled,
And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.
'Tis an honour to serve the bravest of nations,
And be left to be hang'd in their capitulations—
Then scour up your mortars
And stand to your quarters,
'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,
They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;
Their hearts should not fail 'em,
No balls will assail 'em,
Forget your disgraces
And shorten your faces,
For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,
Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.
And be left to be hang'd in their capitulations—
Then scour up your mortars
And stand to your quarters,
'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,
They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;
Their hearts should not fail 'em,
No balls will assail 'em,
Forget your disgraces
And shorten your faces,
For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,
Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.
[5] According to Frank Moore's Songs and Ballads of the Revolution, this poem was first issued as a ballad-sheet in 1779. It was reprinted in the Freeman's Journal, April 17, 1782, and was published in the author's three editions. The text follows the edition of 1795.
Sir Henry Clinton was left in command of New York City, July 5, 1777, when Howe started on his expedition for the capture of Philadelphia. Freneau's poem indicates his treatment of the Tory refugees.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HIS BRITANNIC
MAJESTY AND MR. FOX[6]
Supposed to have passed about the time of the approach of the combined fleets of France and Spain to the British coasts, August, 1779.