A NEWS-MAN'S ADDRESS[272]
What tempests gloom'd the by-past year—
What dismal prospects then arose!
Scarce at your doors I dar'd appear,
So many were our griefs and woes:
But time at length has chang'd the scene,
Our prospects, now, are more serene.
Bad news we brought you every day,
Your seamen slain, your ships on shore,
The army fretting for their pay—
('Twas well they had not fretted more!)
'Twas wrong indeed to wear out shoes,
To bring you nothing but bad news.
Now let's be joyful for the change—
The folks that guard the English throne
Have given us ample room to range,
And more, perhaps, than was their own;
To western lakes they stretch our bounds,
And yield the Indian hunting grounds.
But pray read on another year,
Remain the humble newsman's friend;
And he'll engage to let you hear
What Europe's princes next intend.—
Even now their brains are all at work
To rouse the Russian on the Turk.
Well—if they fight, then fight they must,
They are a strange contentious breed;
One good effect will be, I trust,
The more are kill'd, the more you'll read;
For past experience clearly shews,
That Wrangling is the Life of News.
NEW YEAR'S VERSES[273]
Addressed to the customers of the Freeman's Journal, by the Lad
who carries it
January 7, 1784
Blest be the man who early prov'd
And first contriv'd to make it clear
That Time upon a dial mov'd,
And trac'd that circle call'd a year;
Ere he arose, the savage, man,
No bounds to years or seasons knew,
On Nature's book his reckoning ran,
And social festivals were few.
In after days, when folks grew wise
New wonderments were daily found,
Systems they built on pumpkin pies,
And prov'd that every thing went round.
Experience shows they reason'd right,
(With laurels we their tombs should crown)
For half the world is in such plight
That one would swear it upside down.
Now I am one, (and pray attend)
Who, marching in a smaller sphere,
To set you right, my service lend,
By bringing Papers through the year,
Which to your Honours may impart
A thousand new invented schemes,
The works of wit, and toils of art,
News, commerce, politics, and dreams:
Though in a sheet, at random cast,
Our motley knowledge we dispose,
From such a mass, in ages past,
Have less substantial fabrics rose;
The Sybil wise, as Virgil says,
Her writings to the leaves consign'd,
Which soon were borne a thousand ways,
Derang'd and scatter'd by the wind.
Not such neglect in me is seen—
Soon as my leaves have left the press
I haste to bring them, neat and clean,
At all times in a New Year's dress.
Though winds their ancient spite retain,
And strive to tear them from my hold,
I bear them safe through wind and rain,
Despising heat, despising cold.
While thus employ'd, from week to week,
You surely will not think it hard
If, with the rest, I come to seek
Some humble token of regard.
Nor will you deem my conduct strange
If what I long have thought be true—
That life itself is constant change,
And death, the want of something new.
THE HAPPY PROSPECT[274]
Though clad in winter's gloomy dress all Nature's works appear,
Yet other prospects rise to bless the new returning year:
The active sail again is seen to greet our western shore,
Gay plenty smiles with brow serene, and wars distract no more.
No more the vales, no more the plains an iron harvest yield;
Peace guards our doors, impells our swains to till the grateful field:
From distant climes, no longer foes (their years of misery past)
Nations arrive, to find repose in these domains at last.
And, if a more delightful scene attracts the mortal eye,
Where clouds nor darkness intervene, behold, aspiring high,
On Freedom's soil those Fabrics plann'd, on virtue's basis laid,
That make secure our native land, and prove our toils repaid.
Ambitious aims and pride severe, would you at distance keep,
What wanderer would not tarry here, here charm his cares to sleep!
O, still may health her balmy wings o'er these fair fields expand,
While commerce from all climates brings the products of each land.
Through toiling care and lengthen'd views, that share alike our span,
Gay, smiling hope her heaven pursues, the eternal friend of man:
The darkness of the days to come she brightens with her ray,
And smiles o'er Nature's gaping tomb, when sickening to decay!
THE DYING INDIAN[275]
TOMO-CHEQUI
"On yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
Vigour, and youth, and active days are past—
Relentless demons urge me to that shore
On whose black forests all the dead are cast:—
Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
For I must go to shades below,
Where all is strange and all is new;
Companion to the airy throng!—
What solitary streams,
In dull and dreary dreams,
All melancholy, must I rove along!
To what strange lands must Chequi take his way!
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace:
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chace,
But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend,
But sickly orchards there
Do fruits as sickly bear,
And apples a consumptive visage shew,
And withered hangs the hurtle-berry blue.
Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!
Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and sad deluding waters flow—
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales, indeed, they tell
Of shades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the western hills,
But when did ghost return his state to shew;
Or who can promise half the tale is true?
I too must be a fleeting ghost!—no more—
None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
For emptier groves below!
Ye charming solitudes,
Ye tall ascending woods,
Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,
Whose aspect still was sweet,
Whether the sun did greet,
Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams—
Adieu to all!
To all, that charmed me where I strayed,
The winding stream, the dark sequestered shade;
Adieu all triumphs here!
Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
And seas, and stars, and skies—farewell,
For some remoter sphere!
Perplexed with doubts, and tortured with despair,
Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?
Nature at last these ruins may repair,
When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep
Some real world once more may be assigned,
Some new born mansion for the immortal mind!
Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods,
To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray,
Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!
Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trusty bow and arrows by my side,
The cheerful bottle and the venison store;
For long the journey is that I must go,
Without a partner, and without a guide."
He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep,
Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!
Intended for Mr. Peale's Exhibition
May 10, 1784
1
Toward the skies
What columns rise
In Roman style, profusely great!
What lamps ascend,
What arches bend,
And swell with more than Roman state!
2
High o'er the central arch display'd
Old Janus shuts his temple door,
And shackles war in darkest shade;
Saturnian times in view once more.
3
Pride of the human race, behold
In Gallia's king the virtues glow,
Whose conduct prov'd, whose goodness told,
That kings can feel for human woe.
Thrice happy France in Louis blest,
Thy genius droops her head no more;
In the calm virtues of the mind
Equal to him no Titus shin'd—
No Trajan—whom mankind adore.
4
Another scene too soon displays!
Griefs have their share, and claim their part,
They monuments to ruin raise,
And shed keen anguish o'er the heart:
Those heroes that in battle fell
Demand a sympathetic tear,
Who fought, our tyrants to repell—
Memory preserves their laurels here.
In vernal skies
Thus tempests rise,
And clouds obscure the brightest sun—
Few wreathes are gain'd
With blood unstain'd,
No honours without ruin won.
5
The arms of France three lillies mark—
In honour's dome with these enroll'd
The plough, the sheaf, the gliding barque
The riches of our State unfold.
6
Ally'd in Heaven, a sun and stars
Friendship and peace with France declare—
The branch succeeds the spear of Mars,
Commerce repairs the wastes of war:
In ties of concord ancient foes engage
Proving the day-spring of a brighter age.
7
These States defended by the brave,
Their military trophies, see!
The virtue that of old did save
Shall still maintain them great and free:
Arts shall pervade the western wild,
And savage hearts become more mild.
8
Of science proud, the source of sway,
Lo! emblematic figures shine;
The arts their kindred forms display,
Manners to soften and refine:
A stately tree to heaven its summit sends
And cluster'd fruit from thirteen boughs depends.
9
With laurel crown'd
A chief renown'd
(His country sav'd) his faulchion sheaths;
Neglects his spoils
For rural toils
And crowns his plough with laurel wreaths:
While we this Roman chief survey,
What apt resemblance strikes the eye!
Those features to the soul convey
A Washington in fame as high,
Whose prudent, persevering mind
Patience with manly courage join'd,
And when disgrace and death were near,
Look'd through the black distressing shade,
Struck hostile Britons with unwonted fear
And blasted their best hopes, and pride in ruin laid.
10
Victorious virtue! aid me to pursue
The tributary verse to triumphs due—
Behold the peasant leave his lowly shed,
Where tufted forests round him grow;—
Tho' clouds the dark sky overspread,
War's dreadful art his arm essays,
He meets the hostile cannon's blaze,
And pours redoubled vengeance on the foe.
11
Born to protect and guard our native land,
Victorious virtue! still preserve us free;
Plenty—gay child of peace, thy horn expand,
And, Concord, teach us to agree!
May every virtue that adorns the soul
Be here advanc'd to heights unknown before;
Pacific ages in succession roll,
'Till Nature blots the scene,
Chaos resumes her reign
And heaven with pleasure views its works no more.
THE HURRICANE[277]
Happy the man who, safe on shore,
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmov'd, he hears the tempests roar,
That on the tufted groves expire:
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble barque must bear them all.
Now to their haunts the birds retreat,
The squirrel seeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,
All, all are blest but wretched we—
Foredoomed a stranger to repose,
No rest the unsettled ocean knows.
While o'er the dark abyss[A] we roam,
Perhaps, with last departing gleam,
We saw the sun descend in gloom,
No more to see his morning beam;
But buried low, by far too deep,
On coral beds, unpitied, sleep!
But what a strange, uncoasted strand
Is that, where fate permits no day—
No charts have we to mark that land,
No compass to direct that way—
What Pilot shall explore that realm,
What new Columbus take the helm!
While death and darkness both surround,
And tempests rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no sound,
No comfort in this dreadful hour—
What friendship can in tempests be,
What comfort on this raging sea?
The barque, accustomed to obey,
No more the trembling pilots guide:
Alone she gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burst on either side—
Thus, skill and science both must fall;
And ruin is the lot of all.
TO THE KEEPER OF THE KING'S WATER
WORKS[278]
Near Kingston,[279] in the island of Jamaica, on being refused a puncheon
of water
Written August, 1784
"The celestial Deities protect and relieve strangers in every country, as
long as those strangers respect and submit to the laws of the country."
—Kien-Lhi, alias John Tuck, Viceroy of Canton.
Can he, who o'er two Indies holds the sway,
Where'er the ocean flows, whose fleets patrole,
Who bids Hibernia's rugged sons obey,
And at whose nod (you say) shakes either pole:—
Can he, whose crown a thousand jewels grace
Of worth untold—can he, so rich, deny
One wretched puncheon from this ample waste,
Begg'd by his quondam subject—very dry?
Vast are the springs in yonder cloud-capt hill:
Why, then, refuse the abundant flowing wave?
Where hogs, and dogs, and keepers drink their fill,
May we not something from such plenty crave?
Keeper!—must we with empty cask return!
Just view the limpid stream that runs to waste!—
Denied the stream that flows from Nature's urn,
By locks and bolts secur'd from rebel taste?
Well!—if we must, inform the royal ear,
Poor are some kings that now in Britain live:
Tell him, that Nature is no miser here;
Tell him—that he withholds—what beggars give.
Written at Port-Royal, in the Island of Jamaica
Here, by the margin of the murmuring main,
While her proud remnants I explore in vain,
And lonely stray through these dejected lands
Fann'd by the noon-tide breeze on burning sands,
Where the dull Spaniard once possess'd these shades,
And ports defended by his Pallisades[A]—
Tho' lost to us, Port Royal claims a sigh,
Nor shall the Muse the unenvied gift deny.
Of all the towns that grac'd Jamaica's isle
This was her glory, and the proudest pile,
Where toils on toils bade wealth's gay structures rise,
And commerce swell'd her glory to the skies:
St. Jago, seated on a distant plain,
Ne'er saw the tall ship entering from the main,
Unnotic'd streams her Cobra's[B] margin lave
Where yond' tall plantains shade her glowing wave,
And burning sands or rock surrounded hill
Confess its founder's fears—or want of skill.
While o'er these wastes with wearied step I go,
Past scenes of death return, in all their woe,[281]
O'er these sad shores in angry pomp he pass'd,
Mov'd in the winds, and rag'd with every blast—
Here,[C] opening gulphs confess'd the almighty hand,
Here, the dark ocean roll'd across the land,
Here, piles on piles an instant tore away,
Here, crowds on crowds in mingled ruin lay,
Whom fate scarce gave to end their noon-day feast,
Or time to call the sexton, or the priest.
Where yond' tall barque, with all her ponderous load,
Commits her anchor to its dark abode,
Eight fathoms down, where unseen waters flow
To quench the sulphur of the caves below,
Here midnight sounds torment the sailor's ear,
And drums and fifes play drowsy concerts here,[282]
Sad songs of woe prevent the hours of sleep,
And Fancy aids the fiddlers of the deep;
Dull Superstition hears the ghostly hum,
Smit with the terrors of the world to come.
What now is left of all thy boasted pride!
Lost are thy glories that were spread so wide,
A spit of sand is thine, by heaven's decree,
And wasting shores that scarce resist the sea:
Is this Port-Royal on Jamaica's coast,
The Spaniard's envy, and the Briton's boast!
A shatter'd roof o'er every hut appears,
And mouldering brick-work prompts the traveller's fears;
A church, with half a priest, I grieve to see,
Grass round its door, and rust upon its key!—
One only inn with tiresome search I found
Where one sad negro dealt his beverage round;—
His was the part to wait the impatient call,
He was our landlord, post-boy, pimp, and all;
His wary eyes on every side were cast,
Beheld the present, and revolv'd the past,
Now here, now there, in swift succession stole,
Glanc'd at the bar, or watch'd the unsteady bowl.
No sprightly lads or gay bewitching maids[283]
Walk on these wastes or wander in these shades;
To other shores past times beheld them go,
And some are slumbering in the caves below;
A negro tribe but ill their place supply,
With bending back, short hair, and downcast eye;[284]
A feeble rampart guards the unlucky town,
Where banish'd Tories come to seek renown,
Where worn-out slaves their bowls of beer retail,
And sun-burnt strumpets watch the approaching sail.
Here (scarce escap'd the wild tornado's rage)
Why sail'd I here to swell my future page!
To these dull scenes with eager haste I came
To trace the reliques of their ancient fame,
Not worth the search!—what domes are left to fall,
Guns, gales, and earthquakes shall destroy them all—
All shall be lost!—tho' hosts their aid implore,
The Twelve Apostles[D] shall protect no more,
Nor guardian heroes awe the impoverish'd plain;
No priest shall mutter, and no saint remain,
Nor this palmetto yield her evening shade,
Where the dark negro his dull music play'd,
Or casts his view beyond the adjacent strand
And points, still grieving, to his native land,
Turns and returns from yonder murmuring shore,
And pants for countries he must see no more—
Where shall I go, what Lethe shall I find
To drive these dark ideas from my mind!
No buckram heroes can relieve the eye,
And George's honours only raise a sigh—
Not even these walls a glad remembrance claim,[285]
Where grief still wastes a half deluded dame,
Whom to these coasts a British Paris bore,
And basely left, lost virtue to deplore.—
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.
Ye mountains vast, whose heights the heaven sustain,
Adieu, ye mountains, and fair Kingston's plain;
Where Nature still the toils of art transcends—
In this dull spot the fine delusion ends,
Where burning sands are borne by every blast
And these mean fabrics still bewail the past;
Where want, and death, and care, and grief reside,
And threatening moons advance the imperious tide:—
Ye stormy winds, awhile your wrath suspend,
Who leaves the land, a bottle, and a friend,
Quits this bright isle for yon' blue seas and sky,
Or even Port-Royal quits—without a sigh!
Sept. 1784.