TO SIR TOBY[286]
A Sugar Planter in the interior parts of Jamaica, near the City of San
Jago de la Vega, (Spanish Town) 1784
"The motions of his spirit are black as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus."
—Shakespeare.
If there exists a hell—the case is clear—
Sir Toby's slaves enjoy that portion here:
Here are no blazing brimstone lakes—'tis true;
But kindled Rum too often burns as blue;
In which some fiend, whom nature must detest,
Steeps Toby's brand, and marks poor Cudjoe's breast.[A]
Here whips on whips excite perpetual fears,
And mingled howlings vibrate on my ears:
Here nature's plagues abound, to fret and teaze,
Snakes, scorpions, despots, lizards, centipees—
No art, no care escapes the busy lash;
All have their dues—and all are paid in cash—
The eternal driver keeps a steady eye
On a black herd, who would his vengeance fly,
But chained, imprisoned, on a burning soil,
For the mean avarice of a tyrant, toil!
The lengthy cart-whip guards this monster's reign—
And cracks, like pistols, from the fields of cane.
Ye powers! who formed these wretched tribes, relate,
What had they done, to merit such a fate!
Why were they brought from Eboe's[B] sultry waste,
To see that plenty which they must not taste—
Food, which they cannot buy, and dare not steal;
Yams and potatoes—many a scanty meal!—
One, with a gibbet wakes his negro's fears,
One to the windmill nails him by the ears;
One keeps his slave in darkened dens, unfed,
One puts the wretch in pickle ere he's dead:
This, from a tree suspends him by the thumbs,
That, from his table grudges even the crumbs!
O'er yond' rough hills a tribe of females go,
Each with her gourd, her infant, and her hoe;
Scorched by a sun that has no mercy here,
Driven by a devil, whom men call overseer—
In chains, twelve wretches to their labours haste;
Twice twelve I saw, with iron collars graced!—
Are such the fruits that spring from vast domains?
Is wealth, thus got, Sir Toby, worth your pains!—
Who would your wealth on terms, like these, possess,
Where all we see is pregnant with distress—
Angola's natives scourged by ruffian hands,
And toil's hard product shipp'd to foreign lands.
Talk not of blossoms, and your endless spring;
What joy, what smile, can scenes of misery bring?—
Though Nature, here, has every blessing spread,
Poor is the labourer—and how meanly fed!—
Here Stygian paintings light and shade renew,
Pictures of hell, that Virgil's[C] pencil drew:
Here, surly Charons make their annual trip,
And ghosts arrive in every Guinea ship,
To find what beasts these western isles afford,
Plutonian scourges, and despotic lords:—
Here, they, of stuff determined to be free,
Must climb the rude cliffs of the Liguanee;[D]
Beyond the clouds, in sculking haste repair,
And hardly safe from brother traitors there.—[E]
ELEGY ON MR. ROBERT BELL[287]
The celebrated humourist, and truly philanthropic Book-seller formerly
of Philadelphia, written, 1786
By schools untaught, from Nature's source he drew
That flow of wit which wits with toil pursue,
Above dependence, bent to virtue's side;
Beyond the folly of the folio's pride;
Born to no power, he took no splendid part,
Yet warm for freedom glowed his honest heart
Foe to all baseness, not afraid to shame
The little tyrant that usurped his claim:
Bound to no sect, no systems to defend,
He loved his jest, a female, and his friend:—
The tale well told, to each occasion fit,
In him was nature—and that nature wit:
Alike to pride and wild ambition dumb,
He saw no terrors in the world to come.
But, slighting sophists and their flimsy aid,
To God and Reason left the works they made.
In chace of fortune, half his life was whim,
Yet fortune saw no sycophant in him;
Bold, open, free, the world he called his own,
But wished no wealth that cost a wretch a groan—
Too social Bell! in others so refined,
One sneaking virtue ne'er possessed your mind—
Had Prudence only held her share of sway,
Still had your cup been full, yourself been gay!
But while we laughed, and while the glass went round,
The lamp was darkened—and no help was found;
On distant shores you died, where none shall tell,
"Here rest the virtues and the wit of Bell."
ON THE FIRST AMERICAN SHIP[288]
Empress of China, Capt. Greene
That explored the rout to China, and the East-Indies, after the
Revolution, 1784
With clearance from Bellona won
She spreads her wings to meet the Sun,
Those golden regions to explore
Where George forbade to sail before.
Thus, grown to strength, the bird of Jove,
Impatient, quits his native grove,
With eyes of fire, and lightning's force
Through the blue æther holds his course.
No foreign tars are here allowed
To mingle with her chosen crowd,
Who, when returned, might, boasting, say
They shewed our native oak the way.
To that old track no more confined,
By Britain's jealous court assigned,
She round the Stormy Cape[A] shall sail,
And, eastward, catch the odorous gale.
To countries placed in burning climes
And islands of remotest times
She now her eager course explores,
And soon shall greet Chinesian shores.
From thence their fragrant teas to bring
Without the leave of Britain's king;
And Porcelain ware, enchased in gold,
The product of that finer mould.
Thus commerce to our world conveys
All that the varying taste can please;
For us, the Indian looms are free,
And Java strips her spicy tree.
Great pile proceed!—and o'er the brine
May every prosperous gale be thine,
'Till freighted deep with Asia's stores,
You reach again your native shores.
THE NEWSMONGER[289]
A Character
An insect lives among mankind
For what wise ends by fate designed
'Tis hard, 'tis very hard, to find.
In pain for all, but thanked by few
Not twice a year he gets his due—
Yet, patiently he struggles through.
Beneath some garret roof restrained
To one dull place forever chained
His word is, "little money gained."
The flowers that deck the summer field,
The bloom of spring, too long concealed,
To him no hour of pleasure yield.
His life is everlasting whim;
The seasons change—but scarce for him—
On sheets of news his eyes grow dim.
He life maintains on self-esteem,
He plans, contrives, and lives by—scheme—
And blots good paper—many a ream.
Distrest for those he never saw—
Of kings and nobles not in awe,
He scorns their mandates, and their law.
Relief he finds for others' woes—
The wants of all the world he knows—
His boots are only out at toes.
Now, Europe's feuds distract his brains:
Now, Asia's news his head contains—
But still his labour for his pains.
The river Scheldt he opens wide,
And Joseph's ships in triumph ride,—
The Dutchmen are not on his side.
On great affairs condemned to fret,—
The interest on our foreign debt,
He hopes good Louis may forget.
He fears the banks will hurt our trade;
And fall they must—without his aid—
Meanwhile his taylor goes unpaid.
Our western posts, which Britons keep
In spite of treaties, break his sleep—
He plans their capture—at one sweep.
He grumbles at the price of flour,
And mourns and mutters, many an hour,
That congress have so little power,
Although he has no ships to lose,
The Algerines he loves to abuse—
And hopes to hear—some bloody news.
The French (he thinks) will soon prepare
To undertake some grand affair—
So 'tis but war "we need not care."
Where Mississippi laves the plain
He hopes the bold Kentucky swain,
Will seize the forts, and plague Old Spain:
Such morning whims, such evening dreams!
Through wakeful nights he plans odd schemes,
To dispossess her of those streams.
He prophesies, the time must come
When few will drink West India rum—
Our spirits will be proof at home.
The Tories on New Scotland's coast,
He thinks may of full bellies boast
In half a century—at most.
Then shakes his head, and shifts the scene—
Talks much about the "Empress Queen"—
And wonders what the Austrians mean?
He raves, and scolds and seems afraid
The States will break by China trade,
"Since specie for their tea is paid."
Then tells, that, "just about next June,
Lunardi in his new balloon
Will make a journey—to the moon."
Thus, all the business of mankind,
And all the follies we might find
Are huddled in his shattered mind.
'Till taught to think of new affairs,
At last, with death, he walks down stairs,
And leaves—the wide world to his heirs.
SKETCHES OF AMERICAN HISTORY[290]
This American world, all our histories say,
Secluded from Europe, long centuries lay,
And peopled by beings whom white-men detest,
The sons of the Tartars, that came from the west.
These Indians, 'tis certain, were here long before ye all,
And dwelt in their wigwams from time immemorial;
In a mere state of nature, untutored, untaught,
They did as they pleased, and they spoke as they thought—
No priests they had then for the cure of their souls,
No lawyers, recorders, or keepers of rolls;
No learned physicians vile nostrums concealed—
Their druggist was Nature—her shop was the field.
In the midst of their forests how happy and blest,
In the skin of a bear or buffalo drest!
No care to perplex, and no luxury seen
But the feast, and the song, and the dance on the green.
Some bowed to the moon, and some worshipped the sun,
And the king and the captain were centered in one;
In a cabin they met, in their councils of state,
Where age and experience alone might debate.
With quibbles they never essayed to beguile,
And Nature had taught them the orator's style;
No pomp they affected, not quaintly refined
The nervous idea that glanced on the mind.
When hunting or battle invited to arms,
The women they left to take care of their farms—
The toils of the summer did winter repay,
While snug in their cabins they snored it away.
If death came among them his dues to demand,
They still had some prospects of comfort at hand—
The dead man they sent to the regions of bliss,
With his bottle and dog, and his fair maids to kiss.
Thus happy they dwelt in a rural domain,
Uninstructed in commerce, unpractised in gain,
'Till, taught by the loadstone to traverse the seas,
Columbus came over, that bold Genoese.
From records authentic, the date we can shew,
One thousand four hundred and ninety and two
Years, borne by the seasons, had vanished away,
Since the babe in the manger at Bethlehem lay.
What an æra was this, above all that had passed,
To yield such a treasure, discovered at last—
A new world, in value exceeding the old,
Such mountains of silver, such torrents of gold!
Yet the schemes of Columbus, however well planned
Were scarcely sufficient to find the main land;
On the islands alone with the natives he spoke,
Except when he entered the great Oronoque:
In this he resembled old Moses, the Jew,
Who, roving about with his wrong-headed crew,
When at length the reward was no longer denied,
From the top of Mount Pisgah he saw it, and died.
These islands and worlds in the watery expanse,
Like most mighty things, were the offspring of chance,
Since steering for Asia, Columbus they say,
Was astonished to find such a world in his way!
No wonder, indeed, he was smit with surprize—
This empire of Nature was new to their eyes—
Cut short in their course by so splendid a scene,
Such a region of wonders intruding between!
Yet great as he was, and deserving no doubt,
We have only to thank him for finding the rout;
These climes to the northward, more stormy and cold,
Were reserved for the efforts of Cabot the bold.
Where the sun in December appears to decline
Far off to the southward, and south of the line,
A merchant[A] of Florence, more fortunate still,
Explored a new track, and discovered Brazil:
Good Fortune, Vespucius, pronounced thee her own,
Or else to mankind thou hadst scarcely been known—
By giving thy name, thou art ever renowned—
Thy name to a world that another had found!
Columbia, the name was, that merit decreed,
But Fortune and Merit have never agreed—
Yet the poets, alone, with commendable care
Are vainly attempting the wrong to repair.
The bounds I prescribe to my verse are too narrow
To tell of the conquests of Francis Pizarro;
And Cortez 'tis needless to bring into view,
One Mexico conquered, the other Peru.
Montezuma with credit in verse might be read,
But Dryden has told you the monarch[B] is dead!
And the woes of his subjects—what torments they bore,
Las Casas, good bishop, has mentioned before:
Let others be fond of their stanzas of grief—
I hate to descant on the fall of the leaf—
Two scenes are so gloomy, I view them with pain,
The annals of death, and the triumphs of Spain.
Poor Atahualpa we cannot forget—
He gave them his utmost—yet died in their debt,
His wealth was a crime that they could not forgive,
And when they possessed it, forbade him to live.
Foredoomed to misfortunes (that come not alone)
He was the twelfth Inca that sat on the throne,
Who fleecing his brother[C] of half his domains,
At the palace of Cusco confined him in chains.
But what am I talking—or where do I roam?
'Tis time that our story was brought nearer home—
From Florida's cape did Cabot explore
To the fast frozen region of cold Labradore.
In the year fourteen hundred and ninety and eight
He came, as the annals of England relate,
But finding no gold in the lengthy domain,
And coasting the country, he left it again.
Next Davis—then Hudson adventured, they say,
One found out a streight, and the other a bay,
Whose desolate region, or turbulent wave
One present bestowed him—and that was a grave.
In the reign of a virgin (as authors discover)
Drake, Hawkins, and Raleigh in squadrons came over
While Barlow and Grenville succeeded to these,
Who all brought their colonies over the seas.
These, left in a wilderness teeming with woes,
The natives, suspicious, concluded them foes,
And murdered them all without notice or warning,
Ralph Lane, with his vagabonds, scarcely returning.
In the reign of king James (and the first of the name,)
George Summers, with Hacluit, to Chesapeake came,
Where far in the forests, not doomed to renown,
On the river Powhatan[D] they built the first town.[E]
Twelve years after this, some scores of dissenters
To the northernmost district came seeking adventures;
Outdone by the bishops, those great faggot fighters;
They left them to rule with their cassocks and mitres.
Thus banished forever, and leaving the sod,
The first land they saw was the pitch of Cape Cod,
Where famished with hunger and quaking with cold
They planned their New-Plymouth—so called from the old.
They were, without doubt, a delightful collection;—
Some came to be rid of a Stuart's direction,
Some sailed with a view to dominion and riches,
Some to pray without book, and a few to hang witches.
Some, came on the Indians to shed a new light,
Convinced long before that their own must be right,
And that all who had died in the centuries past
On the devil's lee shore were eternally cast.
These exiles were formed in a whimsical mould,
And were awed by their priests, like the Hebrews of old;
Disclaimed all pretences to jesting and laughter,
And sighed their lives through, to be happy hereafter.
On a crown immaterial their hearts were intent,
They looked towards Zion, wherever they went,
Did all things in hopes of a future reward,
And worried mankind—for the sake of the Lord.
With rigour excessive they strengthened their reign,
Their laws were conceived in the ill-natured strain,
With mystical meanings the saint was perplext,
And the flesh and the devil were slain by a text.
The body was scourged, for the good of the soul,
All folly discouraged by peevish controul,
A knot on the head was the sign of no grace,
And the Pope and his comrade were pictured in lace.
A stove in their churches, or pews lined with green,
Were horrid to think of, much more to be seen,
Their bodies were warmed with the linings of love,
And the fire was sufficient that flashed from above.
'Twas a crime to assert that the moon was opaque,
To say the earth moved, was to merit the stake;
And he that could tell an eclipse was to be,
In the college of Satan had took his degree.
On Sundays their faces were dark as a cloud—
The road to the meeting was only allowed,
And those they caught rambling, on business or pleasure,
Were sent to the stocks, to repent at their leisure.
This day was the mournfullest day in the week—
Except on religion, none ventured to speak—
This day was the day to examine their lives,
To clear off old scores, and to preach to their wives.
Their houses were forts, that seemed proof against light;
Their parlours, all day, were the blackness of night:
And, as if at their thresholds a cannon did roar,
The animals hardly dared open their door
'Till the sun disappeared—then, like a mole's snout
In the dusk of the evening, their noses popped out.
In the school of oppression though woefully taught,
'Twas only to be the oppressors they sought;
All, all but themselves were be-deviled and blind,
And their narrow-souled creed was to serve all mankind.
This beautiful system of nature below
They neither considered, nor wanted to know,
And called it a dog-house wherein they were pent,
Unworthy themselves, and their mighty descent.
They never perceived that in Nature's wide plan
There must be that whimsical creature called Man,
Far short of the rank he affects to attain,
Yet a link in its place, in creation's vast chain.
Whatever is foreign to us and our kind
Can never be lasting, though seemingly joined—
The hive swarmed at length, and a tribe that was teazed
Set out for Rhode-Island to think as they pleased.
Some hundreds to Britain ran murmuring home—
While others went off in the forests to roam,
When they found they had missed what they looked for at first,
The downfall of sin, and the reign of the just.
Hence, dry controversial reflections were thrown,
And the old dons were vexed in the way they had shown;
So those that are held in the work-house all night
Throw dirt the next day at the doors, out of spite.
Ah pity the wretches that lived in those days,
(Ye modern admirers of novels and plays)
When nothing was suffered but musty, dull rules,
And nonsense from Mather and stuff from the schools!
No story, like Rachel's, could tempt them to sigh,
Susanna and Judith employed the bright eye—
No fine spun adventures tormented the breast,
Like our modern Clarissa, Tom Jones, and the rest.
Those tyrants had chosen the books for your shelves,
(And, trust me, no other than writ by themselves,
For always by this may a bigot be known,
He speaks well of nothing but what is his own.)
From indwelling evil these souls to release,
The Quakers arrived with their kingdom of peace—
But some were transported and some bore the lash,
And four they hanged fairly, for preaching up trash.
The lands of New-England (of which we now treat)
Were famous, ere that, for producing of wheat;
But the soil (or tradition says strangely amiss)
Has been pestered with pumpkins from that day to this.
Thus, feuds and vexations distracted their reign,
(And perhaps a few vestiges still may remain)
But time has presented an offspring as bold,
Less free to believe, and more wise than the old.
Their phantoms, their wizzards, their witches are fled,
Matthew Paris's[F] story with horror is read—
His daughters, and all the enchantments they bore—
And the demon, that pinched them, is heard of no more.
Their taste for the fine arts is strangely increased,
And Latin's no longer a mark of the beast:
Mathematics, at present, a farmer may know,
Without being hanged for connections below.
Proud, rough, Independent, undaunted and free,
And patient of hardships, their task is the sea,
Their country too barren their wish to attain,
They make up the loss by exploring the main.
Wherever bright Phœbus awakens the gales
I see the bold Yankees expanding their sails,
Throughout the wide ocean pursuing their schemes,
And chacing the whales on its uttermost streams.
No climate, for them, is too cold or too warm,
They reef the broad canvass, and fight with the storm;
In war with the foremost their standards display,
Or glut the loud cannon with death, for the fray.
No valour in fable their valour exceeds,
Their spirits are fitted for desperate deeds;
No rivals have they in our annals of fame,
Or if they are rivalled, 'tis York has the claim.
Inspired at the sound, while the name she repeats,
Bold Fancy conveys me to Hudson's retreats—
Ah, sweet recollection of juvenile dreams
In the groves, and the forests that skirted his streams!
How often, with rapture, those streams were surveyed,
When, sick of the city, I flew to the shade—
How often the bard, and the peasant shall mourn
Ere those groves shall revive, or those shades shall return!
Not a hill, but some fortress disfigures it round!
And ramparts are raised where the cottage was found!
The plains and the vallies with ruin are spread,
With graves in abundance, and bones of the dead.
The first that attempted to enter the streight
(In anno one thousand six hundred and eight)
Was Hudson (the same that we mentioned before,
Who was lost in the gulph that he went to explore.)
For a sum that they paid him (we know not how much)
This captain transferred all his right to the Dutch;
For the time has been here, (to the world be it known,)
When all a man sailed by, or saw, was his own.
The Dutch on their purchase sat quietly down,
And fixed on an island to lay out a town;
They modelled their streets from the horns of a ram,
And the name that best pleased them was, New Amsterdam.
They purchased large tracts from the Indians for beads,
And sadly tormented some runaway Swedes,
Who (none knows for what) from their country had flown,
To live here in peace, undisturbed and alone.
New Belgia, the Dutch called their province, be sure,
But names never yet made possession secure,
For Charley (the second that honoured the name)
Sent over a squadron, asserting his claim:
(Had his sword and his title been equally slender,
In vain had they summoned Mynheer to surrender)
The soil they demanded, or threatened their worst,
Insisting that Cabot had looked at it first.
The want of a squadron to fall on their rear
Made the argument perfectly plain to Mynheer—
Force ended the contest—the right was a sham,
And the Dutch were sent packing to hot Surinam.
'Twas hard to be thus of their labours deprived,
But the age of Republics had not yet arrived—
Fate saw—though no wizzard could tell them as much—
That the crown, in due time, was to fare like the Dutch.