Madam!—Stay where you are,
'Tis better, sure, by far
Than venturing on an element of danger,
Where heavy seas and stormy gales
May wreck your hulk and rend your sails,
Or Europe's black-guards treat you like a stranger,
When first you stuck upon your ways
(Where half New England came to gaze)
We antifederals thought it something odd
That where all art had been display'd,
And even the builder deem'd a little god,
He had your ways not better laid.
Omens, indeed, are now exploded,
But you have something dismal boded:
Say—must the navy-system go to rack,
And things advance at such a rate
That every wisely govern'd state
Will hold the author of the scheme a quack.
O frigate Constitution! stay on shore:
Why would you meet old Ocean's roar?
Was man design'd
To be confin'd
In those fire-spitting hells a navy nam'd,
Where Vice herself, abash'd, asham'd,
Turns from the horrid scene of blood and bones,
And mangled carcases of men; and grunts and groans.
Remaining on the stocks, in gloomy pride,
Without an anchor thou shalt safely ride;
No pumping there,
To make men swear,
Waves you'll despise,
Tho' fierce they rise
To heaven when storms and tempests blow:
Steady as fate, unmov'd will you appear
When other ships the foaming surges tear—
No fear of broaching to.
Nor useless need you be, if right we deem,
For harmless purposes you proper seem—
Scorn to be made a bloody, murdering den;
Let folks of sense
At less expense
Convert you into stores—to bring in rents;
Stow pumpkins there—or anything but Men.
ODE III[133]
To Duncan Doolittle
A "half-starved" Democrat
"Lodge where you must, drink small-beer where you can,
"But eat no roast pig, if no Federal man."
Duncan, with truth it may be said,
Your mouth was made for rye or barley bread;
What claim have you to halls of state,
Whose business is to stand and wait,
Subserviant to command?
What right have you to white-bread, superfine,
Who were by nature destin'd for "a swine"—
As said good Edmund Burke,
The drudge of Britain's dirty work,
Whose mighty pamphlets rous'd the royal band!
When passing by a splendid dome of pride
By speculation built (and built so vast
That there a standing army might reside)
Say, Duncan, stood you not aghast,
When gazing up (like fox that look'd for grapes)
You saw so many things in curious shapes,
Trees rang'd along the table,
And sugar-columns, far above the rabble,
With roses blooming in October,
And wisdom's figure—dull and sober.
Ah! how you smack'd your lips, and look'd so wishful
When pigs and poultry—many a lovely dish-full,
Imparted to your nose the savoury scent
For royal noses—not for Duncan's—meant.
For things like these you, caitiff, were not born—
A pewter spoon was for your chops intended;
Some shins of beef, and garlands made of thorn—
On things like these has Freedom's feast depended.
Though in the days of fight you musquet carried,
Or wandered up and down, a cannon-hauling,
Better you might in Jericho have tarried
And rebel-starving made your loyal calling.
Among our far-fam'd chieftains that are dead
(Like beer set by in mug without a lid,
And sure, a half-gill glass I'll put it all in)
I'll toast your health—yes, to the very brim
And to the little gaping world proclaim
You are a Hero fallen:
One of the wights who dar'd all death, or wound,
And warr'd for two and sixpence in the pound.
Of public virtue you're a rare example—
Go, mind your hoe, your pick-ax, or your spade;
A hut of six foot square shall be your "temple,"
And all your honour—strutting on parade.
But pray, beware of public good;
It will not always find you food,
And if your son should anything inherit,
Bequeath him not your public spirit,
But sixpence, to be train'd to sawing wood.
ODE IV[134]
To Pest-Eli-Hali
A Democratic Printer on the Western Banks of the Hudson
No easy task that press assumes
Which takes the lead in Freedom's band,
And scatters in nocturnal glooms
The blaze of Reason through our land:
Each empty bellows would, no doubt,
Rise, and aspire to put it out.
Blamed though you are, pursue your way;
Night evermore precedes the sun;
Whate'er some angry king's-men say,
You play a game that must be won:
The bliss of man—is the great prize
That yet at stake with tyrants lies.
When first a mean, designing few
Their poisonous dregs by Herald spread;
An antidote, by such as you,
Was at the root of mischief laid;
With a simple herb from Reason's plains
You kept all right in Freedom's veins.
Now hostile views, and low design
Are busy to annoy your page,
Controul its strength, its fires confine,
And war with sense and reason wage:
They hope, with fogs to quench the sun,
They hope your useful race is run.
But though some narrow hearts contrive
To shove you from your mounted car;
Right pleasantly we see you drive,
And hardly heed their little war:
Like insects, creeping in the dirt,
They merely serve to make you sport.
Who looks at Kings, a court, a queen,
With childish pomp, and borrowed fame,
But wonders from what genius mean
Their chaos of confusion came—
Yet those on little things depend,
And every reptile is their friend.
ODE V[135]
To Peter Porcupine
"That one may write—and write—and be a villain,
"At least, I'm sure it may be so in—Denmark."—Hamlet.
"While with the loss of blood and spirits some faint,
"Others are seen to rise, triumphant,
"O'er slaughter'd thousands sent to Pluto's shores,
"Where Stygian water in dull torrent roars—
"What hosts, what myriads fell,
"By lancet and by calomell,
"All gone, in Philadelphia's epidemic,
"And sent the substance of mankind to mimic."
So said that Man divine
Bold Peter Porcupine,
Who through these climes his vast subscription spread,
And rais'd four thousand ghosts; and struck with dread,
All Democratic knaves,
Disorganizing slaves—
He with bold wit,
And spirit and spit,
From Nova Scotia to the woods of Maine,
True federalism did maintain;
And through those mighty thriving states,
Distributed his dainty, blackguard bits.
Ah—Peter!—Thou, poor lousy numps
Who loadest little horses' rumps,
And mak'st them trot and sweat,
On sandy road
Beneath the load
Of trash call'd Peter Porcupine's Gazette.
What have you done to claim Columbia's love
That she—like some base—
Should court a scoundrel from a foreign shore
And make him tool to—some apostate Jove,
Ah! now I see poor Carolina's horses,
With pedlar's pack,
Pil'd high on back,
Pursuing their mean, blackguard courses,
Through solitary groves and woods of pine
Transporting Goods, like thine,
————Damned stuff!
Of which Columbia, sure, has had—enough—
There Pickens, Sumpter, Greene, for freedom fought,
And Liberty her wonders wrought.
What do I hear? And have we lent thee wings
To waft thy poison into Eutaw Springs?
Those, clearer than Castalia's waters, found,
For many a hero, dead, who might have claim'd
Life—but for brutish George,
Who, having robb'd and plunder'd half the east,
Came here to close his Vulture's feast.
Now, Peter! take advice from Doctor Rush;
And—convert to the system you would crush;
Pray, let him draw your blackguard blood;
(And calomell might, also, do some good.)
Four thousand drops exhausted from your veins
Will save the future exercise of canes:
And, tell him to be speedy with his lancet,
For 'tis a truth; and many dare advance it,
That howe'er in life well fed,
No Doctor bleeds a man—when dead.
ODE VI[136]
Address to a Learned Pig
Of Particular Eminence, who, in a certain Great City, was visited by
Persons of the First Taste and Distinction
O thou, marked out by Fate from vulgar swine,
Among the learned of our age to shine,
On whom 'squires, ladies, parsons, come to gaze,
Bold, science-loving pig,
Who, without gown or wig
Can force your way through learning's thorny maze
—How many high learned wights in days of old
(Whom Fame has with the great enrolled)
Starved by their wits—were banished, hanged, or sold;
—While you, on better ages fallen, O lucky swine!
Can by your wit on pyes and sweetmeats dine—
When house and lands are gone and spent,
Then learning is most excellent—
(So says a proverb through the world well known)—
You, that were pigged to grovel in a stye,
Have left your swill for science high:—
Without a rival of your race,
You hold a most distinguished place—
All that the heart can wish flows in to you,
Who real happiness pursue,
And are well fed, on whate'er hog stye thrown.
Now, if one had the chance to choose one's state
On this world's stage, and not controuled by Fate,
Who would not wish to have his little brains
Lodged in the head of Learned Pig,
Rather than be a man, and toil, and sweat, and dig
With all the sense the human scull contains.
With Us, we all are wise, we all things know,
But every pig—inferior is to you—
The rest are fools and simpletons—and so—
What, next, will be the science You attain?
Science!—to You, that opens all her store?—
Already have you in your sapient brain
More than most aldermen—and gumption more
Than some, who capers cut on Congress floor.
May we not hope, in this improving age
Of human things—to see on Terra's stage
Hogs take the lead of men, and from their styes
To honours, riches, office, rise!
Adepts in Latin, Commerce, Physick, Law?—
From what is seen, such inference we draw—
ODE VII[137]
On the Federal City
"Thus Cain of old, poor Abel slain,
"Departing from his native plain,
"In land of Nod, beneath the heaven's frowns,
"Built sky-topt towers and federal towns."
Enough of learned pigs,
Pigg'd for immense designs,
And shame our men of mighty wigs—
Enough of Peter Porcupines,
Whose quills, like pop-guns shooting at a fort,
Be sure have done the Demos mighty hurt,
A subject now of real weight inspires,
That soon will kindle every muse's fires,
No less than federal town,
Immortal in renown,
Which in her district—ten miles square
The center fills, like spider in her web
Catching all silly flies that venture near,
And fattening on the folly of the tribe.
When fates decreed,
Or nature said
"This spot is destin'd for a future town,"
Between them both they so contriv'd the matter
(Altho' perhaps not wholly wrong the latter)
That this should be a town of silent halls
And like Palmyra famous in the east,
Erect her columns huge and lofty walls—
Yet there in vain for men do travellers seek,
And hardly meet a townsman once a week!
Virginia's sons, as through this town they pass
Each cries, "Alas,
No sound of fiddle here,
All dull and drear,
No merry bells that jingle on the ear,
No glittering females, balls, or billiards dear—
No fighting cocks, no gallant steeds for racing:
Well-stap my vitals—is it not distressing?
No gallant ship with canvas swelling high
Engag'd in war or commerce passes by;
But corn-boats mean from Alleghany hills,
Or buck-wheat laden hulks from country mills!"
Amidst these huge hotels and regal domes
Frequent some townsman walks, as midst the tombs,
And cries, "The founders of this city blundered
In rearing up such piles for eighteen hundred:
Waiting for that must Congress absent stay?—
Ah! curse the Law's delay!
Rather than hold them there,
(Though, doubtless, it may sadly grieve her)
May Philadelphia twelve months every year
Be plagu'd and blooded for the yellow fever!"
ODE VIII[138]
On the City Encroachments on the River Hudson
Where Hudson, once, in all his pride
In surges burst upon the shore
They plant amidst his flowing tide
Moles, to defy his loudest roar;
And lofty mansions grow where late
Half Europe might discharge her freight.
From northern lakes and wastes of snow
The river takes a distant rise,
Now marches swift, now marches slow,
And now adown some rapid flies
Till join'd the Mohawk, in their course
They travel with united force.
But cease, nor with too daring aim
Encroach upon this giant flood;
No rights reserved by nature, claim,
Nor on his ancient bed intrude:—
The river may in rage awake
And time restore him all you take.
The eastern stream, his sister, raves
To see such moles her peace molest
A London built upon her waves,
The weight of mountains on her breast:
With quicken'd flow she seeks the main
As on her bed new fabrics gain.
Bold streams! and may our verse demand
Is there not coast for many a mile,
And soils, as form'd by nature's hand
That border all Manhattan's isle:
Then why these mounds does avarice raise
And build the haunts of pale disease.
Yet in your aim to clip their wing
(It asks no wizard to descry,)
That time the woful day will bring
When Hudson's passion, swelling high,
May in a foam his wrongs repay
And sweep both house and wharf away.
ODE IX[139]
On the Frigate Constitution
"And in those days men settled themselves on the waters, and lived
there, not because land was wanting, but that they wished to be
slaves to such as were great and mighty on the land."—Modern
History.
Thus launch'd at length upon the main
And soon prepar'd the seas to roam,
In your capacious breast ere long
Will many an idler find a home
That sells his freedom for a song,
Quits fields and trees
For boisterous seas,
To tread his native soil no more,
And see—but not possess the shore.
Well! let them go—can there be loss
In those who Nature's bounty slight,
From rural vales and freedom's shades
To this dull cage who take their flight,
The axe, the hoe,
The plough forego,
The buxom milk-maid's simple treat,
The bliss of country life forget,
For tumult here
And toil severe,
A gun their pillow when they sleep,
And when they wake, are wak'd to weep.
Dick Brothers said, "The time will come,
"When war no more shall prowl the sea,
"Nor men for pride or plunder roam,
"And my millenium brings them home,
"How'eer dispers'd through each degree."
If Richard proves a prophet true,
Why may not we be quiet too,
And turn our bull-dogs into lambs,
Saw off the horns of battering rams
As well as Europe's sons?
Ye Quakers! see with pure delight,
The times approach when men of might,
And squadrons roving round the ball,
Shall fight each other not at all,
Or fight with wooden guns.
And yet that Being you address
Who shaped old Chaos into form,
May speak—and with a word suppress
The tryant and the storm.
ODE X[140]
To Santone Samuel
The Millennial Prophet, on his System of Universal Pacification
With aspect wild, in ranting strain
You bring the brilliant period near,
When monarchy will close her reign
And wars and warriors disappear;
The lion and the lamb will stray,
And, social, walk the woodland way.
I fear, with superficial view
You contemplate dame nature's plan:—
She various forms of being drew,
And made the common tryant—man:
She form'd them all with wise design,
Distinguish'd each, and drew the line.
Observe the lion's visage bold
His iron tooth, his murderous claw,
His aspect cast in anger's mould;
The strength of steel is in his paw:
Could he be meant with lambs to stray
Or feed along the woodland way?
Since first his race on earth began
War was his trade and war will be:
And when he quits that ancient plan
With milder natures to agree,
He will be changed to something new
And have some other part to do.
One system see through all this frame,
Apparent discord still prevails;
The forest yields to active flame,
The ocean swells with stormy gales;
No season did the God decree
When leagued in friendship these should be.
And do you think that human kind
Can shun the all-pervading law—
That passion's slave we ever find—
Who discord from their nature draw:—
Ere discord can from man depart
He must assume a different heart.
Yet in the slow advance of things
A time may come our race may rise,
By reason's aid to stretch their wings,
And see the light with other eyes;
And when the ancient mist is pass'd;
To find their nature changed at last,
The sun himself, the powers ordain,
Should in no perfect circle stray;
He shuns the equatorial plane,
Prefers an odd serpentine way,
And lessens yearly, sophists prove,
His angle in the voids above.
When moving in his ancient line,
And no oblique ecliptic near,
With some new influence he may shine
But you and I will not be here
To see the lion shed his teeth
Or kings forget the trade of death.
ODE XI[141]
To the Philadelphia Doctors
"And the Angel Michael disputed with the Devil about the body of
Moses."—Ancient History.
"To bleed or not to bleed—that is the question!
Whether 'tis better in our beds to suffer
The slights and snufflings of outrageous doctors,
Or by the Lancet—quit them."
In ancient days divines, in dismal humour,
With disputation kept the presses going;
Wrangled about some wonderous mighty things
The difference "'twixt a shadow and a shade,"
And scribbled much of "way of man with maid."
At length, as fades the crown
Their bludgeons they lay down;
And you, wise doctors, take the wrangle up,
Each cursing all who will not drink his cup.
Ah, Philadelphians! still to knaves a prey,
Take your old philosophic way;
When from the native spring you seiz'd your draught,
Health bloom'd on every face, and all was gay—
Dejection was remote—and Nature laugh'd.
A question now, of mighty weight is put,
Whether, to bleed a man is best, or not,
When scarce three drops (or not one drop) remains
In the poor devil's veins!—
Well! you decide, who are in Galen read—
Take Boorhaave's, if you please—whatever system—
(Why are men such that doctors can enlist 'em?)
Whether your methods be the right or wrong,
And man's existence shorten or prolong,
We feverish fellows, must be—put to bed.
The secret has leak'd out—be cautious doctors
(The whole shall be disclos'd in room with lock'd doors)
Old women, with their simple herbs and teas
(And asking hardly two-pence for their fees)
Disarm this dreadful epidemic fever;
Make it as tame and innocent,
(Whether home-bred or from West Indies sent)
As Continental soldier, turn'd to Weaver.
ODE XII[142]
The Crows and the Carrion
A Medical Story
If Ephraim on his bed complains
Of feverish pulse and boiling veins,
And throbs and pulses in his brains,
Then round him flock a ghastly crew
Of doctors old and doctors new,
And doctors, some—the Lord knows who.
Hoping the men had learned their trade,
Poor Ephraim begs them for their aid,
And promises they shall be paid.
Each quotes some book, by way of sham,
Or reads some text from Sydenham,
Which some approve, and some condemn.
At once he hears a barbarous noise,
Like that from herds of butchers' boys,
That ever hope of life destroys.
He promises all bills to pay,
But they proceed in angry fray—
Poor Ephraim frets—and well he may.
Each looks at each with vengeful eyes,
As if contending for a prize
He wants his share—when Ephraim dies.
One talks of cure by Calomel;
But his wise brother, Sydrophel,
Swears, 'tis the readiest way to hell.
While one the lancet recommends,
Another for a blister sends,
And each his every cure defends.
Weary of all they have to say,
At last the patient faints away:
Poor Ephraim swoons—and well he may.
In Fancy's dreams, he thinks he roams
In realms where doctor Satan foams,
With Sydrophels and Curry-combs.
Revived at length, he begs release,
And whines, "Do let your quarrels cease,
Do, doctors, let me die in peace.
"Oh! had I sent for doctress Nan,
Or anything but cruel man,
To put me on my legs again:
"She, with her cooling tamarind tea,
At least would not have murdered me—
Come! if you love me, do agree.
"She would have held my dizzy head—
She would have something to me read—
Or would have somewhat cheering said.
"Good heavens! you cannot all be right—
O do not scratch!—O do not bite!—
Good doctors, do not, do not fight!"—
Here they began a louder fray—
Oh! Ephraim's dead!—to them all play—
Poor Ephraim dies!—and well he may.
A Soldier should be made of Sterner Stuff
On Deborah Gannet
The American heroine, who on Tuesday last presented a petition to
Congress for a pension, in consideration of services rendered during
the whole of the late war, in the character of a common follower in
the regular armies of America
Ye congress men and men of weight,
Who fill the public chairs,
And many a favor have conferr'd
On some, unknown to Mars;
And ye, who hold the post of fame,
The helmsmen of our great affairs,
Afford a calm, attentive ear
To her who handled sword and spear,
A heroine in a bold career,
Assist a war-worn dame.
With the same vigorous soul inspired
As Joan of Arc, of old,
With zeal against the Briton fired,
Her spirit warm and bold,
She march'd to face her country's foes
Disguised in male attire:
Where'er they prowl'd through field or town
With steady step she follow'd on;
Resolved the conflict to sustain,
She met them on the hill, the plain,
And hostile to the English reign,
She hurl'd the blasting fire.
Now for such generous toils endured,
Her day of warfare done,
In life's decline at length reward
This faithful amazon:
She asks no thousands at your hands,
Though mark'd with many a scar;
She asks no share of indian lands,
Though lands you have to spare:
But something in the wane of days
To make her snug, and keep her warm,
A cottage, and the cheery blaze,
To shield her from the storm;
And something to the pocket too,
Your bounty might afford,
Of her, who did our foes pursue
With bayonet, gun, and sword.
Reflect how many tender ties
A female must forego
Ere to the martial camp she flies
To meet the invading foe:
How many bars has nature placed,
And custom many more,
Lest slighted woman should be graced
With trophies gain'd in war.
All these she nobly overcame,
And scorn'd a censuring age,
Join'd in the ranks, her road to fame,
Despis'd the Briton's rage;
And men, who, with contracted mind,
All arrogant, condemn
And make disgrace in womankind
What honor is in them.