ON THE FEDERAL CITY[144]
1797
All human things must have their rise,
And Rome advanced from little size
Till future ages saw her grown
The mistress of the world, then known.
So, bounding on Potowmac's flood,
Where ancient oaks so lately stood
An infant city grows apace
Intended for a ruling race.
Here capitols of awful height—
Already burst upon the sight,
And buildings, meant for embryo kings
Display their fronts and spread their wings.
This city bodes no common fate—
All other towns, as books relate,
With huts at first were thinly spread,
With hovels mean, or humble shed.
But matters here are quite reversed,
Here, palaces are built the first,
And late will common rustics come
In such abodes to find a home.
Meantime, it will be fair and just
(Nor will our congress fret, we trust)
If while the poor at distance lurk—
Themselves do their own dirty work.
Rome's earliest citizens were thieves,
So history tells, and man believes,
May matters be again reversed,
May they who here inhabit first
Instruct the late historians pen
To write—that they were honest men.
THE ROYAL COCKNEYS IN AMERICA[145]
1797
Why travel so far from your insular home,
Ye cockneys of London, and all in a foam,
To talk, and to talk, with coxcombical phiz,
And tell what a nuisance democracy is:
Twas a lesson we learn'd
When you were concern'd
In wishing success to the vast preparations
To conquer and pillage the royal-plantations.
We Americans far from your king-ridden isle
Do humbly beseech you, all democrat haters,
For fear that your bodies or souls you defile,
Would fairly go off, with your lies and your satires:
The monarch you worship requests your assistance,
And how can you help him at such a long distance?
Tis an Englishman's creed,
And they all have agreed
That, out of old England, there's nothing, they swear,
That can with old England—dear England—compare;
So, away to old England, or we'll send you there.
A swarm is arrived from the hives of the east,
Determined to sap the republic's foundation;
And who is their leader, their scribe, and their priest?
Why, Porcupine Peter,
The democrat-eater,
Transported by Pitt, at the charge of the nation,
To preach to the demos a new revelation.
His patrons in England, and some who are here,
Consented to join in his sink of scurrility,
And gave him, tis certain, four thousand a year
To print a damn'd libel, to please our nobility:
Where I—is the hero of all that is said
I—Corporal Cobbett[A]-a man of the blade!
If his countrymen thought
That for nothing we fought
And they mean to regain, by the aid of his press,
A country they lost, to their shame and disgrace,
Let them fairly engage
In some liberal page:
We can give them an answer, not relish'd by some,
Who will see their friend Peter go, whimpering, home.
TO THE SCRIBE OF SCRIBES[146]
By the gods of the poets, Apollo and Jove,
By the muse who directs me, the spirits that move,
I council you, Peter, once more, to retire
Or satire shall pierce, with her arrows of fire.
Be careful to stop in your noisy career,
Or homeward retreat, for your danger is near:
The clouds are collecting to burst on your head,
Their sulphur to dart, or their torrents to shed.
Along with the tears, I foresee you will weep,
In the cave of oblivion I put you to sleep;—
This dealer in scandal, this bladder of gall,
This sprig of Parnassus must go to the wall.
From a star of renown in the reign of night
He has dwindled away to a little rush-light:
Then snuff it, and snuff it, while yet it remains
And Peter will leave you the snuff for your pains.—
TO THE
AMERICANS OF THE UNITED STATES[147]
First published November, 1797
Men of this passing age!—whose noble deeds
Honour will bear above the scum of Time:
Ere this eventful century expire,
Once more we greet you with our humble rhyme:
Pleased, if we meet your smiles, but—if denied,
Yet, with Your sentence, we are satisfied.
Catching our subjects from the varying scene
Of human things; a mingled work we draw,
Chequered with fancies odd, and figures strange,
Such, as no courtly poet ever saw;
Who writ, beneath some Great Man's ceiling placed;
Travelled no lands, nor roved the watery waste.
To seize some features from the faithless past;
Be this our care—before the century close:
The colours strong!—for, if we deem aright,
The coming age will be an age of prose:
When sordid cares will break the muses' dream,
And Common Sense be ranked in seat supreme.
Go, now, dear book; once more expand your wings:
Still in the cause of Man severely true:
Untaught to flatter pride, or fawn on kings;—
Trojan, or Tyrian,[A]—give them both their due.—
When they are right, the cause of both we plead,
And both will please us well,—if both will read.
TO A NIGHT-FLY[148]
Approaching a Candle
Attracted by the taper's rays,
How carelessly you come to gaze
On what absorbs you in its blaze!
O Fly! I bid you have a care:
You do not heed the danger near;
This light, to you a blazing star.
Already you have scorch'd your wings:
What courage, or what folly brings
You, hovering near such blazing things?
Ah me! you touch this little sun—
One circuit more and all is done!—
Now to the furnace you are gone!—
Thus folly with ambition join'd,
Attracts the insects of mankind,
And sways the superficial mind:
Thus, power has charms which all admire,
But dangerous is that central fire—
If you are wise in time retire.—
THE INDIAN CONVERT[149]
An Indian, who lived at Muskingum, remote,
Was teazed by a parson to join his dear flock,
To throw off his blanket and put on a coat,
And of grace and religion to lay in a stock.
The Indian long slighted an offer so fair,
Preferring to preaching his fishing and fowling;
A sermon to him was a heart full of care,
And singing but little superior to howling.
At last by persuasion and constant harassing
Our Indian was brought to consent to be good;
He saw that the malice of Satan was pressing,
And the means to repel him not yet understood.
Of heaven, one day, when the parson was speaking,
And painting the beautiful things of the place,
The convert, who something substantial was seeking,
Rose up, and confessed he had doubts in the case.—
Said he, Master Minister, this place that you talk of,
Of things for the stomach, pray what has it got;
Has it liquors in plenty?—If so I'll soon walk off
And put myself down in the heavenly spot.
You fool (said the preacher) no liquors are there!
The place I'm describing is most like our meeting,
Good people, all singing, with preaching and prayer;
They live upon these without eating or drinking.
But the doors are all locked against folks that are wicked;
And you, I am fearful, will never get there:—
A life of Repentance must purchase the ticket,
And few of you, Indians, can buy it, I fear.
Farewell (said the Indian) I'm none of your mess;
On victuals, so airy, I faintish should feel,
I cannot consent to be lodged in a place
Where's there's nothing to eat and but little to steal.
THE PETTIFOGGER,[150]
or Fee Simple, Esquire
In a town I could mention, a lawyer resided
As cunning as Satan, and fond of disputes;
In wrangles and quarrels he ever confided,
To keep on his docquet a long string of suits.
Of little importance, nay, paltry and mean,
The matter contested, a pig or a hen;
But one thing he stuck to, he ever was seen
To have for his pleading just one pound ten.
With pleasure he saw that the quarrels increased,
Each day he had business from wranglesome men,
But all to the 'squire was a holiday feast
While he got his dear Fee, the one pound ten.
A parchment, Caveto, hung up in his hall
Which cautioned the reader to read and attend,
That for one pound ten he would quibble and brawl,
Twist, lie, and do all things a cause to defend.
Sometimes when the limits of lots were disputed
He would put all to rights in the turn of a straw;
From the tenth of an inch he his pocket recruited
Till he made the two parties curse lawyer and law.
Thus matters went on, and the lawyer grown rich
Fed high, and swilled wine 'till the dropsy began
To bloat up his guts to so monstrous a pitch,
You would hardly have known him to be the same man.
At last he departed, and when he had died,
His worship arriving at Beelzebub's den;
How much is the entrance (demanded the guide?—)
Old Devil made answer, 'Tis One Pound Ten.
ON A CELEBRATED PERFORMER ON THE
VIOLIN[151]
Who, as it was said, went out, in the year 1797, to excite discontents
and insurrections in the western country, particularly, in Ohio,
Kentucky, and Tennessee
Musician of the west! whose vast design
Schemes our new states with England to combine;
How vain the hope, with violin and bow,
Such feeble arms, to work internal wo!
How weak the attempt our union to divide
With not a sword or pistol at your side!
Not even a drum your engineer employs:—
He's right—a drum would blast the plot, by noise:
All must be done in midnight silence, all
Your plans must ripen or your projects fall.
Unknown, unseen, till in the destined hour
Descends the stroke of trans-atlantic power!
By music's note to sway the western wild
Indeed is new;—we heard it and we smiled.
In cold December's iron-hearted reign
Would you with blushing blossoms deck the plain;
Would you with sound immure the Thirteen Stars,
Or plant a garland on the front of Mars?
To sound, not sense, once brutes, they say, advanced,
When Orpheus whistled, fauns and satyrs danced—
You are no Orpheus—and it may be true
He play'd some tunes that are unknown to you.
Hopes, such as yours, on cat-gut who would place;
On tenor, treble, counter, or the bass:
Who arm'd with horse-hair, hopes a world to win
Who gains dominion from a violin?
Such if there was, in times, the lord knows when,
He must have been at least the first of men—
But now—the world would have not much to prize
In such a warfare where no soldier dies:
Thus would it say—by sad experience taught,
'Oh! may we never fight as these have fought!
'These to the charge with Thespian arms advanced,
'And when they should have fought, the soldiers danced;
'They had no drums, they felt no martial flame,
'But, cold as Christmas, to the conflict came!'
My dreams present you thrumming on your string
Playing at proper stands, God save the king!
I see you march, a pedlar with his pack,
And that poor fiddle swung athwart your back,
(Like Reynard from some hen-roost hurrying home
With plunder'd poultry for the feast to come)
Trudging the wilds, on bold adventures bent,
The woods at once your coverlet and tent,
To fierce rebellions our back-woods to call—
The attempt how mighty! and the means how small.
Amphion once, the classic stories say,
When on his organ he began to play,
So soft, so sweet, so melting were his tunes
That even the savage rocks danced rigadoons,
The trees, themselves, with frantic passions fired
Leap'd from their roots and every note admired:
Quitting the spot, where many a year they grew
Quick to the music sprung the enchanted crew,
Form'd o'er his head a sun-repelling power
And bow'd their shadowy heads to music's power.
If what, this moment, some relate be true
Still greater wonders are reserved for you.
Your music, far, all Amphion's art exceeds,
Not trees and rocks, but provinces it leads.
All Alleghany capers to the sound,
And southward moves to meet the iberian bound;
Kentucky hears the soul-enlivening notes
And on the artist and his music doats;
Remote Sanduskie spreads her eager wings,
And wild Miami with the concert rings;
Tiptoe, for flight, stands every hill and tree
From Huron's shores to savage Tennessee;
Arthur St. Clair might soon its influence feel;
But Arthur knows no music—but of steel:
Arthur St. Clair attends, with listening ears,
And when the purpose of your march appears,
Such music only will excite his rage,
He'll come, and drive you from your dancing stage;
Cut every string, the bridge, and sound-board seize,
By your own cat-gut hang you to the trees,
And bid you know, too late, It is no jest
To play rebellion's music to the west.
NEW YEAR'S VERSES[152]
The Carrier of the Time-Piece, presents the following Address to His
Patrons, with the Compliments of the Season
Fellow Citizens:
The glass has run—see ninety-seven has fled,
And ninety-eight comes on with equal speed;
While safe from harm, beneath their spreading vine,
Columbia's sons in virtuous actions shine:
Their generous contributions feed the poor,
And sends them smiling from their patron's door;
Sweet Peace and Plenty crowns the festive board,
Where man reveres no domineering lord;
But free from scenes of desolating war,
Where kingdoms clash and mighty empires jar,
He lives secure from all the dread alarms
Of fell invaders and the din of arms:—
Such scenes now past have once defil'd our shore
And drench'd Columbia in her children's gore,
Let man exult, the raging storm is o'er.
To you, my customers, I bring the news
Of feuds domestic and of foreign woes;
Of Liberty extending her domain,
And Truth triumphant in her glorious reign.
Consider, patrons through the storm and snow
With constant care I am oblig'd to go;
Shivering and cold, I want the lively cup
To cheer my heart and keep my spirits up:
To stern winter's gloom can joy inspire;
Now social circles grace the Hickory fire;
And on your board, for friends and neighbors spread,
The turkey smokes the industrious peasant fed:
But not to me these blessings are dispos'd,
Fortune's capricious hand to me is clos'd;
I am condemn'd to labour long and hard,
Unknown my troubles, scanty my reward.
Such is the humble German's life of toil,
Who now solicits your approving smile;
My grateful heart still let your bounty share,
And Peace and Freedom reign from year to year.
New-York, January 1, 1798.
PART V
THE FINAL PERIOD OF WANDERING
1798—1809
THE FINAL PERIOD OF WANDERING
ON ARRIVING IN SOUTH CAROLINA, 1798[154]
A happy gale presents, once more,
The gay and ever verdant shore,
Which every pleasure will restore
To those who come again:
You, Carolina, from the seas
Emerging, claim all power to please,
Emerge with elegance and ease
From Neptune's briny main.
To find in you a happier home,
Retirement for the days to come,
From northern coasts you saw me roam,
By flattering fancy moved:
I came, and in your fragrant woods,
Your magic isles and gay abodes,
In rural haunts and passing floods
Review'd the scenes I loved,
When sailing oft, from year to year
And leaving all I counted dear,
I found the happy country here
Where manly hearts abound;
Where friendship's kind extended hand,
All social, leads a generous band;
Where heroes, who redeem'd the land
Still live to be renown'd:
Who live to fill the trump of fame,
Or, dying, left the honor'd name
Which Athens had been proud to claim
From her historian's page—
These with invading thousands strove,
These bade the foe their prowess prove,
And from their old dominions drove
The tyrants of the age.
Long, long may every good be thine,
Sweet country, named from Caroline,
Once seen in Britain's court to shine
The fairest of the fair:
Still may the wanderer find a home
Where'er thy varied forests bloom,
And peace and pleasure with him come
To take their station here.
Here Ashley, with his brother stream,
By Charleston gliding, all, may claim,
That ever graced a poet's dream
Or sooth'd a statesman's cares;
She, seated near her forests blue,
Which winter's rigor never knew,
With half an ocean in her view
Her shining turrets rears.
Here stately oaks of living green
Along the extended coast are seen,
That rise beneath a heaven serene,
Unfading through the year—
In groves the tall Palmetto grows,
In shades inviting to repose,
The fairest, loveliest, scenes disclose—
All nature charms us here.
Dark wilds are thine, the yellow field,
And rivers by no frost congeal'd,
And, Ceres, all that you can yield
To deck the festive board;
The snow white fleece, from pods that grows,
And every seed that Flora sows—
The orange and the fig-tree shows
A paradise restored.
There rural love to bless the swains
In the bright eye of beauty reigns,
And brings a heaven upon the plains
From some dear Emma's charms;
Some Laura fair who haunts the mead,
Some Helen, whom the graces lead,
Whose charms the charms of her exceed
That set the world in arms.
And distant from the sullen roar
Of ocean, bursting on the shore,
A region rises, valued more
Than all the shores possess:
There lofty hills their range display,
Placed in a climate ever gay,
From wars and commerce far away,
Sweet nature's wilderness.
There all that art has taught to bloom,
The streams that from the mountain foam,
And thine, Eutaw, that distant roam,
Impart supreme delight:
The prospect to the western glade,
The ancient forest, undecay'd—
All these the wildest scenes have made
That ever awed the sight.
There Congaree his torrent pours,
Saluda, through the forest roars,
And black Catawba laves his shores
With waters from afar,
Till mingled with the proud Santee,
Their strength, united, finds the sea,
Through many a plain, by many a tree,
Then rush across the bar.
But, where all nature's fancies join,
Were but a single acre mine,
Blest with the cypress and the pine,
I would request no more;
And leaving all that once could please,
The northern groves and stormy seas—
I would not change such scenes as these
For all that men adore.
ODE TO THE AMERICANS[155]
That the progress of liberty and reason in the world is slow and gradual;
but, considering the present state of things, and the light
of science universally spreading, that it cannot be
long impeded, or its complete establishment
prevented.—1798
They who survey the human stage,
In reason's view; through time's past age,
Will find, whatever nature plann'd
Came, first, imperfect from her hand,
Or what ourselves imperfect call;
In nature's eye, though perfect all—
To man she gave to improve, adorn;
But let him halt—and all things turn
To assume their wild primeval cast,
The growth of a neglected waste.
Yond' stately trees, so fresh and fair,
That now such golden burthens bear,
Were once mean shrubs that, far from view,
In desert woods, unthrifty grew.
Man saw the seeds of something good
In these rude children of the wood;
Apply'd the knife, and pruned with care,
Till art has made them what they are.
With curious eye, search history's page,
And Man observe, through every age;
At first a mere barbarian, he
Bore nothing good, (like that wild tree).
At length by thought and reason's aid,
Reflection piercing night's dark shade,
Improvements gain'd, by slow advance
Direction, not the work of chance.
Forsaking, first, the savage den
And fellow-beasts less fierce than men,
New plans they form'd for war or power,
And sunk the ditch and raised the tower.
In course of years the human mind,
Advancing slow proved more refined,
Less brutal in external show,
But native mischief lurk'd below.
Despots and kings begun their part,
And millions fell by rules of art;
Or malice, rankling all the while,
Lay hid beneath the treacherous smile.
Religion brought her potent aid
To kings, their subjects to degrade—
Religion!—to profane your name
The hag of superstition came,
And seized your place, the world to ensnare,
A bitter harvest doom'd to bear!
And priests, or history much deceives,
Turn'd aide-de-camps to sceptred thieves.
At last that Cherub from the skies,
(Our nature meant to humanize)
And sway, without a king or crown,
Philosophy, from heaven came down.
Adorn'd with all her native charms
She clasp'd her offspring in her arms,
In hope the mists of night to chase
And hold them in her fond embrace.
She, only she, for virtue warm
Dissolved the spell and broke the charm,
That bade mankind their hands imbue
In blood, to please the scheming few.
Arm'd with a dart of fire and love
She left the seats and courts above,
And her celestial power display'd
Not to compel, but to persuade.
The moment she had whirl'd her sling
Each trembling war-hawk droop'd his wing:
They saw that reason's game was won,
They saw the trade of tyrants done:
And all was calm—she saw, well pleased,
The havoc done, the tumult ceased,
She saw her throne was now adored,
She saw the reign of peace restored,
And said, 'I leave you—pray, be wise!
'I'm on a visit to the skies,
'Let incense on my altars burn
'And you'll be blest till I return.'
But sad reverse!—when out of sight
The fiends of darkness watch'd her flight—
What she had built, they soon displaced,
Her temples burn'd, her tracks effaced.
Their force they join'd, to quench her flame,
A thousand ghastly legions came
To blast the blossom in the bud
And retrograde to chains and blood.
The people—to be bought and sold,
Were still the prize they wish'd to hold;—
All peasants, soldiers, sailors, slaves,
The common sink of rogues and knaves.
Yet, nature must her circle run—
Can they arrest the rising sun?
Prevent his warm reviving ray,
Or shade the influence of the day?
If Europe to the yoke returns,
Columbia at the idea spurns—
Let Britain wield barbarian rage
We meet her here, through every stage.
In vain her navy spreads its sails,
The strength of mind at last prevails;
And reason! thy prodigious power
Has brought it to its closing hour.
Appeal to arms henceforth should cease,
And man might learn to live in peace;
No kings with iron hearts should reign,
To seize old ocean's free domain.
Americans! would you conspire
To extinguish this increasing fire?
Would you, so late from fetters freed,
Join party in so base a deed?
Would you dear freedom sacrifice,
Bid navies on the ocean rise,
Be bound by military laws,
And all, to aid a tyrant's cause?
Oh, no! but should all shame forsake,
And gratitude her exit make,
Could you, as thousands say you can,
Desert the common cause of man?
A curse would on your efforts wait
Old british sway to reinstate;
No hireling hosts could force a crown
Nor keep the bold republic down:
The rising race, combined once more,
Would honor to our cause restore,
And in your doom and downfall seal
Such woes as wicked kings shall feel.
O liberty! seraphic name,
With whom from heaven fair virtue came,
For whom, through years of misery toss'd,
One hundred thousand lives were lost;
Still shall all grateful hearts to thee
Incline the head and bend the knee;
For thee this dream of life forego
And quit the world when thou dost go.