The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poems of Philip Freneau (Volume III).

When first I arrived to the age of a man
And met the distraction of care,
As the day to a close rather sorrowful ran
Yet I smiled and I smoked my segar:
O, how sweet did it seem
What a feast, what a dream
What a pleasure to smoke the segar!

In vain did the din of the females assail
Or the noise of the carts in the street,
With a spanish segar and a pint of good ale
I found my enjoyment complete:
Old care I dismiss'd
While I held in my fist
The pitcher, and smoked the segar.

What a world are we in, if we do not retire,
And, at times, to the tavern repair
To read the gazette, by a hickory fire,
With a sixpence or shilling to spare,
To handle the glass
And an evening pass
With the help of a lively segar.

The man of the closet, who studies and reads,
And prepares for the wars of the bar;
The priest who harangues, or the lawyer who pleads,
What are they without the segar?
What they say may be right,
But they give no delight
Unless they have smoked the segar.

The farmer still plodding, who follows his plough,
A calling, the first and the best,
Would care not a fig for the sweat on his brow
If he smoked a segar with the rest:
To the hay-loft alone
I would have it unknown,
For there a segar I detest.

The sailor who climbs and ascends to the yard
Bespatter'd and blacken'd with tar,
Would think his condition uncommonly hard
If he did not indulge the segar,
To keep them in trim
While they merrily swim
On the ocean, to countries afar.

The soldier untry'd, in the midst of the smoke,
The havoc and carnage of war,
Would stand to his cannon, as firm as a rock,
Would they let him but smoke his segar:
Every gun in the fort
Should make its report
From the fire which illumes the segar.

Come then, to the tavern, ye sons of the sword,
No fear of a wound or a scar;
If your money is gone, your account will be scored
By the lady who tends at the bar:
And this I can say,
Not a cent need you pay
For the use of the social segar.

ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIERE,

Long the tyrant of our coast
Reign'd the famous Guerriere;
Our little navy she defy'd,
Public ship and privateer:
On her sails in letters red,
To our captains were display'd
Words of warning, words of dread,
All, who meet me, have a care!
I am England's Guerriere.[A]

On the wide, Atlantic deep
(Not her equal for the fight)
The Constitution, on her way,
Chanced to meet these men of might:
On her sails was nothing said,
But her waist the teeth displayed
That a deal of blood could shed,
Which, if she would venture near,
Would stain the decks of the Guerriere.

Now our gallant ship they met—
And, to struggle with John Bull—
Who had come, they little thought,
Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull:
Better, soon, to be acquainted:
Isaac hail'd the lord's anointed—
While the crew the cannon pointed,
And the balls were so directed
With a blaze so unexpected;
Isaac did so maul and rake her
That the decks of captain Dacres
Were in such a woful pickle
As if death, with scythe and sickle,
With his sling, or with his shaft
Had cut his harvest fore and aft.

Thus, in thirty minutes ended,
Mischiefs that could not be mended:
Masts, and yards, and ship descended,
All to David Jones' locker—
Such a ship in such a pucker!

Drink about to the Constitution!
She perform'd some execution
Did some share of retribution
For the insults of the year
When she took the Guerriere.
May success again await her,
Let who will again command her
Bainbridge, Rodgers, or Decatur—
Nothing like her can withstand her,
With a crew, like that on board her
Who so boldly call'd "to order"
One bold crew of english sailors,
Long, too long our seamen's jailors,
Dacre' and the Guerriere!

THEODOSIA

Tempestuous cape! how fatal proved the day
When from thy shores the faithless ship withdrew,
Yet, prosperous gales impell'd her on her way
Till the broad canvas vanish'd from the view.

Long on that height the pensive friends remain'd
Till ocean's curve conceal'd her from the eye,
And all was hope that she her port attain'd
Ere ten more suns illumed the morning sky.

Fond friends! false hope! no port beheld her come
With flowing sheet, to meet the pilot's sail:
No pilot met her on the Atlantic foam—
What could the pilot, or his art, avail?

Detested barque! nor art thou yet arrived—
Nor wilt thou come! three years are roll'd away!
You, Theodosia of her life deprived,
You sunk her from the cheerful beams of day!

Where dost thou rest, with her whose genius rose
Above her sex—for science so renown'd—
But does her spirit in the deep repose
Or find new mansions on celestial ground?

That soars above to heights unknown before,
Where all is joy, and life that never ends;
Where all is rapture, all admire, adore;
Immortal nature, with angelic friends.

Oh! shed no more the tears of sad regret;
The hymns of joy, the lofty verse prepare—
Her briny doom, the ingulphing wave forget
For Theodosia in the Morning Star.

IN MEMORY OF JAMES LAWRENCE, ESQUIRE,

To lift his name to high renown
His native merits led the way;
His morning sun resplendent shone
Till clouds obscured the fading ray:
His country's voice his worth confess'd,
His country's tears disclose the rest,
In battle brave, his lofty mind
Aspired to all that fame relates
Of those, who on her page we find
Defenders of insulted states:
Of all who fought, or all who fell,
The noblest part he copied well.

For Lawrence dead, his Jersey mourns,
With tearful eye laments the day
When all the worth that men adorns
One fatal moment snatch'd away!
On honor's bed his doom he found,
In honor's cause, the deadly wound.

To what vast heights his mind aspired,
Who knew him best can best relate:—
A longer term the cause required
That urged him to an early fate:
But He, whose fires illumed his breast,
Knew what was right and what was best.

His country to her breast receives
His mangled form, and holds it dear;
She plants her marble, while she grieves,
Where all, who read, might drop a tear,
And say, while memory calls to mind
The chief, who with our worthies shined,
Here Lawrence rests, his country's pride,
On valor's decks who fought and died!

ON THE LAKE EXPEDITIONS

Where Niagara's awful roar
Convulsive shakes the neighboring shore,
Alarm'd I heard the trump of war,
Saw legions join!

And such a blast, of old, they blew,
When southward from st. Lawrence flew
The indian, to the english true,
Led by Burgoyne.

United, then, they sail'd Champlain,
United now, they march again,
A land of freedom to profane
With savage yell.

For this they scour the mountain wood;
Their errand, death, their object, blood:
For this they stem thy subject flood,
O stream Sorel!

Who shall repulse the hireling host,
Who force them back through snow and frost,
Who swell the lake with thousands lost,
Dear freedom? say!—

Who but the sons of freedom's land,
Prepared to meet the bloody band;
Resolved to make a gallant stand
Where lightnings play.

Their squadrons, arm'd with gun and sword,
Their legions, led by knight and lord
Have sworn to see the reign restored
Of George, the goth;

Whose mandate, from a vandal shore,
Impels the sail, directs the oar,
And, to extend the flames of war,
Employs them both.

THE BATTLE OF LAKE ERIE

"To clear the lake of Perry's fleet
And make his flag his winding sheet
This is my object—I repeat—"
—Said Barclay, flush'd with native pride,
To some who serve the british crown:—
But they, who dwell beyond the moon,
Heard this bold menace with a frown,
Nor the rash sentence ratified.

Ambition so bewitch'd his mind,
And royal smiles had so combined
With skill, to act the part assign'd
He for no contest cared, a straw;
The ocean was too narrow far
To be the seat of naval war;
He wanted lakes, and room to spare,
And all to yield to Britain's law.

And thus he made a sad mistake;
Forsooth he must possess the lake,
As merely made for England's sake
To play her pranks and rule the roast;
Where she might govern, uncontrol'd,
An unmolested empire hold,
And keep a fleet to fish up gold,
To pay the troops of George Provost.

The ships approach'd, of either side,
And Erie, on his bosom wide
Beheld two hostile navies ride,
Each for the combat well prepared:
The lake was smooth, the sky was clear,
The martial drum had banish'd fear,
And death and danger hover'd near,
Though both were held in disregard.

From lofty heights their colors flew,
And Britain's standard all in view,
With frantic valor fired the crew
That mann'd the guns of queen Charlotte.
"And we must Perry's squadron take,
And England shall command the lake;—
And you must fight for Britain's sake,
(Said Barclay) sailors, will you not?"

Assent they gave with heart and hand;
For never yet a braver band
To fight a ship, forsook the land,
Than Barclay had on board that day;—
The guns were loosed the game to win,
Their muzzles gaped a dismal grin,
And out they pulled their tompion pin,
The bloody game of war to play.

But Perry soon, with flowing sail,
Advanced, determined to prevail,
When from his bull-dogs flew the hail
Directed full at queen Charlotte.
His wadded guns were aim'd so true,
And such a weight of ball they threw,
As, Barclay said, he never knew
To come, before, so scalding hot!

But still, to animate his men
From gun to gun the warrior ran
And blazed away and blazed again—
Till Perry's ship was half a wreck:
They tore away both tack and sheet,—
Their victory might have been complete,
Had Perry not, to shun defeat
In lucky moment left his deck.

Repairing to another post,
From another ship he fought their host
And soon regain'd the fortune lost,
And down, his flag the briton tore:
With loss of arm and loss of blood
Indignant, on his decks he stood
To witness Erie's crimson flood
For miles around him, stain'd with gore!

Thus, for dominion of the lake
These captains did each other rake,
And many a widow did they make;—
Whose is the fault, or who to blame?—
The briton challenged with his sword,
The yankee took him at his word,
With spirit laid him close on board—
They're ours—he said—and closed the game.

ON THE CAPTURE

From cruising near the southern pole
Where wild antarctic oceans roll,
With a gallant crew, a manly soul,
Heroic Porter came.
Then, weathering round the stormy cape,
And facing death in every shape,
Which Anson [A] hardly could escape,
(So says the page of fame.)

He made the high chilesian coast,
The Andes, half in vapor lost,
The Andes, topp'd with snow and frost,
Eternal winter's reign!
Then, to the rugged western gale,
He spread the broad columbian sail;
And, Valparisso, thy fair vale
Received him, with his men.

There, safely moor'd, his colors fly,
Columbia's standard waved on high;
The neutral port, his friends, were nigh;
So gallant Porter thought;
Nor deem'd a foe would heave in sight
Regardless of all neutral right;
And yet, that foe he soon must fight,
And fight them as he ought.

His Essex claim'd his fondest care,
With her he every storm could dare,
With her, to meet the blast of war,
His soul was still in trim:
In her he cruised the northern main,
In her he pass'd the burning line,
In her he all things could attain,
If all would act like him.

At length, two hostile ships appear,
And for the port they boldly steer—
The Phoebe first, and in her rear
The Cherub, all secure.
They loom'd as gay as for a dance,
Or ladies painted in romance—
Do, mind how boldly they advance.
Who can their fire endure?

The Phoebe mounted forty-nine—
All thought her on some grand design—
Does she alone the fight decline?
Say, Captain Hillyer, say?
The Cherub's guns were thirty-two—
And, Essex! full a match for you—
Yet to her bold companion true,
She hugg'd her close, that day.

Ye powers, that rule the southern pole!
Are these the men of English soul?
Do these, indeed, the waves control?
Are these the ocean's lords?
Though challenged singly to the fight
(As Porter, Hillyer, did invite)
These men of spunk, these men of might,
Refused to measure swords!

What, fight alone! bold Hillyer said—
I will not fight without my Aid—
The Cherub is for war array'd,
And she must do her share!
Now Porter saw their dastard plan—
To fight them both was surely vain;
We should have thought a man insane
That would so madly dare.

Then, hands on deck! the anchors weigh!
—And for the sea he left the bay,
A running fight to have that day,
And thus escape his foes.
But oh!—distressing to relate—
As round a point of land he beat
A squall from hell the ship beset,
And her maintopmast goes!

Unable to attain that end,
He turns toward the neutral friend,
And hoped protection they might lend,
But no protection found.
In this distress, the foe advanced—
With such an eye at Essex glanced!
And such a fire of death commenced
As dealt destruction round!

With every shot they raked the deck,
Till mingled ruin seized the wreck:
No valor could the ardor check
Of England's martial tars!
One hundred men the Essex lost:
But Phoebe found, and to her cost,
That Porter made them many a ghost
To serve in Satan's wars.

Oh, clouded scene!—yet must I tell
Columbia's flag, indignant, fell—
To Essex, now, we bid farewell;
She wears the english flag!
But Yankees she has none on board
To point the gun or wield the sword;
And though commanded by a lord
They'll have no cause to brag.

THE TERRIFIC TORPEDOES [201]

OR SIR THOMAS HARDY'S SOLILOQUY.

"Then traitor come! as black revenge excites,
Extinguish all our claims with all my lights!
But keen remorse, which vengeful furies lead,
Will act her part for this inhuman deed.
How will her vultures on your vitals prey!
How will her stings our every death repay!—
O nature! is all sympathy a jest;
Art thou a stranger to the human breast?
Has manly prowess quit the abandon'd stage,
Are midnight plots the order of the age?

"Where proud New-London holds her flaming guide
To steer Decatur through the darksome tide,
I stay too long! what station can I find
To shake distraction from a tortured mind!

"Then, traitor, come! your dark attack begin,
Renown'd inventor of the black machine:
But mark!—for when some future poet tells,
Or some historian on the subject dwells,
No word of praise shall meet the listening ear,
Disgustful story, to repeat or hear—
Was you, an infant, to a mother press'd,
Or did ferocious tigers give the breast—
Did nature in some angry moment plan
Some fierce hyena to degrade the man?
Resolve me quick, for doubtful while I stay
These dark torpedoes may be on their way.
Does nature thus her heaviest curse impart
And will she give such countenance to art?—
She gave you all that rancor could bestow,
She lent her magic from the world below;
She gave you all that madness could propose,
And all her malice in your bosom glows;
She gave you sulphur, charcoal, nitre join'd:
She gave you not—a great and generous mind."

So spoke the knight, and slamm'd the door,
And thus went on, with feelings sore:
"I relish not torpedo war:—
Die when I will, or where I may,
I would not choose so short a way:
These twenty nights I did my best
To shut my eyes, and take my rest,
But drowsy Morpheus might as well
Upon the main mast try his spell.
No potion from the poppy's leaf
Can close my lids;—and, to be brief,
This Fulton, with his dashing plans,
Distracts my head, my heart unmans:
And, every night, I have my fears
Of such infernal engineers;
Who, when I sup, or could I sleep
Might row their wherry through the deep,
And screw their engine to the keel,
And blow us—where there's no appeal;
No question how, or where we died,
But how we lived, and how applied
The little sense our heads contain
To save our souls, and live again.

"They, who support torpedo plans
Should have no plaudit for their pains;
Should be employ'd on dark designs,
Explorers of peruvian mines;
Such have not felt the patriot glow,
A feeling they could never know:
For treasons they were surely made,
Have princes slain and kings betray'd.—
Ye powers above! and must I wait
Till these prevail in every state,
Till pale disease, or shivering age
Drives such false patriots from the stage!

"The chaplain said he heard me snore,
But many a fib he told before;
And if I snored, I'm satisfied
Twas when my eyes were open wide.

"Torpedoes! who contrived the word?
Torpedoes! worse than gun or sword!
They are a mode of naval war
We cannot have a relish for:—
In all the chronicles I read
Of former times, they nothing said
Of such a horrible machine
That would disgrace an algerine,
And only yankees would employ,
Not to distress, but to destroy.

"What human eye, without dismay
Can see torpedo-lightning's play?
What mortal heart, but dreads a foe
That fights unseen from fields below!

"What passion must that heart inspire
That dives the sea, to deal in fire,
What can he fear, I trembling ask
Who undertakes the daring task?

"With engines of perdition spread,
Amazed, I see the ocean's bed!
And find with rage, regret, despair,
I have no power to meet them there!

"Alack! my nerves are on the rack—
They're hammering at the garboard streak!
Some yankee dog is near the keel!
Ho, sailors give the ship a heel:
Go, chaplain, to the starboard chains
And ask the rascal what he means?
Who knows but Fulton's self is there
With all his dark infernal gear:
Who knows but he has fix'd his screws,
And left a match, to fire the fuze—
Who knows, but in this very hour,
The Ramillies will be no more!
Will only live in empty fame,
And I, myself, be but a name!

"Should the torpedo take effect,
Her carcass will be worse than wreck'd;
In scatter'd fragments to the sky
This ship of ships will clattering fly:
And then—ah, chaplain!—ah, what then!
Where will I be, and all my men?
And where will you a lodging find,
A traveller on a gale of wind!
And where will be the pretty maid
That sweeps my floor and makes my bed?

Oh Fanny, Fanny! must we part?—
Torpedoes!—I am sick at heart!—
How will the flames those lips deface!
How will they spoil that blooming face!
How will they scorch your auburn hair—?
—You'll have your plagues, and I my share.

And must I all my fears impart;
And do these guns my ship ensure?
And must I ask my fluttering heart
If on these decks I stand secure?

"Do, Fanny, go and boil some tea:
Come hither, love, and comfort me:
A glass of wine! my spirits sink!
The last perhaps that I shall drink!—
Or go—unlock the brandy case
And let us have a dram a piece;—
No matter if your nose is red,
We shall be sober when we're dead.

"In fancy's view the mine is sprung,
The rudder from the stern unhung,
My valiant sailors torn asunder,
The ship herself a clap of thunder,
From fathoms down, a deadly blast
Unbolts the keel, unsteps the mast,
While Fulton, with a placid grin
Exulting, views the infernal scene!

The sails are vanish'd, tack and clue,
The rigging burnt, by lord knows who,
The star that glitter'd on my breast
Is gone to Davy Jones's chest;
The glorious ensign of st. George,
Of Spain the dread, of France the scourge,
Is from the staff, unpitied, torn
And for a cloak by satan worn:
The Lion mounted on the prow,
To awe the subject sea below
With flames that Lion is oppress'd—
They will not spare the royal beast.—
O vengeance! why does vengeance sleep?
The yards are scatter'd o'er the deep,
Our guns are buried in the seas,
And thus concludes the Ramillies!

"The world, I think, can witness bear
My name was never stain'd by fear:
At least the british fleet can say
I never shunn'd the face of clay:
But Fulton's black, infernal art—
Has stamp'd me—coward—to the heart!

"When Nelson met the spanish fleet,
And every pulse for conquest beat,
At Nelson's side I had my stand;
When Nelson fell I took command:
Not Etna's self, with all her flames—
Vesuvius—such description claims;
Not Hecla, in her wildest rage,
Does with such fires the heavens engage,
As on that day, in mourning clad,
Was thunder'd from the Trinidad.[A]

"And yet, amidst that awful scene,
I stood unhurt, composed, serene;
Though balls, by thousands, whistled round,
Not one had leave to kill or wound—
But here! in this torpedo war
I perish, with my glittering star,
The laurels that adorn my brow—
My laurels are surrender'd now.
O Fanny! these envenom'd states
Have doom'd our deaths among the rats,
In one explosion, to the sky
Our chaplain, rats, and sailors fly.

"To deal in such inhuman war
Is more than English blood can bear;
It brings again the gothic age,
Renews that period on the stage,
When men against the gods rebell'd,
And Ossa was on Pelion piled:
The trojan war, when Diomede
In battle, made fair Venus bleed;
Or, when the giants of renown
Attempted Jove's imperial crown:—
From such a foe, before we meet,
The safest way, is to retreat,
To leave this curst unlucky shore
And come to trouble them no more.

"But, should it be my fate to-night
Not to behold to-morrow's light
But mingle with the vulgar dead,
With all my terrors on my head—
Should such a fate be mine, I say,
Dear Fanny, you must lead the way;—
You are the saint that will atone
For what amiss I might have done:
If such as you will intercede
The chaplain may a furlow plead,
While you and I in raptures go
Where stormy winds no longer blow,
Where guns are not, to shed our blood,
Or if there be, are made of wood;
Where all is love, and no one hates;
No falling kings or rising states;
No colors that we must defend,
If sick, or dead, or near our end;
Where yankees are admitted not
To hatch their damn'd torpedo plot:
Where you will have no beds to make,
Nor I be doom'd to lie awake."

MILITARY RECRUITING