LOG-TOWN TAVERN[22]
[By Hezekiah Salem][23]
Through sandy wastes and floods of rain
To this dejected place I came,
Where swarthy nymphs, in tattered gowns,
From pine-knots catch their evening flame:
Where barren oaks, in close array,
With mournful melody condole;
Where no gay fabrics meet the eye,
Nor painted board, nor barber's pole.
Thou town of logs! so justly called,
In thee who halts at evening's close,
Not dreams from Jove, but hosts of fleas
Shall join to sweeten his repose.
A curse on this dejected place
Where cold, and hot, and wet, and dry,
And stagnant ponds of ample space
The putrid steams of death supply.
Since here I paced on weary steed
Ah, blame me not, should I repine
That sprightly girl, nor social bed,
Nor jovial glass this night is mine.
The landlord, gouged in either eye,
Here drains his bottle to the dregs,
Or borrows Susan's pipe, while she
Prepares the bacon and the eggs.
Jamaica, that inspires the soul,
In these abodes no time has seen
To dart its generous influence round,
To kindle wit and kill the spleen.
The squire of this disheartening inn
Affords to none the generous bowl,
Displays no Bacchus on the sign
To warm the heart and cheer the soul.
To cyder, drawn from tilted cask,
While each a fond attention paid
All grieved to see the empty flask,
Its substance gone, its strength decayed.
A rambling hag, in dismal notes
Screeched out a song, to cheer my grief;
Two lads their dull adventures told,
A shepherd each—and each a thief.
Dame justice here in rigour reigns—
Each has on each the griping paw:
Whoe'er with them a bargain makes,
Scheme as he will, it ends in law.
With scraps of songs and smutty words
Each lodger here adorns the walls:
The wanton muse no pencil gives,
A coal her mean idea scrawls.
No merry thought, no flash of wit
Was scrawled by this unseemly crew,
With pain I read the words they writ
Immodest and immoral too.
The god of verse, the poet's friend,
Whom Nature all indulgent finds—
That god of verse will never lend
His powers to such degraded minds.
In murmuring streams no chrystal wave
To cheer the wretched hamlet flows;
But frowning to the distant bog
Rosanna with the pitcher goes.
At dusk of eve the tardy treat
Was placed on board of knotty pine;
Each gaping gazed, to see me eat
While round me lay the slumbering swine.
Unblessed be she, whose aukward hand
Before me laid the mouldy pone;[A]
May she still miss the joyous kiss,
Condemned to fret and sleep alone.
The horse that bore me on my way
Around me cast a wishful eye,
He looked, and saw no manger near,
And hung his head, and seemed to sigh.
At stump of pine, for want of stall,
All night, beneath a dripping tree,
Not fed with oats, but filled with wind,
And buckwheat straw, alone stood he.
Discouraged at so vile a treat,
Yet pleased to see the approaching dawn,
In haste, we left this dreary place,
Nor staid to drink their dear Yoppon.[B]
May travellers dread to wander here,
Unless on penance they be bound—
O may they never venture near,
Such fleas and filthiness abound.
But should ye come—be short your stay,
For Lent is here forever kept—
Depart, ye wretches, haste away,
Nor stop to sleep—where I have slept.
THE WANDERER[24]
As Southward bound to Indian isles
O'er lonely seas he held his way,
A songster of the feather'd kind
Approach'd, with golden plumage gay:
By sympathetic feelings led
And grieving for her sad mischance,
Thus Thyrsis to the wanderer said,
As circling in her airy dance.
"Sad pilgrim on a watery waste,
What cruel tempest has compell'd
To leave so far your native grove,
To perish on this liquid field!
Not such a dismal swelling scene
(Dread Neptune's wild unsocial sea)
But crystal brooks and groves of green,
Dear rambling bird, were made for thee.
Ah, why amid some flowery mead
Did you not stay, where late you play'd:
Not thus forsake the cypress grove
That lent its kind protecting shade.
In vain you spread your weary wings
To shun the hideous gulph below;
Our barque can be your only hope—
But man you justly deem your foe.
Now hovering near, you stoop to lodge
Where yonder lofty canvas swells—
Again take wing—refuse our aid,
And rather trust the ruffian gales.
But Nature tires! your toils are vain—
Could you on stronger pinions rise
Than eagles have—for days to come
All you could see are seas and skies.
Again she comes, again she lights,
And casts a pensive look below—
Weak wanderer, trust the traitor, Man,
And take the help that we bestow."
Down to his side, with circling flight,
She flew, and perch'd, and linger'd there;
But, worn with wandering, droop'd her wing,
And life resign'd in empty air.
ON THE
DEMOLITION OF FORT-GEORGE
In New-York—1790[25]
As giants once, in hopes to rise,
Heaped up their mountains to the skies;
With Pelion piled on Ossa, strove
To reach the eternal throne of Jove;
So here the hands of ancient days
Their fortress from the earth did raise,
On whose proud heights, proud men to please,
They mounted guns and planted trees.
Those trees to lofty stature grown—
All is not right!—they must come down,
Nor longer waste their wonted shade
Where Colden slept, or Tryon strayed.
Let him be sad that placed them there,—
We shall a youthful race prepare;
Another grove shall bloom, we trust,
When this lies prostrate in the dust.
Where Dutchmen once, in ages past,
Huge walls and ramparts round them cast,
New fabrics raised, on new design,
Gay streets and palaces shall shine.
To foreign kings no more a slave
(Disgrace to Freedom's passing wave)
No flags we rear, we feign no mirth,
Nor prize the day that gave them birth.
While time degrades Palmyra low,
Augusta lifts her lofty brow—
While Europe falls to wars a prey,
Her monarchs here, should have no sway.
Another George shall here reside,
While Hudson's bold, unfettered tide
Well pleased to see this chief so nigh,
With livelier aspect passes by.
Along his margin, fresh and clean,
Ere long shall belles and beaux be seen,
Through moon-light shades, delighted, stray,
To view the islands and the bay.
Of evening dews no more afraid,
Reclining in some favourite shade,
Each nymph, in rapture with her trees,
Shall sigh to quit the western breeze.
To barren hills far southward shoved,
These noisy guns shall be removed,
No longer here a vain expense,
Where time has proved them no defence.—
Advance, bright days! make haste to crown
With such fair scenes this honoured town.—
Freedom shall find her charter clear,
And plant her seat of commerce here.
CONGRESS HALL, N. Y.[26]
With eager step and wrinkled brow,
The busy sons of care
(Disgusted with less splendid scenes)
To Congress Hall repair.
In order placed, they patient wait
To seize each word that flies,
From what they hear, they sigh or smile,
Look cheerful, grave, or wise.
Within these walls the doctrines taught
Are of such vast concern,
That all the world, with one consent,
Here strives to live—and learn.
The timorous heart, that cautious shuns
All churches, but its own,
No more observes its wonted rules;
But ventures here, alone.
Four hours a day each rank alike,
(They that can walk or crawl)
Leave children, business, shop, and wife,
And steer for Congress Hall.
From morning tasks of mending soals
The cobler hastes away;
At three returns, and tells to Kate
The business of the day.
The debtor, vext with early duns,
Avoids his hated home;
And here and there dejected roves
'Till hours of Congress come.
The barber, at the well-known time,
Forsakes his bearded man,
And leaves him with his lathered jaws,
To trim them as he can.
The tailor, plagued with suits on suits,
Neglects Sir Fopling's call,
Throws by his goose—slips from his board,
And trots to Congress Hall.
EPISTLE TO PETER PINDAR, ESQ.[27]
Peter, methinks you are the happiest wight
That ever dealt in ink, or sharpen'd quill.
'Tis yours on every rank of fools to write—
Some prompt with pity, some with laughter kill;
On scullions or on dukes you run your rigs,
And value George no more than Whitbread's pigs.
From morn to night, thro' London's busy streets,
New subjects for your pen in crowds are seen,
At church, in taverns, balls, or birth-day treats,
Sir Joseph Banks, or England's breeding queen;
How happy you, whom fortune has decreed
Each character to hit—where all will read.
We, too, have had your monarch by the nose,
And pull'd the richest jewel from his crown—
Half Europe's kings are fools, the story goes,
Mere simpletons, and ideots of renown,
Proud, in their frantic fits, man's blood to spill—
'Tis time they all were travelling down the hill.
But, Peter, quit your dukes and little lords,
Young princes full of blood and scant of brains—
Our rebel coast some similes affords,
And many a subject for your pen contains
Preserv'd as fuel for your comic rhymes,
(Like Egypt's gods) to give to future times.
THE NEW ENGLAND SABBATH-DAY CHACE[28]
[Written Under the Character of Hezekiah Salem]
On a fine Sunday morning I mounted my steed
And southward from Hartford had meant to proceed;
My baggage was stow'd in a cart very snug,
Which Ranger, the gelding, was destined to lug;
With his harness and buckles, he loom'd very grand,
And was drove by young Darby, a lad of the land—
On land, or on water, most handy was he,
A jockey on shore, and a sailor at sea,
He knew all the roads, he was so very keen
And the Bible by heart, at the age of fifteen.
As thus I jogg'd on, to my saddle confined,
With Ranger and Darby a distance behind;
At last in full view of a steeple we came
With a cock on the spire (I suppose he was game;
A dove in the pulpit may suit your grave people,
But always remember—a cock on the steeple)
Cries Darby—"Dear master, I beg you to stay;
Believe me, there's danger in driving this way;
Our deacons on Sundays have power to arrest
And lead us to church—if your honour thinks best—
Though still I must do them the justice to tell,
They would choose you should pay them the fine—full as well."
The fine (said I) Darby, how much may it be—
A shilling or sixpence?—why, now let me see,
Three shillings are all the small pence that remain,
And to change a half joe would be rather profane.
Is it more than three shillings, the fine that you speak on;
What say you good Darby—will that serve the deacon.
"Three shillings (cried Darby) why, master, you're jesting!—
Let us luff while we can and make sure of our westing—
Forty shillings, excuse me, is too much to pay
It would take my month's wages—that's all I've to say.
By taking this road that inclines to the right
The squire and the sexton may bid us good night,
If once to old Ranger I give up the rein
The parson himself may pursue us in vain."
"Not I, my good Darby (I answer'd the lad)
Leave the church on the left! they would think we were mad;
I would sooner rely on the heels of my steed,
And pass by them all like a Jehu indeed:—
As long as I'm able to lead in the race
Old Ranger, the gelding, will go a good pace,
As the deacon pursues, he will fly like a swallow,
And you in the cart must, undoubtedly, follow."
Then approaching the church, as we pass'd by the door
The sexton peep'd out, with a saint or two more,
A deacon came forward and waved us his hat,
A signal to drop him some money—mind that!—
"Now, Darby (I halloo'd) be ready to skip,
Ease off the curb bridle—give Ranger the whip:
While you have the rear, and myself lead the way,
No doctor or deacon shall catch us this day."
By this time the deacon had mounted his poney
And chaced for the sake of our souls and—our money:
The saint, as he followed, cried—"Stop them, halloo!"
As swift as he followed, as swiftly we flew—
"Ah master! (said Darby) I very much fear
We must drop him some money to check his career,
He is gaining upon us and waves with his hat
There's nothing, dear master, will stop him but that.
Remember the Beaver (you well know the fable)
Who flying the hunters as long as he's able,
When he finds that his efforts can nothing avail
But death and the puppies are close at his tail,
Instead of desponding at such a dead lift
He bites off their object, and makes a free gift—
Since fortune all hope of escaping denies
Better give them a little, than lose the whole prize."
But scarce had he spoke, when we came to a place
Whose muddy condition concluded the chace,
Down settled the cart—and old Ranger stuck fast
Aha! (said the Saint) have I catch'd ye at last?
* * * *
Cætera desunt.
ON THE SLEEP OF PLANTS[29]
When suns are set, and stars in view,
Not only man to slumber yields;
But Nature grants this blessing too,
To yonder plants, in yonder fields.
The Summer heats and lengthening days
(To them the same as toil and care)
Thrice welcome make the evening breeze,
That kindly does their strength repair.
At early dawn each plant survey,
And see, revived by Nature's hand,
With youthful vigour, fresh and gay,
Their blossoms blow, their leaves expand.
Yon' garden plant, with weeds o'er-run,
Not void of thought, perceives its hour,
And, watchful of the parting sun,
Throughout the night conceals her flower.
Like us, the slave of cold and heat,
She too enjoys her little span—
With Reason, only less complete
Than that which makes the boast of man.
Thus, moulded from one common clay,
A varied life adorns the plain;
By Nature subject to decay,
By Nature meant to bloom again!
ON THE DEMOLITION OF AN OLD
COLLEGE[30]
On New-Year's eve, the year was eighty-nine,
All clad in black, a back-woods' college crew
With crow-bar, sledge, and broad axe did combine
To level with the dust their antique hall,
In hopes the President would build a new:
Yes, yes, (said they), this ancient pile shall fall,
And laugh no longer at yon' cobbler's stall.
The clock struck seven—in social compact joined,
They pledged their sacred honors to proceed:
The number seventy-five this feat designed:
And first some oaths they swore by candle light
On Euclid' Elements—no bible did they need:
One must be true, they said, the other might—
Besides, no bible could be found that night.
Now darkness o'er the plain her pinions spread,
Then rung the bell an unaccustomed peal:
Out rushed the brave, the cowards went to bed,
And left the attempt to those who felt full bold
To pull down halls, where years had seen them kneel:
Where Wheelock oft at rakes was wont to scold,
Or sung them many a psalm, in days of old.
Advancing then towards the tottering hall,
(That now at least one hundred years had stood)
They gave due notice that it soon should fall—
Lest there some godly wight might gaping stand;
(For well they knew the world wants all its good
To fright the sturdy sinners of the land,
And shame old Satan, with his sooty band.)
The reverend man that college gentry awes,
Hearing the bell at this unusual hour,
Vext at the infringement of the college laws,
With Indian stride out-sallied from his den,
And made a speech (as being a man in power)—
Alas! it was not heard by one in ten—
No time to heed his speeches, or his pen.
"Ah, rogues, said he, ah, whither do ye run,
"Bent on the ruin of this antique pile—
"That, all the war, has braved both sword and gun?
"Reflect, dear boys, some reverend rats are there,
"That now will have to scamper many a mile,
"For whom past time old Latin books did spare,
"And Attic Greek, and manuscripts most rare.
"Relent, relent! to accomplish such designs
"Folks bred on college fare are much too weak;
"For such attempts men drink your high-proof wines,
"Not spiritless switchel[A] and vile hogo drams,
"Scarcely sufficient to digest your Greek—
"Come, let the college stand, my dear black lambs—
"Besides—I see you have no battering rams."
Thus he—but sighs, and tears, and prayers were lost—
So, to it they went with broad-axe, spade, and hammer—
One smote a wall, and one dislodged a post,
Tugged at a beam, or pulled down pigeon-holes
Where Indian lads were wont to study grammar—
Indeed, they took vast pains and dug like moles,
And worked as if they worked to save their souls.
Now to its deep foundation shook the dome:
Farewell to all its learning, fame and honor!
So fell the capitol of heathen Rome,
By Goths and Vandals levelled with the dust—
And so shall die the works of Neal O'Connor,
(Which he himself will even outlive, we trust:)
But now our story's coming to the worst—
Down fell the Pile!—aghast these rebels stood,
And wondered at the mischiefs they had done
To such a pile, composed of white-oak wood;
To such a pile, so antique and renowned,
Which many a prayer had heard and many a pun—
So, three huzzas they gave, and fired a round,
Then homeward trudged—half drunk—but safe and sound.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. BENJAMIN
FRANKLIN[31]
Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood
The glory of its native wood,
By storms destroyed, or length of years,
Demands the tribute of our tears.
The pile, that took long time to raise,
To dust returns by slow decays:
But, when its destined years are o'er,
We must regret the loss the more.
So long accustomed to your aid,
The world laments your exit made;
So long befriended by your art,
Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!—
When monarchs tumble to the ground,
Successors easily are found:
But, matchless Franklin! what a few
Can hope to rival such as you,
Who seized from kings their sceptred pride,
And turned the lightning's darts aside![A]