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

From Dr. Franklin [deceased] to his Poetical Panegyrists, on some of their Absurd Compliments

"Good Poets, why so full of pain,
Are you sincere—or do you feign?
Love for your tribe I never had,
Nor penned three stanzas, good or bad.

At funerals, sometimes, grief appears,
Where legacies have purchased tears:
'Tis folly to be sad for nought,
From me you never gained a groat.

To better trades I turned my views,
And never meddled with the muse;
Great things I did for rising States,
And kept the lightning from some pates.

This grand discovery, you adore it,
But ne'er will be the better for it:
You still are subject to those fires,
For poets' houses have no spires.

Philosophers are famed for pride;
But, pray, be modest—when I died,
No "sighs disturbed old ocean's bed,"
No "Nature wept" for Franklin dead!

That day, on which I left the coast,
A beggar-man was also lost:
If "Nature wept," you must agree
She wept for him—as well as me.

There's reason even in telling lies—
In such profusion of her "sighs,"
She was too sparing of a tear—
In Carolina, all was clear:

And, if there fell some snow and sleet,
Why must it be my winding sheet?
Snows oft have cloathed the April plain,
Have melted, and will melt again.

Poets, I pray you, say no more,
Or say what Nature said before;
That reason should your pens direct,
Or else you pay me no respect.

Let reason be your constant rule,
And Nature, trust me, is no fool—
When to the dust great men she brings,
Make her do—some uncommon things."

CONSTANTIA [33]

Sick of the world, in prime of days
Constantia took a serious fit—
Resolved to shun all balls and plays
And only read what saints had writ—
To Convent Hall she would repair
And be a pensive sister there.

"What are they all—this glare of things,
These insects that around me shine;
These beaux and belles on silken wings—
Indeed their pleasures make not mine—
My happiness is all delayed—
I'll go, and find it in the shade."

A sailor, loitering from his crew,
As chance would have it, passed along—
She told him what she had in view,
And he replied—"Fair maid you're wrong,
"Let faded nymphs to cloisters go,
"Where kisses freeze and love is snow.

"The druids' oak and hermits' pine
"Afford a gloomy, sad delight;
"But why that blush of health resign,
"The mingled tint of red and white?
"In moistening cells the flowers expire
"That, on the plain, all eyes admire.

"With such a pensive, pious train
"Who, but a hermit, could agree—
"Ah, rather stay to grace the plain,
"Or wander on the wave with me:
"For you the painted barque shall wait
"And I would die for such a freight."

"No wandering stranger (she replied)
"Can tempt me to forego my plan;
"No barque that wafts him o'er the tide,
"Nor many a better looking man:
"Go, wanderer, plough your gloomy sea,
"Constantia must a sister be.

"To gain so fair a flower as you,
"(The Tar returned) who would not plead?
"Nor shall you, nymph, to convents go
"While love can write what you must read:
"Come, to yon' meadow let us stray,
"I have some handsome things to say."

"Love has its wish when reason fails—
"In vain he sighed, in vain he strove:
"Forsake (said she) those swelling sails
"If you would have me—think of love:
"Great merit has your sailing art,
"But absence would distract my heart."

What else was said, we secret keep;—
The Tar, grown fonder of the shore,
Neglects his prospects on the deep,
And she of convents talks no more:—
He slyly quits the coasting trade
She pities her—who seeks the shade.

STANZAS

To sleep in peace when life is fled,
Where shall our mouldering bones be laid—
What care can shun—(I ask with tears)
The shovels of succeeding years!

Some have maintained, when life is gone,
This frame no longer is our own:
Hence doctors to our tombs repair,
And seize death's slumbering victims there.

Alas! what griefs must Man endure!
Not even in forts he rests secure:—
Time dims the splendours of a crown,
And brings the loftiest rampart down.

The breath, once gone, no art recalls!
Away we haste to vaulted walls:
Some future whim inverts the plain,
And stars behold our bones again.

Those teeth, dear girls—so much your care—
(With which no ivory can compare)
Like these (that once were lady Hay's)
May serve the belles of future days.

Then take advice from yonder scull;
And, when the flames of life grow dull,
Leave not a tooth in either jaw,
Since dentists steal—and fear no law.

He, that would court a sound repose,
To barren hills and deserts goes:
Where busy hands admit no sun,
Where he may doze, 'till all is done.

Yet there, even there tho' slyly laid,
'Tis folly to defy the spade:
Posterity invades the hill,
And plants our relics where she will.

But O! forbear the rising sigh!
All care is past with them that die:
Jove gave, when they to fate resigned,
An opiate of the strongest kind:

Death is a sleep, that has no dreams:
In which all time a moment seems—
And skeletons perceive no pain
Till Nature bids them wake again.

THE ORATOR OF THE WOODS [35]

Each traveller asks, with fond surprize,
Why Thyrsis wastes the fleeting year
Where gloomy forests round him rise,
And only rustics come to hear—
His taste is odd (they seem to say)
Such talents in so poor a way!

To those that courts and titles please
How dismal is his lot;
Beyond the hills, beneath some trees,
To live—and be forgot—
In dull retreats, where Nature binds
Her mass of clay to vulgar minds.

While you lament his barren trade,
Tell me—in yonder vale
Why grows that flower beneath the shade,
So feeble and so pale!—
Why was she not in sun-shine placed
To blush and please your men of taste?

In lonely wilds, those flowers so fair
No curious step allure;
And chance, not choice, has placed them there,
(Still charming, tho' obscure)
Where, heedless of such sweets so nigh,
The lazy hind goes loitering by.

NANNY [A]

Six weeks my dear mistress has been in a fret
And nothing but Congress will do for her yet:
She says they must come, or her senses she'll lose,
From morning till night she is reading the news,
And loves the dear fellows that vote for our town
(Since no one can relish New-York but a clown,
Where your beef is as lean, as if fattened on chaff,
And folks are too haughty to worship—a calf)
She tells us as how she has read in her books
That God gives them meat, but the devil sends cooks;
And Grumbleton told us (who often shoots flying)
That fish you have plenty—but spoil them in frying;
That your streets are as crooked, as crooked can be,
Right forward three perches he never could see
But his view was cut short with a house or a shop,
That stood in his way—and obliged him to stop.
Those speakers that wish for New-York to decide,—
'Tis a pity that talents are so misapplied!
My mistress declares she is vext to the heart
That genius should take such a pitiful part;
For the question, indeed, she is daily distrest,
And Gerry, I think, she will ever detest,
Who did all he could, with his tongue and his pen
To keep the dear Congress shut up in your Den.
She insists, the expense of removing is small,
And that two or three thousands will answer it all,
If that is too much, and we're so very poor—
The passage by water is cheaper, be sure;
If people object the expence of a team,
Here's Fitch with his wherry, will bring them by steam;
And, Nabby!—if once he should take them on board,
The Honour will be a sufficient reward.
But, as to myself, I vow and declare
I wish it would suit them to stay where they are;
I plainly foresee, that if once they remove
Throughout the long day, we shall drive, and be drove,
My madam's red rag will ring like a bell,
And the hall and the parlour will never look well;
Such scouring will be as has never been seen,
We shall always be cleaning, and never be clean,
And threats in abundance will work on my fears,
Of blows on the back, and of cuffs on the ears—
Two trifles, at present, discourage her paw,
The fear of the Lord, and the fear of the law—
But if Congress arrive, she will have such a sway,
That gospel and law will be both done away;—
For the sake of a place I must bear all her din,
And if ever so angry, do nothing but grin;
So Congress, I hope in your town will remain,
And Nanny will thank them again and again.

NABBY

Well, Nanny, I am sorry to find, since you writ us,
The Congress at last has determined to quit us;
You now may begin with your dish-clouts and brooms,
To be scouring your knockers and scrubbing your rooms;
As for us, my dear Nanny, we're much in a pet,
And hundreds of houses will be to be let;
Our streets, that were just in a way to look clever,
Will now be neglected and nasty as ever;
Again we must fret at the Dutchified gutters
And pebble-stone pavements, that wear out our trotters.—
My master looks dull, and his spirits are sinking,
From morning till night he is smoking and thinking,
Laments the expence of destroying the fort,
And says, your great people are all of a sort—
He hopes and he prays they may die in a stall,
If they leave us in debt—for Federal Hall—
And Strap has declared, he has such regards,
He will go, if they go, for the sake of their beards.
Miss Letty, poor lady, is so in the pouts,
She values no longer our dances and routs,
And sits in a corner, dejected and pale,
As dull as a cat, and as lean as a rail!—
Poor thing, I'm certain she's in a decay,
And all—because Congress Resolve—not to stay!—
This Congress unsettled is, sure, a sad thing,
Seven years, my dear Nanny, they've been on the wing;
My master would rather saw timber, or dig,
Than see them removing to Conegocheague,
Where the houses and kitchens are yet to be framed,
The trees to be felled, and the streets to be named;
Of the two, we had rather your town should receive 'em—
So here, my dear Nanny, in haste I must leave 'em,
I'm a dunce at inditing—and as I'm a sinner,
The beef is half raw—and the bell rings for dinner!

THE BERGEN PLANTER [38]

Attach'd to lands that ne'er deceiv'd his hopes,
This rustic sees the seasons come and go,
His autumn's toils return'd in summer's crops,
While limpid streams, to cool his herbage, flow;
And, if some cares intrude upon his mind,
They are such cares as heaven for man design'd.

He to no pompous dome comes, cap in hand,
Where new-made 'squires affect the courtly smile:
Nor where Pomposo, 'midst his foreign band
Extols the sway of kings, in swelling style,
With tongue that babbled when it should have hush'd,
A head that never thought—a face that never blush'd.

He on no party hangs his hopes or fears,
Nor seeks the vote that baseness must procure;
No stall-fed Mammon, for his gold, reveres,
No splendid offers from his chests allure.
While showers descend, and suns their beams display,
The same, to him, if Congress go or stay.

He at no levees watches for a glance,
(Slave to disgusting, distant forms and modes)
Heeds not the herd at Bufo's midnight dance,
Dullman's mean rhymes, or Shylock's birth-day odes:
Follies, like these, he deems beneath his care,
And Titles leaves for simpletons to wear.

Where wandering brooks from mountain sources roll,
He seeks at noon the waters of the shade,
Drinks deep, and fears no poison in the bowl
That Nature for her happiest children made:
And from whose clear and gently-passing wave
All drink alike—the master and the slave.

The scheming statesman shuns his homely door,
Who, on the miseries of his country fed,
Ne'er glanc'd his eye from that base pilfer'd store
To view the sword, suspended by a thread—
Nor that "hand-writing," grav'd upon the wall,
That tells him—but in vain—"the sword must fall."

He ne'er was made a holiday machine,
Wheel'd here and there by 'squires in livery clad,
Nor dreads the sons of legislation keen,
Hard-hearted laws, and penalties most sad—
In humble hope his little fields were sown,
A trifle, in your eye—but all his own.

TOBACCO

This Indian weed, that once did grow
On fair Virginia's fertile plain,
From whence it came—again may go,
To please some happier swain:
Of all the plants that Nature yields
This, least beloved, shall shun my fields.

In evil hour I first essayed
To chew this vile forbidden leaf,
When, half ashamed, and half afraid,
I touched, and tasted—to my grief:
Ah me! the more I was forbid,
The more I wished to take a quid.

But when I smoaked, in thought profound,
And raised the spiral circle high,
My heart grew sick, my head turned round—
And what can all this mean, (said I)—
Tobacco surely was designed
To poison, and destroy mankind.

Unhappy they, whom choice, or fate
Inclines to prize this bitter weed;
Perpetual source of female hate;
On which no beast—but man will feed;
That sinks my heart, and turns my head,
And sends me, reeling, home to bed!

THE BANISHED MAN [40]

Since man may every region claim,
And Nature is, in most, the same,
And we a part of her wide plan,
Tell me, what makes The Banish'd Man.

The favourite spot, that gave us birth,
We fondly call our mother earth;
And hence our vain distinctions grow,
And man to man becomes a foe.

That friendship to all nations due,
And taught by reason to pursue,
That love, which should the world combine,
To country, why do we confine?

The Grecian sage [A] (old stories say)
When question'd where his country lay,
Inspired by heaven, made no reply,
But rais'd his finger to the sky.

No region has, on earth, been known
But some, of choice, have made their own:—
Your tears are not from Reason's source
If choice assumes the path of force.

"Alas! (you cry) that is not all:
"My former friendships I recall,
"My house, my farm, my days, my nights,
"Scenes vanish'd now, and past delights."—

Distance for absence you mistake—
Here, days and nights their circuits make:
Here, Nature walks her beauteous round,
And friendship may—perhaps—be found.

If times grow dark, or wealth retires,
Let Reason check your proud desires:
Virtue the humblest garb can wear,
And loss of wealth is loss of care.

Thus half unwilling, half resign'd,
Desponding, why, the generous mind?—
Think right,—nor be the hour delayed
That flies the sun, to seek the shade.

Though injured, exiled, or alone,
Nobly presume the world your own,
Convinced that, since the world began,
Time, only, makes The Banish'd Man.

THE DEPARTURE [41]

From Hudson's banks, in proud array,
(Too mean to claim a longer stay)
Their new ideas to improve,
Behold the generous Congress move!

Such thankless conduct much we feared,
When Timon's coach stood ready geered,
And He—the foremost on the floor,
Stood pointing to the Delaware shore.

So long confined to little things,
They sigh to be where Bavius sings,
Where Sporus builds his splendid pile,
And Bufo's tawdry Seasons smile.

New chaplains, now, shall ope their jaws,
New salaries grease unworthy paws:
Some reverend man, that turtle carves,
Will fatten, while the solder starves.

The Yorker asks—but asks in vain—
"What demon bids them 'move again?
"Whoever 'moves must suffer loss,
"And rolling stones collect no moss.

"Have we not paid for chaplains' prayers,
"That heaven might smile on state affairs?—
"Put some things up, pulled others down,
"And raised our streets through half the town?

"Have we not, to our utmost, strove
"That Congress might not hence remove—
"At dull debates no silence broke,
"And walked on tip-toe while they spoke?

"Have we not toiled through cold and heat,
"To make the Federal Pile complete—
"Thrown down our Fort, to give them air,
"And sent our guns, the devil knows where?

"Times change! but Memory still recalls
"The Day, when ruffians scaled their walls—
"Sovereigns besieged by angry men,
"Mere prisoners in the town of Penn?

"Can they forget when, half afraid,
"The timorous Council [A] lent no aid;
"But left them to the rogues that rob,
"The tender mercies of the mob?

"Oh! if they can, their lot is cast;
"One hundred miles will soon be passed—
"This Day the Federal Dome is cleared,
"To Paulus'-Hook the barge is steered,
"Where Timon's coach stands ready geered!"
[1790.]

THE AMERICAN SOLDIER [42]

Deep in a vale, a stranger now to arms,
Too poor to shine in courts, too proud to beg,
He, who once warred on Saratoga's plains,
Sits musing o'er his scars, and wooden leg.

Remembering still the toil of former days,
To other hands he sees his earnings paid;—
They share the due reward—he feeds on praise,
Lost in the abyss of want, misfortune's shade.

Far, far from domes where splendid tapers glare,
'Tis his from dear bought peace no wealth to win,
Removed alike from courtly cringing 'squires,
The great-man's Levee, and the proud man's grin.

Sold are those arms which once on Britons blazed,
When, flushed with conquest, to the charge they came;
That power repelled, and Freedom's fabrick raised,
She leaves her soldier—famine and a name! [1790]

OCCASIONED [43]

"'Tis time to tax the News, (Sangrado cries)
"Subjects were never good that were too wise:
"In every hamlet, every trifling town,
"Some sly, designing fellow sits him down,
"On spacious folio prints his weekly mess,
"And spreads around the poison of his Press.
"Hence, to the World the streams of scandal flow,
"Disclosing secrets, that it should not know,
"Hence courtiers strut with libels on their backs;—
"And shall not news be humbled by a tax!

"Once ('tis most true) such papers did some good,
"When British chiefs arrived in angry mood:
"By them enkindled, every heart grew warm,
"By them excited, all were taught to arm,
"When some, retiring to Britannia's clime,
"Sat brooding o'er the vast events of time;
"Doubtful which side to take, or what to say,
"Or who would win, or who would lose the day.

"Those times are past; (and past experience shews)
"The well-born sort alone, should read the news,
"No common herds should get behind the scene
"To view the movements of the state machine:
"One paper only, filled with courtly stuff,
"One paper, for one country is enough,
"Where incense offered at Pomposo's shrine
"Shall prove his house-dog and himself divine."

LINES [44]

Occasioned by a Law passed by the Corporation of New-York, early in
1790, for cutting down the trees in the streets of that
City, previous to June 10, following

The Citizen's Soliloquy

A man that owned some trees in town,
(And much averse to cut them down)
Finding the Law was full and plain,
No trees should in the streets remain,
One evening seated at his door,
Thus gravely talked the matter o'er:

"The fatal Day, dear trees, draws nigh,
When you must, like your betters, die,
Must die!—and every leaf will fade
That many a season lent its shade,
To drive from hence the summer's heat,
And make my porch a favourite seat.

"Thrice happy age, when all was new,
And trees untouched, unenvied grew,
When yet regardless of the axe,
They feared no law, and paid no tax!
The shepherd then at ease was laid,
Or walked beneath their cooling shade;
From slender twigs a garland wove,
Or traced his god within the grove;
Alas! those times are now forgot,
An iron age is all our lot:
Men are not now what once they were,
To hoard up gold is all their care:
The busy tribe old Plutus calls
To pebbled streets and painted walls;
Trees now to grow, is held a crime,
And These must perish in their prime!

"The trees that once our fathers reared,
And even the plundering Briton spared,
When shivering here full oft he stood,
Or kept his bed for want of wood—
These trees, whose gently bending boughs
Have witnessed many a lover's vows,
When half afraid, and half in jest,
With Nature busy in his breast,
With many a sigh, he did not feign,
Beneath these boughs he told his pain,
Or coaxing here his nymph by night,
Forsook the parlour and the light,
In talking love, his greatest bliss
To squeeze her hand or steal a kiss—
These trees that thus have lent their shade,
And many a happy couple made,
These old companions, thus endeared,
Who never tattled what they heard,
Must these, indeed, be killed so soon—
Be murdered by the tenth of June!

"But if my harmless trees must fall,
A fortune that awaits us all,
(All, all must yield to Nature's stroke,
And now a man, and now an oak)
Are those that round the churches grow
In this decree included too?
Must these, like common trees, be bled?
Is it a crime to shade the dead?
Review the law, I pray, at least,
And have some mercy on the priest
Who every Sunday sweats in black
To make us steer the skyward track:
The church has lost enough, God knows,
Plundered alike by friends and foes—
I hate such mean attempts as these—
Come—let the parson keep his trees!

"Yet things, perhaps, are not so bad—
Perhaps, a respite may be had:
The vilest rogues that cut our throats,
Or knaves that counterfeit our notes,
When, by the judge their sentence passed,
The gallows proves their doom at last,
Swindlers and pests of every kind,
For weeks and months a respite find;
And shall such nuisances as they,
Who make all honest men their prey—
Shall they for months avoid their doom,
And you, my trees, in all your bloom,
Who never injured small or great,
Be murdered at so short a date!

"Ye men of law, the occasion seize,
And name a counsel for the trees—
Arrest of judgment, sirs, I pray;
Excuse them till some future day:
These trees that such a nuisance are,
Next New-Year we can better spare,
To warm our shins, or boil the pot—
The Law, by then, will be forgot."