Wise was your plan when twenty years ago
From Patrick's isle you first resolved to stray,
Where lords and knights, as thick as rushes grow,
And vulgar folks are in each other's way;
Where mother-country acts the step-dame's part,
Cuts off, by aid of hemp, each petty sinner,
And twice or thrice in every score of years
Hatches sad wars to make her brood the thinner.
How few aspire to quit the ungrateful soil
That starves the plant it had the strength to bear:
How many stay, to grieve, and fret, and toil,
And view the plenty that they must not share.
This you beheld, and westward set your nose,
Like some bold prow, that ploughs the Atlantic foam,
And left less venturous weights, like famished crows,—
To feed on hog-peas, hips, and haws, at home.
Safe landed here, not long the coast detained
Your wary steps:—but wandering on, you found
Far in the west, a paltry spot of land,
That no man envied, and that no man owned.
A woody hill, beside a dismal bog—
This was your choice; nor were you much to blame:
And here, responsive to the croaking frog,
You grubbed, and stubbed, and feared no landlord's claim.
An axe, an adze, a hammer, and a saw;
These were the tools, that built your humble shed:
A cock, a hen, a mastiff, and a cow:
These were your subjects, to this desert led.
Now times are changed—and labour's nervous hand
Bids harvests rise where briars and bushes grew;
The dismal bog, by lengthy sluices drained,
Supports no more hoarse captain Bull Frog's crew.—
Prosper your toil!—but, friend, had you remained
In lands, where starred and gartered nobles shine,
When you had, thus, to sixty years attained,
What different fate, 'Squire Crispin, had been thine!
Nine pence a day, coarse fare, a bed of boards,
The midnight loom, high rents, and excised beer;
Slave to dull squires, kings' brats, and huffish lords,
(Thanks be to Heaven) not yet in fashion here!
CRISPIN'S ANSWER
Much pleased am I, that you approve
Freedom's blest cause that brought me here:
Ireland I loved—but there they strove
To make me bend to King and Peer.
I could not bow to noble knaves,
Who Equal Rights to men deny:
Scornful, I left a land of slaves,
And hither came, my axe to ply:
The axe has well repaid my toil—
No king, no priest, I yet espy
To tythe my hogs, to tax my soil,
And suck my whiskey bottle dry.
In foreign lands what snares are laid!
There royal rights all right defeat;
They taxed my sun, they taxed my shade,
They taxed the offal that I eat.
They taxed my hat, they taxed my shoes,
Fresh taxes still on taxes grew;
They would have taxed my very nose,
Had I not fled, dear friends, to you.
TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[57]
Since the day I attempted to print a gazette,
This Shylock Ap-Shenkin does nothing but fret:
Now preaching and screeching, then nibbling and scribbling,
Remarking and barking, and whining and pining, and still in a pet,
From morning 'till night, with my humble gazette.
Instead of whole columns our page to abuse,
Your readers would rather be treated with News:
While wars are a-brewing, and kingdoms undoing,
While monarchs are falling, and princesses squalling,
While France is reforming, and Irishmen storming—
In a glare of such splendour, what folly to fret
At so humble a thing as a poet's Gazette!
No favours I ask'd from your friends in the East:
On your wretched soup-meagre I left them to feast;
So many base lies you have sent them in print,
That scarcely a man at our paper will squint:—
And now you begin (with a grunt and a grin,
With the bray of an ass, and a visage of brass,
With a quill in your hand and a Lie in your mouth)
To play the same trick on the men of the South!
One Printer for Congress (some think) is enough,
To flatter, and lie, to palaver, and puff,
To preach up in favour of monarchs and titles,
And garters, and ribbands, to prey on our vitals:
Who knows but Pomposo will give it in fee,
Or make mister Shenkin the Grand Patentee!!!
Then take to your scrapers, ye Republican Papers,
No rogue shall go snacks—and the News-Paper Tax
Shall be puff'd to the skies, as a measure most wise—
So, a spaniel, when master is angry, and kicks it,
Sneaks up to his shoe, and submissively licks it.
TO MY BOOK[58]
Seven years are now elaps'd, dear rambling volume,
Since, to all knavish wights a foe,
I sent you forth to vex and gall 'em,
Or drive them to the shades below:
With spirit, still, of Democratic proof,
And still despising Shylock's canker'd hoof:
What doom the fates intend, is hard to say,
Whether to live to some far-distant day,
Or sickening in your prime,
In this bard-baiting clime,
Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away.
"Virtue, order, and religion,
"Haste, and seek some other region;
"Your plan is laid, to hunt them down,
"Destroy the mitre, rend the gown,
"And that vile hag, Philosophy, restore"—
Did ever volume plan so much before?
For seven years past, a host of busy foes
Have buzz'd about your nose,
White, black, and grey, by night and day;
Garbling, lying, singing, sighing:
These eastern gales a cloud of insects bring
That fluttering, snivelling, whimpering—on the wing—
And, wafted still as discord's demon guides,
Flock round the flame, that yet shall singe their hides.
Well!—let the fates decree whate'er they please:
Whether you're doom'd to drink oblivion's cup,
Or Praise-God Barebones eats you up,
This I can say, you've spread your wings afar,
Hostile to garter, ribbon, crown, and star;
Still on the people's, still on Freedom's side,
With full determin'd aim, to baffle every claim
Of well-born wights, that aim to mount and ride.
To the memory of two young persons (twin brothers), Robert Sevier
and William Sevier, who were killed by the Savages on Cumberland
River, in North-Carolina, in attempting to assist a new settler,
who was then passing the river with a numerous family
In the same hour two lovely youths were born,
Nature, with care, had moulded either clay:
In the same hour, from this world's limits torn,
The murderous Indian seiz'd their lives away.
Distress to aid, impell'd each generous breast;
With nervous arm they brav'd the adverse tide,
In friendship's cause encounter'd death's embrace,
Blameless they liv'd, in honour's path they died.
But ah! what art shall dry a father's tears!
Who shall relieve, or what beguile his pain!
Clouds shade his sun, and griefs advance with years—
Nature gave joys, to take those joys again.
Thou, that shall come to these sequester'd streams,
When times to come their story shall relate;
Let the fond heart, that native worth esteems,
Revere their virtues, and bemoan their fate.
TO A PERSECUTED PHILOSOPHER[60]
As Aristippus once, with weary feet,
Pursued his way through polish'd Athens' street,
Minding no business but his own;
Out rush'd a set of whelps
With sun-burnt scalps,
(Black, red, and brown,)
That nipt his heels, and nibbled at his gown.
While, with his staff, he kept them all at bay
Some yelp'd aloud, some howl'd in dismal strain,
Some wish'd the sage to bark again:—
Even little Shylock seem'd to say,
"Answer us, sir, in your best way:—
"We are, 'tis true, a snarling crew,
"But with our jaws have gain'd applause,
"And—sir—can worry such as you."
The sage beheld their spite with steady eye,
And only stopp'd to make this short reply:
"Hark ye, my dogs, I have not learn'd to yelp,
"Nor waste my breath on every lousy whelp;
"Much less, to write, or stain my wholesome page
"In answering puppies—bursting with their rage:
"Hence to your straw!—such contest I disdain:
"Learn this, ('tis not amiss)
"For Men I keep a pen,
"For dogs, a cane!"
TO AN ANGRY ZEALOT[61]
[In Answer to Sundry Virulent Charges]
If of Religion I have made a sport,
Then why not cite me to the Bishop's Court?
Fair to the world let every page be set,
And prove your charge from all I've said and writ:—
What if this heart no narrow notions bind,
Its pure good-will extends to all mankind:
Suppose I ask no portion from your feast,
Nor heaven-ward ride behind your parish priest,
Because I wear not Shylock's Sunday face
Must I, for that, be loaded with disgrace?
The time has been,—the time, I fear, is now,
When holy phrenzy would erect her brow,
Round some poor wight with painted devils meet,
And worse than Smithfield blaze through every street;
But wholesome laws prevent such horrid scenes,
No more afraid of deacons and of deans,
In this new world our joyful Psalm we sing
That Even a Bishop is a Harmless Thing!
THE
P Y R A M I D
OF THE
FIFTEEN AMERICAN STATES[62]
*
* *
* * *
* * * *
* * * * *
Barbara Pyramidum sileat miracula Memphis;*
Heu, male servili marmora structa manu!
Libera jam, ruptis, Atlantias ora, catenis,
Jactat opus Phario marmore nobilius:
Namque Columbiadæ, facti monumenta parantes,
Vulgarem spernunt sumere materiam;
Magnanimi cœlum scandunt, perituraque saxa
Quod vincat, celsa de Jovis arce petunt
Audax inde cohors stellis E Pluribus Unum
Ardua Pyramidos tollit ad astra caput.
Ergo, Tempus edax, quamvis durissima sævo
Saxa domas morsu, nil ibi juris habes:
Dumque polo solitis cognata nitoribus ardent
Sidera fulgebit Pyramis illa suis!
[In Imitation of the Preceding Lines]
No more let barbarous Memphis boast
Huge structures reared by servile hands—
A nation on the Atlantic coast
Fettered no more in foreign bands,
A nobler Pyramid displays
Than Egypt's tyranny could raise.
Columbia's sons, to extend the fame
Of their exploits to future years,
No marble from the quarry claim,
But, soaring to the starry spheres,
Materials seek in Jove's blue sky
To endure when brass and marble die!
Arrived among the shining host,
Fearless, the proud invaders spoil
From countless gems, in æther lost,
These Stars, to crown their mighty toil:
To heaven a Pyramid they rear
And point the summit with a star.
Old wasteful Time! though still you gain
Dominion o'er the brazen tower,
On This your teeth will gnaw in vain,
Finding its strength beyond their power:
While kindred stars in æther glow,
This Pyramid will shine below!
[1792]
ON THE DEMOLITION OF THE
FRENCH MONARCHY[63]
From Bourbon's brow the crown remov'd,
Low in the dust is laid;
And, parted now from all she lov'd,
Maria's[A] beauties fade:
What shall relieve her sad distress,
What power recall that former state
When drinking deep her seas of bliss,
She smil'd and look'd so sweet!—
With aching heart and haggard eye
She views the palace,[B] towering high,
Where, once, were pass'd her brightest days,
And nations stood, in wild amaze,
Louis! to see you eat.
This gaudy vision to restore
Shall fate its laws repeal,
And cruel despots rise once more
To plan a new Bastille!
Shall, from their sheathes, ten thousand blades[C]
In glittering vengeance start
To mow down slaves, and slice off heads,
Taking a monarch's part?—
Ah no!—the heavens this hope refuse;
Despots! they send you no such news—
Nor Conde, fierce, nor Frederick, stout,
Nor Catharine brings this work about,
Nor Brunswick's warlike art:
Nor He,[D] that once, with fire and sword,
This western world alarm'd:
Throughout our clime whose thunders roar'd,
Whose legions round us swarm'd—
Once more his tyrant arm invades
A race[E] that dare be free:
His Myrmidons, with murdering blades,
In one base cause agree!—
Ill fate attend on every scheme
That tends to darken Reason's beam:
And, rising with gigantic might
In Virtue's cause, I see unite
Worlds, under Freedom's Tree!
Valour, at length, by Fortune led,
The Rights of Man restores;
And Gallia, now from bondage freed,
Her rising sun adores:
On Equal Rights, her fabric plann'd,
Storms idly round it rave,
No longer breathes in Gallic land
A monarch, or a slave!
At distance far, and self-remov'd
From all he own'd and all he lov'd,
See!—turn'd his back on Freedom's blaze,
In foreign lands the Emigrant strays,
Or finds an early grave!
Enroll'd with these—and close immur'd,
The gallant chief[F] is found,
That, once, admiring crowds ador'd,
Through either world renown'd,
Here, bold in arms, and firm in heart,
He help'd to gain our cause,
Yet could not from a tyrant part,
But, turn'd to embrace his laws!—
Ah! hadst thou stay'd in fair Auvergne,[G]
And Truth from Paine vouchsaf'd to learn;
There, happy, honour'd, and retir'd,
Both hemispheres had still admir'd,
Still crown'd you with applause.
See!—doom'd to fare on famish'd steeds,
The rude Hungarians fly;
Brunswick, with drooping courage leads
Death's meagre family:
In dismal groups, o'er hosts of dead,
Their madness they bemoan,
No friendly hand to give them bread,
No Thionville their own!
The Gaul, enrag'd as they retire,
Hurls at their heads his blaze of fire—
What hosts of Frederick's reeking crew
Dying, have bid the world adieu,
To dogs their flesh been thrown!
Escap'd from death, a mangled train
In scatter'd bands retreat:
Where, bounding on Silesia's plain,
The Despot[H] holds his seat;
With feeble step, I see them go
The heavy news to tell
Where Oder's lazy waters flow,
Or glides the swift Moselle;
Where Rhine his various journey moves
Through marshy lands and ruin'd groves,
Or, where the vast Danubian flood
(So often stain'd by Austrian blood)
Foams with the autumnal swell.
But shall they not some tidings bear
Of Freedom's sacred flame,
And shall not groaning millions hear
The long abandon'd name?—
Through ages past, their spirits broke,
I see them spurn old laws,
Indignant, burst the Austrian yoke,
And clip the Eagle's[I] claws:
From shore to shore, from sea to sea
They join, to set the wretched free,
And, driving from the servile court
Each titled slave—they help support
The Democratic Cause!
O France! the world to thee must owe
A debt they ne'er can pay:
The Rights of Man you bid them know,
And kindle Reason's Day!
Columbia, in your friendship blest,
Your gallant deeds shall hail—
On the same ground our fortunes rest,
Must flourish, or must fail:
But—should all Europe's slaves combine
Against a cause so fair as thine,
And Asia aid a league so base—
Defeat would all their aims disgrace,
And Liberty Prevail!
Philadelphia, December 19, 1792.
ON THE FRENCH REPUBLICANS[64]
These gallant men that some so much despise
Did not, like mushrooms, spring up in a night:
By them instructed, France again shall rise,
And every Frenchman learn his native right.
American! when in your country's cause
You march'd, and dar'd the English lion's jaws,
Crush'd Hessian slaves, and made their hosts retreat,
Say, were you not Republican—complete?
Forever banish'd, now, be prince and king,
To Nations and to Laws our reverence due:
And let not language to my memory bring,
A word that might recall the infernal crew,
Monarch!—henceforth I blot it from my page,
Monarchs and slaves too long disgrace this age;
But thou, Republican, that some disclaim,
Shalt save a world, and damn a tyrant's fame.
Friends to Republics, cross the Atlantic brine,
Low in the dust see regal splendour laid:
Hopeless forever, sleeps the Bourbon line
Long practis'd adepts in the murdering trade!
With patriot care the nation's will expressing
Republicans shall prove all Europe's blessing,
Pull from his height each blustering Noble down
And chace all modern Tarquins from the throne.
ON THE PORTRAITS
Of Louis and Antoinette, in the Senate Chamber[65]
Discharg'd by France, no more the royal pair
Claim from a nation's love a nation's care:
Their splendid race no more a palace holds,—
While Louis frets, Antonietta scolds;
Folly's sad victims, fortune's bitter sport,
They take their stand among the "common sort,"
Doom'd through the world, in sad reverse, to roam,
Perhaps—without a shelter or a home!
To shew our pity for their short-liv'd reign
What shall we do, or how express our pain?
Since for their persons no relief is found
But cruel mobs degrade them to the ground,
To shew how deeply we regret their fall
We hang their portraits in our Senate Hall!
TO A REPUBLICAN
With Mr. Paine's Rights of Man[66]
Thus briefly sketch'd the sacred Rights of Man,
How inconsistent with the Royal Plan!
Which for itself exclusive honour craves,
Where some are masters born, and millions slaves.
With what contempt must every eye look down
On that base, childish bauble call'd a crown,
The gilded bait, that lures the crowd, to come,
Bow down their necks, and meet a slavish doom;
The source of half the miseries men endure,
The quack that kills them, while it seems to cure.
Rous'd by the Reason of his manly page,
Once more shall Paine a listening world engage:
From Reason's source, a bold reform he brings,
In raising up mankind, he pulls down kings,
Who, source of discord, patrons of all wrong,
On blood and murder have been fed too long:
Hid from the world, and tutor'd to be base,
The curse, the scourge, the ruin of our race,
Theirs was the task, a dull designing few,
To shackle beings that they scarcely knew,
Who made this globe the residence of slaves,
And built their thrones on systems form'd by knaves—
Advance, bright years, to work their final fall,
And haste the period that shall crush them all.
Who, that has read and scann'd the historic page
But glows, at every line, with kindling rage,
To see by them the rights of men aspers'd,
Freedom restrain'd, and Nature's law revers'd,
Men, rank'd with beasts, by monarchs will'd away,
And bound young fools, or madmen to obey:
Now driven to wars, and now oppress'd at home,
Compell'd in crowds o'er distant seas to roam,
From India's climes the plundered prize to bring
To glad the strumpet, or to glut the king.
Columbia, hail! immortal be thy reign:
Without a king, we till the smiling plain;
Without a king, we trace the unbounded sea,
And traffic round the globe, through each degree;
Each foreign clime our honour'd flag reveres,
Which asks no monarch, to support the Stars:
Without a king, the Laws maintain their sway,
While honour bids each generous heart obey.
Be ours the task the ambitious to restrain,
And this great lesson teach—that kings are vain;
That warring realms to certain ruin haste,
That kings subsist by war, and wars are waste:
So shall our nation, form'd on Virtue's plan,
Remain the guardian of the Rights of Man,
A vast Republic, fam'd through every clime,
Without a king, to see the end of time.