[121] This poem is unique in the 1788 edition of Freneau's works. It is evidently an earlier version of the "Mars and Hymen" below.

MARS AND HYMEN[122]

Occasioned by the separation of a young widow from a young military lover, of the troops sent to attack Fort Chamblee, in Canada; in which expedition he lost his life [1775]

Persons of the Poem—Lucinda, Damon, Thyrsis

Damon
Why do we talk of shaded bowers,
 When frosts, my fair one, chill the plain,
 And nights are cold, and long the hours
 That damp the ardour of the swain,
 Who, parting from his rural fire,
 All pleasure doth forego—
 And here and there,
 And everywhere,
 Pursues the invading foe.
Yes, we must rest on frosts and snows!
 No season shuts up our campaign!
 Hard as the rocks, we dare oppose
 The autumnal, or the wintery reign.
 Alike to us, the winds that blow
 In summer's season, gay,
 Or those that rave
 On Hudson's wave,
 And drift his ice away.
Winter and war may change the scene!
 The ball may pierce, the frost may chill;
 And dire misfortunes intervene,
 But freedom must be powerful still,
 To drive these Britons from our shore,
 Who come with sail, who come with oar,
 So cruel and unkind,
 With servile chain, who strive in vain,
 Our freeborn souls to bind.                         [Exit]
Lucinda (two months after)
They scold me, and tell me I must not complain,
 To part a few weeks with my favourite swain!
 He goes to the battle!—and leaves me to mourn—
 And tell me—and tell me—and will he return?[123]
 When he left me, he kiss'd me—and said, My sweet dear,
 In less than a month I again will be here;
 But still I can hardly my sorrows adjourn—
 You may call me a witch—if ever I return.[124]
 I said, My dear soldier, I beg you would stay;
 But he, with his farmers,[125] went strutting away—
 With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
 And I wept—for I thought he would never return.[126]
Thyrsis
Fairest of the female train,
 You must seek another swain,
 Damon will not come again!
 All his toils are over!
 As you prized him, to excess,
 Your loss is great, I will confess,
 But, lady, yield not to distress—
 I will be your lover.
Lucinda
Not all the swains the land can shew,
 (If Damon is not living now)[127]
 Can from my bosom drive my woe,
 Or bid a second passion glow;—
 For Damon has possession;
 Not all the gifts that wealth can bring,
 Nor all the airs that you can sing,
 Nor all the music of the string
 Can banish his impression.
Thyrsis
Wedlock and death too often prove
 Pernicious to the fires of Love:
 With equal strength they both combine
 Hearts best united[128] to disjoin:
 Hence ardent loves too soon remit;
 Thus die the fires that Cupid lit.
 Female tears and April snow
 Sudden come and sudden go.
 Since his head is levelled low,
 Cease remembrance of your woe.
 Can it be in reason found
 To be crazy for Love's wound?[129]
 Must you live in sorrows drowned
 For a lover under ground?
Lucinda
What a picture have I seen!
 What can all these visions mean!
 Wintry groves and vacant halls,
 Coffins hid by sable palls,
 Monuments and funerals!
 Forms terrific to the sight,
 Ghastly phantoms clad in white;
 Streams that ever seemed to freeze,
 Shaded o'er by willow trees,[130]
 Ever drooping—hardly green—
 What a vision have I seen!
 One I saw of angel kind,
 From the dregs of life refined;
 On her visage such a smile,[131]
 And she talk'd in such a style!
 All was heaven upon her brow;—
 Yes, I think I see her now!
 All in beams of light arrayed;
 And these cheering words she said:
 Fair Lucinda, come to me;
 What has grief to do with thee?
 O forsake your wretched shore,
 Crimsoned with its children's gore![132]
 Could you but a moment stray
 In the meadows where I play,
 You would die to come away.
 Come away, and speed your wing—[133]
 Here we love, and here we sing!
Thyrsis
You will not yet forget your glooms,
 The heavy heart, the downcast eye,
 The cheek that scarce a smile assumes,
 The never-ending sigh![134]
Lucinda
Had you the secret cause to grieve—
 That in this breast doth lie,
 Instead of wishing to relieve
 You would be just as I.
Thyrsis
What secret cause have you to grieve?—
 A lover gone astray?—[135]
 If one was able to deceive,
 Perhaps another may.
Lucinda
My lover has not me deceived,
 An act he would disdain;
 Oh! he is gone—and I am grieved—
 He'll never come again!
 He'll never come again!
Thyrsis
The turtle on yon' withered bough
 Who lately moaned her murdered mate,
 Has found another partner now,—
 Such changes all await.
 Again her drooping plume is dress'd,
 Again she wishes to be bless'd,
 And takes a husband to her nest.
 If nature has decreed it so
 With some above, and all below,
 Let us, Lucinda, banish woe,[136]
 Nor be perplext with sorrow:
 If I should leave your arms this night,
 And die before the morning light,
 I would advise you—and you might
 Wed again to-morrow.
Lucinda
The turtle on yon' withered tree!—
 That turtle never felt like me!
 Her grief is but a moment's date,
 Another day, another mate:
 And true it is, the feathered race
 Hold many a partner no disgrace.
 How would the world my fault display,
 What would censorious Sally[137] say?
 Would say, while grinning malice sneers,—[138]
 She made a conquest by her tears!
Thyrsis
My Polly!—once the pride of all,
 That shepherd lads their charmers call,
 Too early parted with her bloom,
 And sleeps in yonder sylvan tomb:
 Her death has set me free—
 Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
 But what is that to me!
 Since all must bow to fate's arrest,[139]
 No love deceased shall rack my breast—
 Come, then, Lucinda, and be blest.
Lucinda
My Damon! Oh, can I forget
 The hour you left these moistened eyes,
 O'er northern lakes to wander far
 To colder climes and dreary skies!
 There, vengeful, in their wastes of snow
 The Britons guard the frozen shore,
 And Damon there is perished now,
 The swain that shall return no more!
Thyrsis
Weep, weep no more, my Jersey lass,[140]
 The pang is past that fixed his doom—
 They, too, shall to destruction pass,
 Perhaps—and hardly find a tomb.
 Refrain your tears—enough are shed—
 They, too, shall have their share of woe:
 Fled is their fame, their honours fled;
 And Washington shall lay them low.
Lucinda
If you had but yon' sergeant's size,
 His mien and looks, so debonaire,
 You might seem lovely in my eyes,
 Nor should you quite despair.[141]
 There's something in your looks, I find,
 Recalling Damon to my mind—
 He is dead, and I must be resigned!
 His lively step, his sun-burnt face,
 His nervous arm in you I trace—
 Indeed,—I think you no disgrace.[142]
Thyrsis
On this dismal, cloudy day,[143]
 In these fighting times, I say,
 Will you Yea, or will you Nay?
Lucinda
Oh! I will not tell you Nay,
 You have such a coaxing way!
Thyrsis
Call the music!—half is done
 That my heart could count upon—
 From the grave I seize a prize!
 Here she is, and where he lies,
 She or I but little care!
 O, what animals we are!
 For you!—I would forego all ease,[144]
 And traverse sands or travel seas.
 Of all they sent us from above,
 Nothing, nothing is like love!
 Happiest passion of the mind,
 Sent from heaven to bless mankind,
 Though at variance with your charms,
 Fate's eternal mandate stands;
 Hymen, come!—unite our hands,
 And give Lucinda to my arms!

[122] This poem seems first to have appeared in the edition of 1786, where it bore the title, "Female Frailty. Written November 1775." Freneau made use of the opening speeches of Damon and Lucinda in his drama, The Spy. He omitted the poem from the 1795 edition of his works, retaining, however, the opening lyric, which he entitled "The Northern Soldier." The poem was reprinted in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have used. The poet edited the earlier version with great care, making verbal variations in almost every line, and adding lines and even stanzas. I have marked only a few of the more notable changes.

[123] "And, say what you please, he will never return."—Ed. 1786.

[124]

"With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
 And I wept, being sure he would never return."—Ib.

[125] "With his soldiers."—Ib.

[126]

"Then why should I longer my sorrows adjourn?—
 You may call me a fool if he ever return."—Ib.

[127] Not in the earliest version.

[128] "Hearts once united."—Ed. 1786.

[129]

"Never yet was reason found
 So distracted with love's wound
 As to be in sorrow drown'd."—Ib.

[130] "Planted round with cypress trees."—Ed. 1786.

[131] Four lines beginning with this not in original version.

[132] "Shrouded all with darkness o'er."—Ib.

[133]

"'Come away! and speed thy flight,
 All with me is endless light.'"—Ib.

[134] "The breast that heaves a sigh."—Ed. 1786.

[135] "A lover gone away?"—Ib.

[136]

"Let us, like them, forget our woe,
 And not be kill'd with sorrow."—Ed. 1786.

[137] "Censorious Chloe."—Ib.

[138] "While laughing folly hears."—Ib.

[139] "Death's arrest."—Ed. 1786.

[140] "My lovely lass."—Ib.

[141]

"If you had once a soldier's guise,
 The splendid coat, the sprightly air,
 You might seem charming in these eyes,
 Nor would I quite despair."—Ed. 1786.

[142]

"His handsome shape, his manly face,
 His youthful step in you I trace—
 All, all I wish for, but the lace."—Ib.

[143] The following eleven lines not in the original version.

[144] The 1786 version ended as follows:

Thyrsis
For you I would forego my ease,
 And traverse lakes, or ravage seas,
 And dress in lace, or what you please.
This enchanting month of May,
 So bright, so bloomy, and so gay,
 Claims our nuptials on this day.
For her vernal triumphs, we
 Tune the harp to symphony—
 Conquest has attended me.
Brightest season for the mind,
 Vigorous, free, and unconfin'd,
 Golden age of human kind.
Still at variance with thy charms
 Death's eternal empire stands—
 Hymen, come—while rapture warms,
 And give Lucinda to my arms.

MAC SWIGGEN[145]

A Satire

Written 1775

Long have I sat on this disast'rous shore,
 And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
 To Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say,
 Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may;
 But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell
 I think I may defer my voyage as well;
 Why should I far in search of honour roam,
 And dunces leave to triumph here at home?
 Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave.
 And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave,
 Hence came these rhimes, with truth ascrib'd to me,
 That swell thy little soul to jealousy:[146]
 If thus, tormented at these flighty lays,
 You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise,
 How will you bear the more exalted rhime,
 By labour polish'd, and matur'd by time?
 Devoted madman! what inspir'd thy rage,
 Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage?
 Against a wind-mill would'st thou try thy might,
 Against a giant[147] would a pigmy fight?
 What could thy slanderous pen with malice arm
 To injure him, who never did thee harm?[148]
 Have I from thee been urgent to attain
 The mean ideas of thy barren brain?
 Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine,
 And, when detected, swear by Jove they're mine?
 O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose,
 From thy own envy thy destruction flows!
 Bless'd be our western world—its scenes conspire
 To raise a poet's fancy and his fire,
 Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend!
 Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend!
 See mighty streams meandering to the main!
 See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain!
 The spotted herds in flowery meadows see!
 But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee?—
 You find no charms in all that nature yields,
 Then leave to me the grottoes and the fields:
 I interfere not with your vast design—
 Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine,
 Pursue, well pleas'd, your theologic schemes,
 Attend professors, and correct your themes,
 Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent,
 Or prove from scripture what it never meant,
 Or far through law, that land of scoundrels, stray,
 And truth disguise through all your mazy way;
 Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze,
 And by long cheating, learn to live at ease;
 If but in Wood or Littleton well read,
 The devil shall help you to your daily bread.
 O waft me far, ye muses of the west—
 Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest—
 Thrice happy in those dear retreats to find
 A safe retirement from all human kind.
 Though dire misfortunes every step attend,
 The muse, still social, still remains a friend—
 In solitude her converse gives delight,
 With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,
 She aids me, shields me, bears me on her wings,
 In spite of growling whelps, to high, exalted things,
 Beyond the miscreants that my peace molest,
 Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.
 Hail, great Mac Swiggen![149] foe to honest fame,[150]
 Patron of dunces, and thyself the same,
 You dream of conquest—tell me, how, or whence?
 Act like a man and combat me with sense—
 This evil have I known, and known but once,[151]
 Thus to be gall'd and slander'd by a dunce,
 Saw rage and weakness join their dastard plan
 To crush the shadow, not attack the man.
 What swarms of vermin from the sultry south
 Like frogs surround thy pestilential mouth—
 Clad in the garb of sacred sanctity,
 What madness prompts thee to invent a lie?
 Thou base defender of a wretched crew,
 Thy tongue let loose on those you never knew,
 The human spirit with the brutal join'd,
 The imps of Orcus in thy breast combin'd,
 The genius barren, and the wicked heart,
 Prepar'd to take each trifling scoundrel's part,
 The turn'd up nose, the monkey's foolish face,
 The scorn of reason, and your sire's disgrace—
 Assist me, gods, to drive this dog of rhime
 Back to the torments of his native clime,
 Where dullness mingles with her native earth,[152]
 And rhimes, not worth the pang that gave them birth!
 Where did he learn to write or talk with men?—
 A senseless blockhead, with a scribbling pen—
 In vile acrostics thou may'st please the fair,[153]
 Not less than with thy looks and powder'd hair,
 But strive no more with rhime to daunt thy foes,
 Or, by the flame that in my bosom glows,
 The muse on thee shall her worst fury spend,
 And hemp, or water, thy vile being end.
 Aspers'd like me, who would not grieve and rage!
 Who would not burn, Mac Swiggen to engage?
 Him and his friends, a mean, designing race,
 I, singly I, must combat face to face—
 Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouth'd train,[154]
 Assisted by no poets of the plain,
 Whose timerous Muses cannot swell their theme
 Beyond a meadow or a purling stream.—
 Were not my breast impervious to despair,
 And did not Clio reign unrivall'd there,
 I must expire beneath the ungenerous host,
 And dullness triumph o'er a poet lost.
 Rage gives me wings, and fearless prompts me on
 To conquer brutes the world should blush to own;
 No peace, no quarter to such imps I lend,
 Death and perdition on each line I send;
 Bring all the wittlings that your host supplies,
 A cloud of nonsense and a storm of lies—
 Your kitchen wit—Mac Swiggen's loud applause,
 That wretched rhymer with his lanthorn jaws—
 His deep-set eyes forever on the wink,
 His soul extracted from the public sink—
 All such as he, to my confusion call—
 And tho' ten myriads—I despise them all.
 Come on, Mac Swiggen, come—your muse is willing,
 Your prose is merry, but your verse is killing—
 Come on, attack me with that whining prose,
 Your beard is red, and swine-like is your nose,
 Like burning brush your bristly head of hair,
 The ugliest image of a Greenland bear—
 Come on—attack me with your choicest rhimes,
 Sound void of sense betrays the unmeaning chimes—
 Come, league your forces; all your wit combine,
 Your wit not equal to the bold design—
 The heaviest arms the Muse can give, I wield,
 To stretch Mac Swiggen floundering on the field,
 'Swiggen, who, aided by some spurious Muse,
 But bellows nonsense, and but writes abuse,
 'Swiggen, immortal and unfading grown,[155]
 But by no deeds or merits of his own.—
 So, when some hateful monster sees the day,
 In spirits we preserve it from decay,
 But for what end, it is not hard to guess—
 Not for its value, but its ugliness.
 Now, by the winds which shake thy rubric mop,
 (That nest of witches, or that barber's shop)
 Mac Swiggen, hear—Be wise in times to come,
 A dunce by nature, bid thy muse be dumb,
 Lest you, devoted to the infernal skies,
 Descend, like Lucifer, no more to rise.—
 Sick of all feuds, to Reason I appeal[156]
 From wars of paper, and from wars of steel,
 Let others here their hopes and wishes end,
 I to the sea with weary steps descend,
 Quit the mean conquest that such swine might yield,
 And leave Mac Swiggen to enjoy the field—
 In distant isles some happier scene I'll choose,
 And court in softer shades the unwilling Muse,
 Thrice happy there, through peaceful plains to rove,
 Or the cool verdure of the orange grove,
 Safe from the miscreants that my peace molest,
 Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.

[145] I can find only two versions of this poem: that in the 1786 edition of the poet, which I have reproduced, and that in the 1809 edition, in which the title is changed to "A Satire in Answer to a Hostile Attack. [First written, and published 1775.]" From the nature of the concluding lines of the poem, it may be inferred that it was the last work done by the poet before starting on his voyage to the West Indies, late In November. I have not been able to find a trace of the hostile attack in the newspapers or publications of the period, or of the original publication of "Mac Swiggen." The poem was omitted from the 1795 edition, only the first eight lines being used in the short poem "To Shylock Ap-Shenken." The poet made many verbal changes for the later edition, but I have marked only the most significant.

[146] "Urge your little soul to cruelty."—Ed. 1809.

[147] "Castle."—Ed. 1809.

[148] "Meant you harm."—Ib.

[149] "Thou bright genius." In each case where Mac Swiggen is used in the earlier version, it is changed later.—"This giant," "Sangrado," "dear satirist," "a green goose," "scribbler," and "insect," are supplied in its place.

[150] Of the ninety-four remaining lines of the poem, fifty were taken from the satires written by the poet while in college, in the war between the Whig and Cliosophic Societies. Many of the lines were much changed. The portion used by Freneau may be said to comprise all of the three early satires that could be quoted with decency.

[151] This line and the one following not in the Clio-Whig satires.

[152] This line and the one following not in the Clio-Whig satires.

[153] This line and the seven following not in the Clio-Whig satires.

[154] This line and the seven following not in the Clio-Whig satires.

[155] Six lines not in Clio-Whig satires.

[156] The remainder of the poem not in the Clio-Whig satires.

THE HOUSE OF NIGHT[157]

A Vision

Advertisement—This Poem is founded upon the authority of Scripture, inasmuch as these sacred books assert, that the last enemy that shall be conquered is Death. For the purposes of poetry he is here personified, and represented as on his dying bed. The scene is laid at a solitary palace, (the time midnight) which, tho' before beautiful and joyous, is now become sad and gloomy, as being the abode and receptacle of Death. Its owner, an amiable, majestic youth, who had lately lost a beloved consort, nevertheless with a noble philosophical fortitude and humanity, entertains him in a friendly manner, and by employing Physicians, endeavours to restore him to health, altho' an enemy; convinced of the excellence and propriety of that divine precept, If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink. He nevertheless, as if by a spirit of prophecy, informs this (fictitiously) wicked being of the certainty of his doom, and represents to him in a pathetic manner the vanity of his expectations, either of a reception into the abodes of the just, or continuing longer to make havock of mankind upon earth. The patient finding his end approaching, composes his epitaph, and orders it to be engraved on his tombstone, hinting to us thereby, that even Death and Distress have vanity; and would be remembered with honour after he is no more, altho' his whole life has been spent in deeds of devastation and murder. He dies at last in the utmost agonies of despair, after agreeing with an avaricious Undertaker to intomb his bones. This reflects upon the inhumanity of those men, who, not to mention an enemy, would scarcely cover a departed friend with a little dust, without certainty of reward for so doing. The circumstances of his funeral are then recited, and the visionary and fabulous part of the poem disappears. It concludes with a few reflections on the impropriety of a too great attachment to the present life, and incentives to such moral virtue as may assist in conducting us to a better.