[33] This fragment of a drama, as far as I can find, was never published. Freneau, judging from indications, wrote it shortly after his "Prison Ship," in the autumn of 1780, only a few weeks after the events took place which it records. It exists, as far as I know, only in Freneau's fragmentary and much-revised autograph manuscript now in the possession of Miss Adele M. Sweeney of Jersey City. The arrest of André took place September 23, 1780.

[34] Here occurs an illegible word in Freneau's manuscript.

[35] This poem was first published in the edition of 1786 under the title, "The English Quixote of 1778; or, Modern Idolatry." In the 1809 edition Freneau added the following:

Epilogue

'Tis so well known 'tis hardly worth relating
That men have worshipped gods, though of their own creating:
Art's handy work they thought they might adore,
And bowed to gods that were but logs before.

Idols, of old, were made of clay or wood,
And, in themselves, did neither harm nor good,
Acted as though they knew the good old rule,
"Friend, hold thy peace, and you'll be thought no fool."

Britons! their case is yours—and linked in fate,
You, like your Indian allies—good and great—
Bow to some frowning block yourselves did rear,
And worship wooden monarchs—out of fear.

[36] This lyric has been used by Freneau in his poem, "Mars and Hymen," q. v.

[37] An illegible word.

[38] This poem had also been used in "Mars and Hymen." In later editions it was printed as a distinct lyric, with the title "The Northern Soldier." The present version, reprinted from Freneau's manuscript, will be seen to differ considerably from the others.

[39] A part of the manuscript is missing at this point.

[40] Here the manuscript ends abruptly.

PART III

ERA OF THE FREEMAN'S JOURNAL

1781—1790

ERA OF THE FREEMAN'S JOURNAL

1781—1790 [41]

[41] This period began in August, 1781, when Freneau became connected with Mr. Francis Bailey's Freeman's Journal, in Philadelphia. In June, 1784, he left Philadelphia for a wandering career upon the ocean, which continued until 1790, when his assumption of the editorship of the New York Advertiser and his marriage put an end for a time to his wanderings. The greater part of the poems written during this period appeared originally in the Freeman's Journal.

ON THE MEMORABLE VICTORY [42]

Obtained by the gallant Captain Paul Jones, of the Good Man Richard, over the Seraphis, etc., under the command of Captain Pearson.

Written August, 1781

O'er the rough main with flowing sheet
The guardian of a numerous fleet,
Seraphis from the Baltic came;
A ship of less tremendous force
Sail'd by her side the self-same course,
Countess of Scarb'ro' was her name.

And now their native coasts appear,
Britannia's hills their summits rear
Above the German main;
Fond to suppose their dangers o'er,
They southward coast along the shore,
Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain.

Full forty guns Seraphis bore,
And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four,
Mann'd with Old England's boldest tars—
What flag that rides the Gallic seas
Shall dare attack such piles as these,
Design'd for tumults and for wars!

Now from the top-mast's giddy height
A seaman cry'd—"Four sail in sight
"Approach with favouring gales;"
Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet,
Stood off to sea these ships to meet,
And closely brac'd his shivering sails.

With him advanc'd the Countess bold,
Like a black tar in wars grown old:
And now these floating piles drew nigh;
But, muse, unfold what chief of fame
In th' other warlike squadron came,
Whose standards at his mast head fly.

'Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle led
As bold a crew as ever bled
Upon the sky surrounded main;
The standards of the Western World
Were to the willing winds unfurl'd,
Denying Britain's tyrant reign.

The Good Man Richard led the line;
The Alliance next: with these combine
The Gallic ship they Pallas call:
The Vengeance, arm'd with sword and flame,
These to attack the Britons came—
But two accomplish'd all.

Now Phœbus sought his pearly bed:
But who can tell the scenes of dread,
The horrors of that fatal night!
Close up these floating castles came;
The Good Man Richard bursts in flame;
Seraphis trembled at the sight.

She felt the fury of her ball,
Down, prostrate down, the Britons fall;
The decks were strew'd with slain:
Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd;
And, while the black artillery flash'd,
Loud thunders shook the main.

Alas! that mortals should employ
Such murdering engines, to destroy
That frame by heav'n so nicely join'd;
Alas! that e'er the god decreed
That brother should by brother bleed,
And pour'd such madness in the mind.

But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt bear;
The rights of men demand thy care:
For these you dare the greedy waves—
No tyrant on destruction bent
Has planned thy conquests—thou art sent
To humble tyrants and their slaves.

See!—dread Seraphis flames again—
And art thou, Jones, among the slain,
And sunk to Neptune's caves below—
He lives—though crowds around him fall,
Still he, unhurt, survives them all;
Almost alone he fights the foe.

And can thy ship these strokes sustain?
Behold thy brave companions slain,
All clasp'd in ocean's dark embrace.
"Strike, or be sunk!"—the Briton cries—
"Sink, if you can!"—the chief replies,
Fierce lightnings blazing in his face.

Then to the side three guns he drew,
(Almost deserted by his crew)
And charg'd them deep with woe:
By Pearson's flash he aim'd the balls;
His main-mast totters—down it falls—
Tremendous was the blow.[43]

Pearson as yet disdain'd to yield,
But scarce his secret fears conceal'd,
And thus was heard to cry—
"With hell, not mortals, I contend;
"What art thou—human, or a fiend,
"That dost my force defy?

"Return, my lads, the fight renew!"
So call'd bold Pearson to his crew;
But call'd, alas! in vain;
Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead;
Some to their deep recesses fled,
And more were bury'd in the main.[44]

Distress'd, forsaken, and alone,
He haul'd his tatter'd standard down,
And yielded to his gallant foe;
Bold Pallas soon the Countess took,
Thus both their haughty colours struck,
Confessing what the brave can do.

But, Jones, too dearly didst thou buy
These ships possest so gloriously,
Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray:
Thy barque that bore the conquering flame,
That the proud Briton overcame,
Even she forsook thee on thy way;

For when the morn began to shine,
Fatal to her, the ocean brine
Pour'd through each spacious wound;
Quick in the deep she disappear'd,
But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd,
With conquest and with glory crown'd.

Go on, great man, to daunt the foe,
And bid the haughty Britons know
They to our Thirteen Stars shall bend;
The Stars that veil'd in dark attire,
Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire,
But radiant now ascend;

Bend to the Stars that flaming rise
In western, not in eastern, skies,
Fair Freedom's reign restor'd.
So when the Magi, come from far,
Beheld the God-attending Star,
They trembled and ador'd.

[42] This was the first poem contributed by Freneau to the Freeman's Journal. It appeared August 8, 1781. The exploit of Jones is too well known to need further comment; it took place September 23, 1779. The text follows the edition of 1786.

[43] "Overwhelming half below."—Ed. 1795.

[44] "And hosts were shrouded in the main."—Ed. 1795.

AN ADDRESS [45]

To the Commander-in-Chief, Officers, and Soldiers of the American Army

Accept, great men, that share of honest praise
A grateful nation to your merit pays:
Verse is too mean your merit to display,
And words too weak our praises to convey.
When first proud Britain raised her hostile hand
With claims unjust to bind our native land,
Transported armies, and her millions spent
To enforce the mandate that a tyrant sent;
"Resist! resist!" was heard through every state,
You heard the call, and feared your country's fate;
Then rising fierce in arms, for war arrayed,
You taught to vanquish those who dared invade.
Those British chiefs whom former wars had crowned
With conquest—and in every clime renowned;
Who forced new realms to own their monarch's law,
And whom even George beheld with secret awe—
Those mighty chiefs, compelled to fly or yield,
Scarce dared to meet you on the embattled field;
To Boston's port you chased the trembling crew,
Quick, even from thence the British veterans flew—
Through wintry waves they fled, and thought each wave
Their last, best safety from a foe so brave![46]
What men, like you, our warfare could command,
And bring us safely to the promised land?—
Not swoln with pride,[47] with victory elate—
'Tis in misfortune you are doubly great:
When Howe victorious our weak armies chased,
And, sure of conquest, laid Cesarea waste,
When prostrate, bleeding, at his feet she lay,
And the proud victor tore her wreathes away,
Each gallant chief [48] put forth his warlike hand
And raised the drooping genius of the land,
Repelled the foe, their choicest warriors slain,
And drove them howling to their ships again.
While others kindle into martial rage
Whom fierce ambition urges to engage,
An iron race, by angry heaven designed
To conquer first and then enslave mankind;
Here chiefs and heroes [49] more humane we see,
They venture life, that others may be free.
O! may you live to hail that glorious day
When Britain homeward shall pursue her way—
That race subdued, who filled the world with slain
And rode tyrannic o'er the subject main!—
What few presumed, you boldly have atchieved,
A tyrant humbled, and a world relieved.
O Washington, who leadst this glorious train,[50]
Still may the fates thy valued life maintain.—
Rome's boasted chiefs, who, to their own disgrace,
Proved the worst scourges of the human race,
Pierced by whose darts a thousand nations bled,
Who captive princes at their chariots led;
Born to enslave, to ravage, and subdue—
Return to nothing when compared to you;
Throughout the world your growing fame has spread,
In every country are your virtues read;
Remotest India hears your deeds of fame,
The hardy Scythian stammers at your name;
The haughty Turk, now longing to be free,
Neglects his Sultan to enquire of thee;
The barbarous Briton hails you to his shores,
And calls him Rebel, whom his heart adores.
Still may the heavens prolong your vital date,
And still may conquest on your banners wait:
Whether afar to ravaged lands you go,
Where wild Potowmac's rapid waters flow,
Or where Saluda laves the fertile plain
And, swoln by torrents, rushes to the main;
Or if again to Hudson you repair
To smite the cruel foe that lingers there—
Revenge their cause, whose virtue was their crime,
The exiled hosts from Carolina's clime.
Late from the world in quiet mayest thou rise
And, mourned by millions, reach your native skies—
With patriot kings and generous chiefs to shine,
Whose virtues raised them to be deemed divine:
May Vasa [A] only equal honours claim,
Alike in merits—not the first in fame!

[A] Gustavus Vasa of Sweden, the deliverer of his country.—Freneau's note. In the earlier editions this read Louis. First changed for the edition of 1795.

[45] First published in the Freeman's Journal, September 5, 1781, under the title "To his Excellency General Washington," and reprinted without change in the edition of 1786. The same paper contained the following news item: "On Thursday, the 30th of August, at one o'clock in the afternoon, his excellency General Washington, Commander-in-chief of the American Armies, accompanied by the Generals Rochambeau and Chattelux, with their respective suites, arrived in this city." The early version was addressed wholly to Washington, the opening line reading, "Accept, great chief," etc. For the edition of 1795 it was changed to include officers and soldiers.

[46]

"* * * they fled, and thought the sea
With all its storms less terrible than thee!"—Ed. 1786.

[47] "Not Clinton-like."—Ib.

[48] "You undismay'd."—-Ib.

[49] "In him a hero."—Ib.

[50] This and the line following not in the original version.

A NEW-YORK TORY [51]

To His Friend in Philadelphia

Dear Sir, I'm so anxious to hear of your health,
I beg you would send me a letter by stealth:
I hope a few months will quite alter the case,
When the wars are concluded, we'll meet and embrace.

For I'm led to believe from our brilliant success,
And, what is as clear, your amazing distress,
That the cause of rebellion has met with a check
That will bring all its patrons to hang by the neck.

Cornwallis has managed so well in the South,
Those rebels want victuals to put in their mouth;
And Arnold has stript them, we hear, to the buff [52]—
Has burnt their tobacco, and left them—the snuff.

Dear Thomas, I wish you would move from that town
Where meet all the rebels of fame and renown;
When our armies, victorious, shall clear that vile nest
You may chance, though a Tory, to swing with the rest.

But again—on reflection—I beg you would stay—
You may serve us yet better than if moved away—
Give advice to Sir Harry of all that is passing,
What vessels are building, what cargoes amassing;

Inform, to a day, when those vessels will sail,
That our cruisers may capture them all, without fail—
By proceedings like these, your peace will be made,
The rebellious shall swing, but be you ne'er afraid.

I cannot conceive how you do to subsist—
The rebels are starving, except those who 'list;
And as you reside in the land of Gomorrah,
You must fare as the rest do, I think, to your sorrow.

Poor souls! if ye knew what a doom is decreed,
(I mean not for you, but for rebels indeed),
You would tremble to think of the vengeance in store,
The halters and gibbets—I mention no more.

The rebels must surely conclude they're undone,
Their navy is ruined, their armies have run;
It is time they should now from delusion awaken—
The rebellion is done—for the Trumbull[53] is taken!

[51] Freeman's Journal, September 5, 1781.

[52] Cornwallis, in command of the British army in the South, was in the early part of 1781 working his way steadily northward from South Carolina. Benedict Arnold arrived in the Chesapeake, January 2, 1781, and, supported by the British navy there, committed extensive ravages on the rivers and unprotected coasts of Virginia. Arnold offered to spare Richmond if he were given its stores of tobacco. The offer being rejected, the city with its tobacco was burned.

[53] The American frigate Trumbull, 20, Captain James Nicholson, was chased off the capes of the Delaware, August 8th, 1781, by three British cruisers. As it was blowing heavily towards night, the fore-topmast of the Trumbull was carried away by a squall, bringing down with it, on deck, the main-topgallant mast. About ten o'clock at night, one of the British vessels, the Iris, 32, came up and closed with her while still encumbered with the wreck. "In the midst of rain and squalls, in a tempestuous night, with most of the forward hamper of the ship over her bows, or lying on the forecastle, with one of the arms of the fore-topsail yard run through her fore-sail, and the other jammed on deck, and with a disorganized crew, Captain Nicholson found himself compelled to go to quarters, or to strike without resistance. He preferred the first; but the English volunteers, instead of obeying orders, went below, extinguished the lights, and secreted themselves. Near half of the remainder of the people imitated this example, and Captain Nicholson could not muster fifty of even the diminished crew he had, at the guns. The battle that followed might almost be said to have been fought by the officers. These brave men, sustained by a party of the petty officers and seamen, managed a few of the guns for more than an hour, when the General Monk, 18, coming up and joining in the fire of the Iris, the Trumbull submitted."—Cooper's Naval History.—[Duyckinck's note, ed. of 1865.]

TO LORD CORNWALLIS [54]

At York, Virginia

Hail, great destroyer (equalled yet by none)
Of countries not your master's, nor your own;
Hatched by some demon on a stormy day,
Satan's best substitute to burn and slay;
Confined at last, hemmed in by land and sea,
Burgoyne himself was but a type of thee!
Like his, to freedom was your deadly hate,
Like his your baseness, and be his your fate:
To you, like him, no prospect Nature yields,
But ruined wastes and desolated fields [55]—
In vain you raise the interposing wall,
And hoist those standards that, like you, must fall,
In you conclude the glories of your race,
Complete your monarch's and your own disgrace.
What has your lordship's pilfering arms attained?—
Vast stores of plunder, but no State regained—
That may return, though you perhaps may groan,
Restore it, Charley,[56] for 'tis not your own—
Then, lord and soldier, headlong to the brine
Rush down at once—the devil and the swine.
Wouldst thou at last with Washington engage,
Sad object of his pity, not his rage?
See, round thy posts how terribly advance
The chiefs, the armies, and the fleets of France;[57]
Fight while you can, for warlike Rochambeau
Aims at your head his last decisive blow,
Unnumbered ghosts from earth untimely sped,
Can take no rest till you, like them, are dead—
Then die, my Lord; that only chance remains
To wipe away dishonourable stains,
For small advantage would your capture bring,
The plundering servant of a bankrupt king.

[54] This did not appear in the Freeman's Journal. In the edition of 1786 it bore the title, "To Lord Cornwallis, at York, Virginia, October 8, 1781."

[55] Cornwallis arrived in Virginia from his Southern campaign early in the summer of 1781, and immediately began with extreme vigor to subjugate that State. His cruelty and severity were exceptional, even in the annals of war. "The Americans of that day," says Bancroft, "computed that Cornwallis, in his midsummer marchings up and down Virginia, destroyed property to the value of three million pounds sterling."

[56] "Ruffian."—Ed. 1786.

[57] On October 8th, Cornwallis, at York, was surrounded by the American army, who had just completed the first line of trenches. The redoubts were so far enough completed on the 9th that the Americans and French felt ready to begin the bombardment of the British works.

A LONDON DIALOGUE [58]

Between My Lords, Dunmore and Germaine

Dunmore

Ever since I return'd to my dear native shore,
No poet in Grubstreet was ever dunned more—
I'm dunned by my barber, my taylor, my groom;
How can I do else than to fret and to fume?
They join to attack me with one good accord,
From morning till night 'tis "my lord, and my lord."
And there comes the cobler, so often denied—
If I had him in private, I'd thresh his tough hide.

Germaine

Would you worry the man that has found you in shoes?
Come, courage, my lord, I can tell you good news—
Virginia is conquered, the rebels are banged,[59]
You are now to go over and see them safe hanged:
I hope it is not to your nature abhorrent
To sign for these wretches a handsome death warrant—
Were I but in your place, I'm sure it would suit
To sign their death warrants, and hang them to boot.

Dunmore

My lord!—I'm amazed—have we routed the foe?—
I shall govern again then, if matters be so—
And as to the hanging, in short, to be plain,
I'll hang them so well, they'll ne'er want it again.
With regard to the wretches who thump at my gates,
I'll discharge all their dues with the rebel estates;
In less than three months I may send a polacca
As deep as she'll swim, sir, with corn and tobacco.

Germaine

And send us some rebels—a dozen or so—
They'll serve here in London by way of a show;
And as to the Tories, believe me, dear cousin,
We can spare you some hundreds to pay for the dozen.

[58] Freeman's Journal, September 19, 1781. The original title, the one used in the 1786 edition, was "Dialogue between the Lords Dunmore and Mansfield." Lord Dunmore was Governor of Virginia at the beginning of the war, in 1775, and was driven from that State by the outraged colonists. He continued in America, in various capacities, until near the close of the war. Lord George Germaine was Colonial Secretary under George III., and so had charge of the American War.

[59] Alluding to the vigorous campaign of Cornwallis. In June, Germaine had written to Cornwallis: "The rapidity of your movements is justly matter of astonishment to all Europe." On August 2nd he wrote: "I see nothing to prevent the recovery of the whole country to the King's obedience."

LORD CORNWALLIS TO SIR HENRY
CLINTON [60]

[From York, Virginia]

From clouds of smoke, and flames that round me glow,
To you, dear Clinton, I disclose my woe:
Here cannons flash, bombs glance, and bullets fly;
Not Arnold's [61] self endures such misery.
Was I foredoomed in tortures [62] to expire,
Hurled to perdition in a blaze of fire?
With these blue flames can mortal man contend—
What arms can aid me, or what walls defend?
Even to these gates last night a phantom strode,
And hailed me trembling to his dark abode:
Aghast I stood, struck motionless and dumb,
Seized with the horrors of the world to come.
Were but my power as mighty as my rage,
Far different battles would Cornwallis wage;
Beneath his sword yon' threat'ning hosts should groan,
The earth would quake with thunders all his own.
O crocodile! had I thy flinty hide,
Swords to defy, and glance the balls aside,
By my own prowess would I rout the foe,
With my own javelin would I work their woe—
But fates averse, by heaven's supreme decree,
Nile's serpent formed more excellent than me.
Has heaven, in secret, for some crime decreed
That I should suffer, and my soldiers bleed?
Or is it by the jealous powers concealed,
That I must bend, and they ignobly yield?
Ah! no—the thought o'erwhelms my soul with grief:
Come, bold Sir Harry, come to my relief;
Come, thou brave man, whom rebels Tombstone call,
But Britons, Graves [63]—come Digby, devil and all;
Come, princely William, with thy potent aid,
Can George's blood by Frenchmen be dismayed?
From a king's uncle once Scotch rebels run,
And shall not these be routed by a son?
Come with your ships to this disastrous shore,
Come—or I sink—and sink to rise no more;
By every motive that can sway the brave
Haste, and my feeble, fainting army save;
Come, and lost empire o'er the deep regain,
Chastise these upstarts that usurp the main;
I see their first rates to the charge advance,
I see lost Iris wear the flags of France;
There a strict rule the wakeful Frenchman keeps;
There, on no bed of down, Lord Rawdon sleeps!
Tired with long acting on this bloody stage,
Sick of the follies of a wrangling age,
Come with your fleet, and help me to retire
To Britain's coast, the land of my desire—
For, me the foe their certain captive deem,
And every trifler [64] takes me for his theme—
Long, much too long in this hard service tried,
Bespattered still, be-deviled, and belied;
With the first chance that favouring fortune sends
I fly, converted, from this land of fiends;
Convinced, for me, she has no gems in store,
Nor leaves one triumph, even to hope for more.