The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume III Part 3

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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.ses 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.

[25] In the _Daily Advertiser_ of June 12, 1790, there appeared from the pen of Freneau a long article ent.i.tled "Description of New-York one Hundred years hence, By a Citizen of those Times:" The following is an extract:

"At the South western part of this city formerly stood a strong fort, with stone walls, near thirty feet in height, upon which were mounted a considerable number of large pieces of cannon. This fortress was originally constructed by the Dutch possessors of the place to defend the town, then in its infancy, from the insults of pirates on the one side, and the aborigines of the country on the other. After this territory fell into the hands of the English nation, the fort was at different times enlarged, strengthened and repaired, and was the usual place of residence for the British Governors, who, in the true spirit of European royalty and despotism chose to live separate from their fellow-citizens, and in several instances treated them with a degree of contempt and disrespect proportionate to the confidence they had in the number of their cannon, and in the strength of the walls and ramparts that surrounded them.

"History mentions that in the year 1790, fourteen years after this republic had shaken off its yoke of foreign bondage, this fort was totally demolished by an edict of the Senate, and the s.p.a.ce it occupied employed to better purpose in making room for those elegant streets and buildings which now adorn this quarter of the city."

The poem appeared in the issue of March 9, 1790, and was ent.i.tled "On the proposed demolition of Fort George, in this City." The text of the 1809 edition has been followed.

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.

[26] _Daily Advertiser_, March 12, 1790. The t.i.tle of the poem as given in the index of the 1809 edition, the text of which I have followed, is "On the Immense Concourse at Federal Hall, in 1790, while the Funding System was in agitation." The t.i.tle in the 1795 edition was "Federal Hall." The seat of the national government was at this time in New York City.

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, b.a.l.l.s, 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 G.o.ds) to give to future times.

[27] Text from the _Daily Advertiser_, March 15, 1790. "Peter Pindar"

was the pen name of the voluminous and well-known English satirist and humorist, Dr. John Walcott. The first collection of his poems was published in 1789. From this point his influence upon the poetry of Freneau was considerable. An American edition of Peter Pindar was published in Philadelphia in 1792.

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 sh.o.r.e, 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 c.o.c.k on the spire (I suppose he was game; A dove in the pulpit may suit your grave people, But always remember--a c.o.c.k 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 s.e.xton 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s'd by the door The s.e.xton 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.