The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume III Part 40

O may the sharks enjoy their bait: He came such mischief to create We wish him not a better fate.

This hero of the pension'd pen Has left our sh.o.r.es, and left his den To write at home for English men.

Five thousand dollars,[174] we may guess, Have made his pension something less-- So, Peter left us,--in distress.

He writ, and writ, and writ so long[A]

That sheriff came, with writ more strong, And he went off, and all went wrong.

[A] For several years he published newspapers and other periodical works in Philadelphia which had a vast circulation; the whole scope and tendency of which was, as is well remembered, to render the republican inst.i.tutions of this country contemptible, as well as odious to the people; and by discontenting them with their government, to open the way for the introduction of a monarchial system. He was thought to be a pensioner of the English government; but whether such or not is uncertain.--_Freneau's note._

May southern gales that vex the main, Or Boreas, with his whistling train Make Peter howl and howl again.

I hear him screech, I hear him shout!-- The storm has put his Rush light[B] out-- I see him famish'd with sour crout.

[B] A weekly pamphlet publication, in which the political as well as private character of Dr. Rush, and other persons of celebrity, was vilified to the lowest degree of scurrility, malignancy and falsehood.--_Ib._

May on the groaning vessel's side All Neptune's ruffian strength be try'd Till every seam is gaping wide.

And while the waves about him swell May not one triton blow the sh.e.l.l (A sign at sea of doing well):

But should he reach the british sh.o.r.e, (The land that englishmen adore) One trouble will he find and more:

His pen will run at such a rate, His malice so provoke the great, They soon will drive him out of date.

With broken heart and blunted pen He'll sink among the little men Or scribble in some Newgate den.

Alack, alack! he might have stay'd And followed here the scribbling trade, And lived without the royal aid.

But democratic laws he hated, Our government he so be-rated That his own projects he defeated.

He took his leave from Sandy-Hook, And parted with a surly look, That all observed and few mistook.

[173] From the 1815 edition. William Cobbett sailed for England in June, 1800.

[174] Cobbett was sued by Dr. Rush for libel, was found guilty, and compelled to pay a fine of $5,000.

THE NAUTICAL RENDEZVOUS[175]

Written at a house in Guadaloupe, in 1800, where they were collecting Recruits for a Privateer

The ship preparing for the main Enlists a wild, but gallant train, Who in a moving jail would roam Disgusted with the world at home.

They quit the fields and quit the trees To seek their bread on stormy seas; Perhaps to see the land no more, Or see, but not enjoy the sh.o.r.e.

There must be some as this world goes Who every joy and pleasure lose, And round the world at random stray To gain their bread the shortest way.

They hate the ax, they hate the hoe And execrate the rural plough, The mossy bank, the sylvan shade Where once they wrought, where once they play'd:

Prefer a boisterous, mad career, A broken leg, and wounds severe, To all the joys that can be found On mountain top or furrow'd ground.

A hammock holds them when they sleep; A tomb, when dying, in the deep, A crowded deck, a cann of beer These sons of Amphitrite prefer To all the verdure of the fields Or all a quiet pillow yields.

There must be such a nervous race, Who venture all, and no disgrace; Who will support through every blast, The shatter'd ship, the falling mast-- Who will support through every sea The sacred cause of liberty, And every foe to ruin drag Who aims to strike the gallic flag.

[175] From the 1815 edition.

TO THE MEMORY[176]

Of the Late aeda.n.u.s Burke, Esq., of South-Carolina

_Quiesco--ubi saeva indignatio, Ulterius cor lacerare nequit!_

A land enslaved, his generous heart disdain'd Which tyrants fetter'd, and where tyrants reign'd: Disgusted there, he left the hibernian sh.o.r.e The laws that bound him, and the isle that bore.

Bold, open, free, he call'd the world his own, Preferr'd our new republics to a throne; And lent his aid their insults to repay, Repel the britons and to win the day.

In every art of subtlety untaught, He spoke no more, than "just the thing he ought;"

For justice warm, he spurn'd, with just disdain, The mean evasion, and the law's chicane.

Burke! to thy shade we pay this last address, And only say what all, who knew, confess: Your virtues were not of the milder kind, But rugged independence ruled your mind, And, stern, in all that binds to honor's cause, No interest sway'd you to desert her laws.

Then rest in peace, the portion of the just, Where Carolina guards your honor'd dust: Beneath a tree, remote, obscure, you sleep, But all the sister virtues, round you, weep; Your native worth, no tongue, no time arraigns, That last memorial, and the best remains!

[176] From the edition of 1815. aeda.n.u.s Burke, a native of Ireland, died in Charleston, S. C., March 30, 1802. He was a soldier of the Revolution, a judge of the State Supreme Court, and a member of the first Federal Congress. He was a man of the purest patriotism, and his influence was wide and potent.

TO THE REV. SAMUEL STANHOPE SMITH, D.D.[177]

And president of Na.s.sau-hall, at Princeton, New-Jersey, on the rebuilding of that n.o.ble edifice, which had been destroyed by fire

This honor'd pile, so late in ashes laid, Once more emerges, by your generous aid; Your aid, and their's, who through our vast domain, Befriend the muses, and their cause sustain.

In flames involved, that stately fabric fell, Where, long presiding, you deserved so well; But to the dust when you beheld it fall, The honor'd, famed, majestic, Na.s.sau-Hall, Not then repining in that darkened hour Your native genius show'd its native power, And plann'd the means to bid a structure rise Pride of the arts, and favorite of the wise.

For this we saw you trace the unwearied mile And saw the friends of Na.s.sau on you smile; They to your efforts lent their generous aid, And every honor to your genius paid, To the firm patron of the arts they gave What Alfred lavish'd, and what arts should have.