The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume III Part 51

What they say may be right, But they give no delight Unless they have smoked the segar.

The farmer still plodding, who follows his plough, A calling, the first and the best, Would care not a fig for the sweat on his brow If he smoked a segar with the rest: To the hay-loft alone I would have it unknown, For there a segar I detest.

The sailor who climbs and ascends to the yard Bespatter'd and blacken'd with tar, Would think his condition uncommonly hard If he did not indulge the segar, To keep them in trim While they merrily swim On the ocean, to countries afar.

The soldier untry'd, in the midst of the smoke, The havoc and carnage of war, Would stand to his cannon, as firm as a rock, Would they let him but smoke his segar: Every gun in the fort Should make its report From the fire which illumes the segar.

Come then, to the tavern, ye sons of the sword, No fear of a wound or a scar; If your money is gone, your account will be scored By the lady who tends at the bar: And this I can say, Not a cent need you pay For the use of the social segar.

ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIERE,

Captain Dacres, August 19, 1812--by the Const.i.tution, american frigate, capt. Hull.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

Long the tyrant of our coast Reign'd the famous Guerriere; Our little navy she defy'd, Public ship and privateer: On her sails in letters red, To our captains were display'd Words of warning, words of dread, All, who meet me, have a care!

I am England's Guerriere.[A]

[A] Female warrior, or amazon.--_Freneau's note._

On the wide, Atlantic deep (Not her equal for the fight) The Const.i.tution, on her way, Chanced to meet these men of might: On her sails was nothing said, But her waist the teeth displayed That a deal of blood could shed, Which, if she would venture near, Would stain the decks of the Guerriere.

Now our gallant ship they met-- And, to struggle with John Bull-- Who had come, they little thought, Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull: Better, soon, to be acquainted: Isaac hail'd the lord's anointed-- While the crew the cannon pointed, And the b.a.l.l.s were so directed With a blaze so unexpected; Isaac did so maul and rake her That the decks of captain Dacres Were in such a woful pickle As if death, with scythe and sickle, With his sling, or with his shaft Had cut his harvest fore and aft.

Thus, in thirty minutes ended, Mischiefs that could not be mended: Masts, and yards, and ship descended, All to David Jones' locker-- Such a ship in such a pucker!

Drink about to the Const.i.tution!

She perform'd some execution Did some share of retribution For the insults of the year When she took the Guerriere.

May success again await her, Let who will again command her Bainbridge, Rodgers, or Decatur-- Nothing like her can withstand her, With a crew, like that on board her Who so boldly call'd "to order"

One bold crew of english sailors, Long, too long our seamen's jailors, Dacre' and the Guerriere!

THEODOSIA

In the _Morning Star_.[200]

The fatal and perfidious barque!

Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that angel form of thine!

The morning star, resplendent in the east, May be our station, when from life released,

Tempestuous cape! how fatal proved the day When from thy sh.o.r.es the faithless ship withdrew, Yet, prosperous gales impell'd her on her way Till the broad canvas vanish'd from the view.

Long on that height the pensive friends remain'd Till ocean's curve conceal'd her from the eye, And all was hope that she her port attain'd Ere ten more suns illumed the morning sky.

Fond friends! false hope! no port beheld her come With flowing sheet, to meet the pilot's sail: No pilot met her on the Atlantic foam-- What could the pilot, or his art, avail?

Detested barque! nor art thou yet arrived-- Nor wilt thou come! three years are roll'd away!

You, Theodosia of her life deprived, You sunk her from the cheerful beams of day!

Where dost thou rest, with her whose genius rose Above her s.e.x--for science so renown'd-- But does her spirit in the deep repose Or find new mansions on celestial ground?

That soars above to heights unknown before, Where all is joy, and life that never ends; Where all is rapture, all admire, adore; Immortal nature, with angelic friends.

Oh! shed no more the tears of sad regret; The hymns of joy, the lofty verse prepare-- Her briny doom, the ingulphing wave forget For Theodosia in the Morning Star.

[200] Theodosia, the brilliant and accomplished daughter of Aaron Burr, embarked from Charleston, S. C., December 29, 1812, in the schooner _Patriot_ for New York. The boat never was heard from afterwards. It doubtless foundered off Cape Hatteras in the severe gale which sprang up soon after the vessel had left the harbor.

IN MEMORY OF JAMES LAWRENCE, ESQUIRE,

Late commander of the United States frigate Chesapeake, who fell in the action, with the british ship of war Shannon, June 1st. 1813

--Semper honoratum habebo--_Virg._

To lift his name to high renown His native merits led the way; His morning sun resplendent shone Till clouds obscured the fading ray: His country's voice his worth confess'd, His country's tears disclose the rest, In battle brave, his lofty mind Aspired to all that fame relates Of those, who on her page we find Defenders of insulted states: Of all who fought, or all who fell, The n.o.blest part he copied well.

For Lawrence dead, his Jersey mourns, With tearful eye laments the day When all the worth that men adorns One fatal moment s.n.a.t.c.h'd away!

On honor's bed his doom he found, In honor's cause, the deadly wound.

To what vast heights his mind aspired, Who knew him best can best relate:-- A longer term the cause required That urged him to an early fate: But He, whose fires illumed his breast, Knew what was right and what was best.

His country to her breast receives His mangled form, and holds it dear; She plants her marble, while she grieves, Where all, who read, might drop a tear, And say, while memory calls to mind The chief, who with our worthies shined, Here Lawrence rests, his country's pride, On valor's decks who fought and died!

ON THE LAKE EXPEDITIONS

Where Niagara's awful roar Convulsive shakes the neighboring sh.o.r.e, Alarm'd I heard the trump of war, Saw legions join!

And such a blast, of old, they blew, When southward from st. Lawrence flew The indian, to the english true, Led by Burgoyne.

United, then, they sail'd Champlain, United now, they march again, A land of freedom to profane With savage yell.

For this they scour the mountain wood; Their errand, death, their object, blood: For this they stem thy subject flood, O stream Sorel!