The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume II Part 5

_Maj. Andre._ I cannot leave this city, sweet Lucinda, without imparting to you that I am going a little way toward the American lines, at the request of his Excellency, upon some business of importance. I am come to chat a little with you ere I go. It may be some days before you see me again.

_Lucinda._ If it be not too great a presumption in me, my dear Major, I would beg to know whether you depart on a peaceable or hostile errand.

You must pardon a woman's curiosity. I had a frightful dream about you a few nights ago, which I cannot banish from my mind ever since.

_Maj. Andre._ I am happy, madam, in being the subject of your dreams.

But dreams are delusions of the mind, mere vagaries and whimsies not to be attended to. You may remember that, prior to our Charlestown expedition, you discouraged me a good deal with a vision you had of a vessel shipwrecked, and myself with the other pa.s.sengers drowned, and yet little or nothing was intimated thereby. We made our pa.s.sage safe, conquered the place, and returned with victory and honor.

_Lucinda._ True. But your fleet endured a terrible hurricane, in which many perished.

_Maj. Andre._ O Lucinda, thou art a dreamer of dreams, thou thinkest, love.

_Lucinda._ This last was represented to my mind in quite a different manner, in such lively colours that I cannot help thinking some evil is foreboded to you.

_Maj. Andre._ Poh! Let's hear the extraordinary dream, then, that we may laugh a little at it.

_Lucinda._ I imagined myself in a country where the skies were forever cloudy and gloomy, with frequent bursts of thunder and flashes of lightning. Among many other objects, all of which seemed disconsolate and melancholy, I saw you endeavouring to reach the summit of a sharp, craggy precipice. You leaped with surprising agility over dark gulfs and apertures therein, which no other man would have thought of pa.s.sing. The spectators admired your activity and daring spirit. The continual obstacles in your way seemed nothing to you, and at length you bid fair to gain the summit, when, catching hold of a shrub, which was but slightly rooted in one of the crevices of the rock, it instantly gave way, and you tumbled to the bottom, dashed to pieces on the pointed crags and torn in a shocking manner. I shrieked out and waked.

_Maj. Andre._ Your dream was frightful indeed; but still it was nothing but a dream. Why, I have imagined before now in my sleep that I have tumbled down ten thousand fathoms in a perpendicular line; but all this was owing to mere mechanical causes, the motion of the animal spirits or the veins being rather too replete with blood.

_Lucinda._ Well, be it so. I hope my dream may be the forerunner of no mischief. But are you going out on a fighting expedition, sir, if I may be so bold to ask the question?

_Maj. Andre._ My dearest love, I will conceal nothing from you. I know you are the girl of a thousand for keeping a secret. It must not take air. I have corrupted General Arnold. He is to sell West Point fort to me, and this evening I am to set out and consult with him upon the fittest means to blind the eyes of the Samson and deliver up the place to Sir Henry without danger of failure.

_Lucinda._ But could not some person be deputized for this purpose whose life is not of such value to Britain as yours? You are a proud soul to Sir Henry Clinton. He enterprises nothing without first having your advice and direction. If you should be intercepted in your way by the Americans, would it not endanger your life, my dear Andre, to be found without some mission or any plausible excuse for being within an enemy's lines?

_Maj. Andre._ You are too timorous, Lucinda. I shall go and come by water in an armed ship. I may perhaps just venture on sh.o.r.e in a ----[34] of time, but shall take care not to expose myself to any danger. I well know how far to venture, but if the worst come to the worst, I can tell them I have deserted from the British. Then I shall be caressed among them till such times as I can find an opportunity to escape and join my countrymen.

_Lucinda._ You venture all this, you say, at the request of Sir Henry?

_Maj. Andre._ Yes; but chiefly to serve my country. Had I a thousand lives, I would lay them all down for Britain and my king. But I must go.

You deject my spirits, my girl. A woman is destructive to the spirit of enterprise in a man. Poh! I am growing melancholy too. You must cheer my drooping soul, Lucinda. I heard you humming a little song the other day.

Do let's have it. I think it begins thus: "My native shades delight no more."

_Lucinda._ Although I am in no humour for music, you shall hear it, my love. I suppose it was made by some British officer on his setting out for America, who was as great an idolater to his king and country as most English gentlemen.

[_Sings_ My native shades delight no more,[35]

I haste to meet the ocean's roar, I seek a wild inclement sh.o.r.e Beyond the Atlantic main: 'Tis virtue calls!--I must away!-- Nor care nor pleasure tempts my stay, Nor all that love himself can say, A moment shall detain.

To meet those hosts who dare disown Allegiance to Britannia's throne, I draw the sword that pities none, I draw their rebel blood; Amazement shall their troops confound, When hackt and prostrate on the ground; My blade shall drink from every wound A life-restoring flood!

The swarthy Indian, yet unbroke, Shall bind his neck to Britain's yoke, Or flee from her avenging stroke To deserts all unknown; The southern isles shall own her sway, Peru and Mexico obey, And those who yet to Satan pray Beyond the southern zone.

For George the Third I dare to fall, Since he to me is all in all; May he subdue this earthly ball And nations tribute bring.

Yon western states shall wear his chain, Where traitors now with tyrants reign, And subject shall be all the main To George, our potent king.

When honour calls to guard his throne, My life I dare not call my own; My life I yield without a groan For him whom I adore.

In lasting glory shall he reign, 'Tis he shall conquer France and Spain, Tho' I perhaps may ne'er again Behold my native sh.o.r.e.

_Maj. Andre._ You sing charmingly, Lucinda. The poor fellow's resolution pleases me. He engages to give his life, if necessary, for his king and country, and yet perhaps he feels the ingrat.i.tude of both every hour in the day. It must, however, be so. Nature has formed us with a principle of love to our native land. What say you, Lucinda?

_Lucinda._ It may be so, sir; and yet that love need not carry us to such an idolatrous extravagance as is manifested in the little stanzas I had the pleasure of singing to you.

_Maj. Andre._ Indeed you are in the right, but we are slaves to custom.

_Lucinda._ I have sung to please you, my love; now, if you have leisure, I would beg your attention a moment to a little ditty that pleases myself.

_Maj. Andre._ Most gladly, my angel; I can prolong half an hour yet in your agreeable company.

[_Looking at his watch_

_Lucinda sings_[36]

You chide me and tell me I must not complain To part a few days from my favourite swain.

He is gone to the battle and leaves me to mourn, And say what you please, he will never return.

When he left me he kissed me, and said, my sweet dear, In less than a month I again will be here; With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn, And I wept, being sure he would never return.

I said, my dear creature, I beg you would stay, But he with his soldiers went strutting away.

Then why should I longer my sorrows adjourn, For I know in my heart he will never return.

Whenever there's danger he loves to be there, He fights like a hero when others despair.

In this expedition he goes to his urn; You call me a fool if he ever return.

_Maj. Andre._ The application of this I must take to myself, I suppose.

Fie upon you, lady; you need to divert me with merry jokes and a strain of wit peculiar to yourself. You now are pensive, demure, and melancholy. You make me so, too.

_Lucinda._ Yonder comes Sir Henry. I suppose he has some private business with you. I must retire.

[_Exit Lucinda. Enter Sir Henry and others_

_Maj. Andre._ How do your Excellencies? Will you please to sit?

_Sir Henry._

Till you return from this important errand I am a slave to impatience, Major Andre.

I beg you would this night equip with speed, And on an eagle's wings to Arnold haste.

The frigate lies at single anchor ready, And winds propitious to our purpose blow.

But hark ye, friend, and tell the general then That if he can by any means at all, On any artful, plausible pretence, So manage matters and with such address As to entice the great Americ chief, At that same hour the fort is yielded to us, There to be present on some feigned business, That so we may be master of his person, Tell him if he does this his pay is double.

Besides ten thousand guineas we have promised, Ten thousand more with grat.i.tude I'll pay, And think him cheaply bought. He is the soul, The great upholder of this long contention.

I dread his prudence and his courage more Than all the armies that the Congress raise, Than all the troops or all the ships of France.

_Maj. Andre._

Well thought! I shall obey your Excellency.

It is a bold and dangerous undertaking, 'Tis hazardous, but not impossible.

To win on this great chief--'tis a bright thought.

He'll think himself as safe at West Point Fort As in the bosom of his s.p.a.cious camp, And therefore will not hesitate to come Only attended by a score of guards.

The same attempt may seize the fort and him.