The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume II Part 28

TO THE ROYALIST UNVEILED[196]

(And addressed to all whom it may concern)

The sage who took the wrong sow by the ears, And more than kingdoms claimed for Vermonteers; Who, from twelve wigwams down to eight decreased, Is now your prophet, and may serve for priest-- Ye, who embraced the democratic plan, Yet with false tears beheld the wrongs of man-- To him apply--go--soothe him in distress,[197]

To him fall prostrate--and to him confess.

When first that slave of slaves began to write, Truth cursed his pen, and Reason took her flight: Dullness on him her choicest opiates shed, Black as his heart, and sleepy as his head.

Him on her soil Hibernia could not bear; The viper sickened in that wholesome air,-- Then rushed abroad, a Jesuit, in disguise, Flush, on the wings of malice, rage, and lies; To this new world a nuisance and a pest, To curse the worthy, and abuse the best.

Thou base born ma.s.s of insolence and dirt, With all the will, but not the power to hurt; Whose shallow brain each empty line reveals-- Art thou worth draggling at our chariot wheels?

Who, on the surface of a rugged ground, Would stoop to trail your carca.s.s round and round?-- No--like a Felon, hanged to after time, Be one more victim to the "force of rhyme."

Waft us, ye powers, to some sequestered place, Where never malice shewed its hateful face-- Remove us far from all the ruffian kind (Baseness with insolence forever joined) To some retreat of solitude and rest-- Nor shall another pang disturb the breast-- When thought returns--and one regrets to know, He had to combat with a two-faced foe.

[196] This poem appeared September 25, 1782. The laureate of the _Independent Gazetteer_, after his farewell on September 7, was silent until October 15, when he produced the following:

"STANZAS addressed to _little_ FR--N--U, Poetaster to the _Skunk-scented_ a.s.sociation, and successful imitator of STERNHOLD and HOPKINS, of _poetical_ memory; in humble imitation of _his own_ doggerel.

"Fr--n--u, great man! 'tis thee I sing, And to thy shrine just incense bring The attribute of praise; To thee, who scorn'd all common rules, Supreme of dunces, chief of fools, I dedicate my lays.

"Sternhold is dead! What though he be?

Another Sternhold now in thee Beotia's sons explore; Like this, thy mind is clear and bright, Transparent as the darkest night, When angry tempests roar.

"Thy verse, but ah! my powers are vain, To tell the wonders of thy brain Where mists of dullness sit; Cimmerian darkness round thy head, It's sable mantle long hath spread, To veil thy wooden wit.

"Thy satire, mystic type of lead, Keen as a dart without a head, And vigorous as age; 'Twould almost make a mill-stone cry To have thy muse its enemy, When cloathed in her rage.

"Thy bold, heroic numbers swell, As lofty as the deepest well Where noxious vapours rise; Thy song as sweet as Bellman's note, When spun through Mitch.e.l.l's[a] brazen throat, Or midnight Watchmen's cries.

[a] Cryer of Philadelphia.

"Thy eyes, the index of the soul, With mad, poetic fury roll, In eager search of fame; Thy face, ye G.o.ds! ah! what a face!

Thy air, thy port, thy quaint grimmace, Add honor to thy name.

"When, late, sleep's G.o.ddess, clos'd my eyes, And dreams in sweet gradation rise, Soul-soothing guests of night, Methought the cloud-invelop'd Queen[b]

Display'd her dull, somnific mien, In majesty and might.

[b] The Queen of Dullness.

"Thick, opiate dews she did dispense, Whilst poppies, foes to wit and sense, Hung pendant from her head; Safe in her hand, by love, impell'd.

Great Fr--n--u's sacred form she held, Impress'd on genuine lead.

"With blinking, am'rous, rush-light eyes She view'd her blest Saturnine prize, As conscious of his worth; Then smooth'd the wrinkles of her frown, And shook her poppy-teeming crown, With unaffected mirth.

"'Go on (she cry'd), with fervent zeal, Thou glory of that common-weal, Where dullness bears the sway!

E'en L--e to thee shall yield the chair, His rhimes shall vanish into air, Before thy duller lay.

"'Corcoran,[c] long ago, hath fled, And roving Jem,[d] 'tis said, is dead, Those foes to common sense; Now Fr--n--u thou, their son and heir.

More stupid than a stupid mare, Steps forth in my defence.

[c] Dr. Corcoran, a poetaster, well known.

[d] Jemmy, the rover, a sonnetter of the Pennsylvania line.

"'Thee shall no wisdom e'er molest, No wit shall perforate thy breast, Nor humour shew her face; Thy drowsy verse shall prove a balm, Specific as the hundredth psalm, When W--ch--r sings base.

"'Each flow'r of Billingsgate I'll cull, To render thee, my son, more dull, If duller thou canst be, Thy works with Sternhold's shall be bound, While Hopkins, from the dark profound, Shall yield the palm to thee.'

"She ceas'd, and all that own'd her cause, In one loud transport of applause, Burst like a sudden gale; All hail, great man! was Bailey's cry, Hail! Joe, and Skunk, and Tom, reply, Dullness and Fr--n--u, hail!"

[197] "To him apply, dear Oswald, in distress."--_Independent Gazetteer._

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[198]

Long have I sate on this disastrous sh.o.r.e, And, sighing, sought to gain a pa.s.sage o'er To Europe's courts, where, as our travellers say, Poets may flourish, or--perhaps--they may; But such abuse has from your coa.r.s.e pen fell Perhaps I may defer my voyage as well, Why should I far in search of patrons roam, And Shylock leave to triumph here at home?

Should Shylock's poems[199] style you all that's base, Abuse your stature, and malign[200] your face, Make you the worst and vilest of your kind, With not one spark of virtue[201] in your mind; Would you to Shylock's[202] rancorous page reply, So fam'd for scandal, and so p.r.o.ne to lie?

Still may those bag-pipes of sedition play, (For fools may write[203] and knaves must have their day) Still from that page let clamorous bards[204] defame, And madness rave, and malice take her aim: May scribes on scribes in verse and prose combine, And fiend-like Sawney roar[205] through every line; Long may they write, unquestion'd and unhurt, And all their rage discharge, and all their dirt: Night-owls must screech, by heaven's supreme decree, And wolves must howl, or wolves they would not be.

From empty froth these scribbling insects rose; What honest man but counts them for his foes?

When they are lash'd, may dunce with dunce condole, And bellow nonsense from the tortured soul; When they are dead and in some dungeon cramm'd, (For die they will, and all their works be d.a.m.n'd) When they have belch'd their last departing groans, May dogs and doctors barbecue[206] their bones, And, the last horrors of their souls to calm, Shylock, their bard,[207] console them with--a psalm!

[198] The first eight lines of this poem appeared first as the opening stanza of MacSwiggin, published in 1775; the rest of the poem was first published in the _Freeman's Journal_ of Dec. 18, 1782, and republished in the 1786 edition under the t.i.tle "To Whom it may Concern." The above version was made for the edition of 1795, but was not reprinted in 1809.

The _Gazetteer_ of the following week (Dec. 21) contained several parodies of Freneau's poem, one of which was as follows:

"MR. OSWALD:--Whereas a copy of verses of my composition appeared in Bailey's paper, of whom I should have expected more circ.u.mspection, I have sent you a genuine copy as they ought to have been printed, the justice of which I hope everybody acquainted with the persons will acknowledge.

THE AUTHOR.

"Should Oswald's painters all my features trace, And shew me as I am in soul and face; Among the vile and worthless of mankind, Without a spark of virtue in my mind, And write my name beneath, I would reply, The portrait, though a true one, told a lie.

"Still shall my bagpipes of sedition play, And I, like other dogs, shall have my day; My hoa.r.s.e-mouth'd cry shall war with sense proclaim, And madly howl at ev'ry virtuous name; Our hungry scribes in verse and prose shall join, Though Chaos glooms through ev'ry stupid line; In spite of sense we'll write, by shame unhurt, And all our rage discharge, and all our dirt, Night-owls will screech, since Heav'n has left them free, And wolves will howl, or wolves they would not be.

"Although from dirt, we like musquetoes rose, And quiet people count us still their foes; When we are crush'd, or chas'd from hole to hole, We'll strive to tease and torture ev'ry soul.

When we are dead and in some ditch are cram'd (For die we must, and with our works be d.a.m.n'd), When we shall howl our last departing groans, And brother dogs regale upon our bones; The horrors of our souls awhile to calm, Let me compose, and Duffield sing a psalm."

[199] "Oswald's scribblers."--_Freeman's Journal._

[200] "Blaspheme."--_Ed. 1786._

[201] "Reason."--_Ib._

[202] "Who would to Oswald's."--_Freeman's Journal._

[203] "Must prate and dogs."--_Ed. 1786._